A Bear With No Name

It was 1973 and I was 10-years-old. On a sunny summer Saturday, Mom and I drove around to various yard sales around Danvers.

In a parking lot near the old Ideal Baby Shoe, there was a group yard sale made up of various neighborhood families. There were many tables and a wide assortment of items. Mom went her way and I went mine.

I was a lonely and awkward kid and had an affinity for misfits. I spotted this one, big, old faded and worn teddy bear amongst a group of stuffed animals, most of whom were newer and nicer than he was.  From the wear and tear on the bear, it was obvious that he was once loved greatly. I knew I had to have him and make him feel loved again. The price was 50 cents.

I dug into my change purse and extracted two quarters. The big old bear was mine! I remember Mom asking me just what I was going to do with such a big bear and wasn’t I getting a little old for stuffed animals anyway. I explained that I’d already paid for him and that he would reside on my bed with the rest of my stuffed animals. She may have looked dubious, and I may have let my eyes well up with tears. Long story short, he was seated in the backseat and we took him home to Hobart Street.

Over the years, most of my stuffed animals have moved on to other homes or been lost in the shuffle of moving from house to condo to the house we live in now. But that big old bear still lives with us. I’ve had him for 37 years now! He has a friend, a big white stuffed bunny who wears a pretty pink dress. They seem to be a happy couple.

Bear has been with me through the nerves of being a new bride, through job changes and the deaths of my parents. He’s been around for our nieces and nephew to cuddle up with when they were children. He’s seen me through good times and my darkest hours. Yet I’ve never named him, never came up with the right name in all these years. He has simply been “bear.”

I looked him over this morning. His worn spots are more pronounced. His nose is dangling precariously. His fur is matted and sparse. Yet I still love him, and even though Mom thought I was too old for him at age 10, I maintain that I’m not too old for him yet at age 47. I hope he’ll stay with me until I’m a very old lady and perhaps ready to cuddle up to him again.

It is time to name him, don’t you think? The name became very obvious to me today, and I hereby declare that big old bear to be “Patches.” It suits him well, as he could sure use a few patches, and is a nod to my work here for Danvers Patch.