The bear roaming through town this past Sunday weighed well over 500 pounds, was followed by three cubs, and viciously attacked at least one mail carrier and two toy poodles before being brought down by a sniper's bullet. She left a path of destruction not unlike what one might expect from a small tornado. It was chaos! Madness! Panic in the streets!
That's not true, of course. The bear clocked in at about 170 pounds, didn't attack anybody, had no cubs and was a he, not a she. Moreover, the poor, frightened thing beat cheeks out of town at the first opportunity, leaving no path of destruction other than the occasional pyramid of bear scat.
But that doesn't matter; my far superior (and highly inaccurate) story will be the one told around dinner tables and campfires 10, 20, however-many years from now. In many cases the narrator — who may never have seen a bear in his life outside a zoo — will insert himself into the story, generally in a role far more heroic than any he ever played in real life.
It is from such mundane events as a wayward bear that legends are born. Paul Bunyan, Pecos Bill, the Lincoln Death Train; all probably had their origins in some long-ago, real-life occurrence. All were stories told and re-told, gaining weight with each telling, gathering embellishments the way a grain of sand gathers nacre inside an oyster shell until, in the fullness of time, a pearl is born.
The first paragraph of this column is my attempt to get that pearl started with regard to the bear story.
Earlier this week I read the accurate, honest account of the bear's trek through town on the newspaper's website and Facebook pages. I related the tale to Sweet Annie, more or less factually, increasing the bear's weight by only 20 or 30 pounds and allowing him to chase after a couple kids who unexpectedly walked out of a restaurant and surprised the critter. Not much of an embellishment, but a start.
When I share the story with my daughter during her visit next week, the bear will have grown larger still, more vicious, and will have chased a hapless state trooper up an oak tree; maybe one of the oaks in my back yard. I may snag a couple torn shreds of blue fabric in one of the lower branches, just to add some semblance of credibility to the tale.
Even with the planted physical evidence, my daughter — who knows me too well — may not believe me. But my grandson, Edison, will. And someday he'll tell the story of the killer bear to his kids, who will tell it to their kids and so on and so on and scooby-dooby-doo right on down the line.
One-hundred years from now, that lost, frightened bear will be transformed into a 100-foot tall giant whose rein of terror lasted decades and encompassed half the state. He'll have gained a name, one the primitive, provincial yokels of the time (us) uttered only in whispers, their voices tremulous with awe and fear. Caesar, maybe. Or Xerxes. Something to inspire terror in kids as they gather ‘round the fire cooking s'mores.
And since no legend is complete without a hero, someone to vanquish the unvanquishable foe, and since I'm kind of getting in on the ground floor of this particular legend, I humbly nominate myself for the role. OK, OK, in real life I slept through the entire incident.
Who cares? You think there's really a Lincoln Death Train? You think Paul Bunyan actually had a blue ox named Babe? Not a chance, buddy.
So what's so hard to believe about Mighty Mike the Bear Slayer? It's got a ring, yeah? And who's to say I couldn't wrestle a giant bear bare-handed? (Well, anyone with a modicum of common sense, but that's not how these things work.)
I just wish I could be around 100 years from now to hear of my exploits.
mtaylor@staffordmediasolutions.com
(616) 548-8273
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