If an artist didn’t watch TV, didn’t listen to the radio, didn’t play on the Web, how would he gather material, experience, for his art? There’s nothing left but the individual life and nature. What do we learn from nature? The music of life. The sweet odor of a Tiger Lily. The ominous growl of a big dog. The heavy, shocking buzz of a passing hummingbird. The size of a bear. I confronted a bear in July, 1980. We were living in an old farm house on a dirt road in north central Pennsylvania. One night I happened to see a large shape outside moving around the house. I thought it was a big dog. Then I realized there are no dogs that big. I followed the large, ghostly shape around to the front of the house. A bear came around the corner and stood on the stone porch in front of the house. He was after the garbage inside the enclosed porch which was old, rickety and had no door. The farm house was old. The windows were shaky glass panes held in by cracked putty. There was no storm door, just an old solid wood door held by a lock that would snap with one good kick or the weight of a 300 pound black bear. That’s what I was afraid of. If he leaned on it and pushed it open, he would be in the house. Our daughter was four and our son was not yet a year old. It was 1 a.m. I didn’t know what to do. So I cautiously opened the door and stepped out onto the enclosed porch. I found myself staring at a Pennsylvania black bear. He was now sitting, wondering who the hell I was. I was standing, wondering what kind of fool I was. Now was not a time for intellectualizing, I thought. One must act. How do you discourage a bear from coming into your house? Talk. “You can’t come in,” I said. I really said that. He looked at me and didn’t move. “I mean it. You can’t come in. You have to leave.” He didn’t budge. I didn’t know what else to do so I stepped toward him. “Go away! No garbage tonight!” He backed up, which gave me a little confidence. I moved toward him again, waving my arms. “Out! Out! Damned bear!” To my utter amazement he stood up, turned and lumbered around the side of the house. I followed him. He stopped, laid down with his chin on his paws and whined like a little baby whose feelings had been hurt. I stood there in the darkness, laughing. Inspired, I ran toward him. He jumped up, ran out to the yard under the large pole light, stood up on his hind legs and roared in anger. I knew I’d overstepped the boundaries of bear-human relationships. I backed our car up against the open door of the enclosed porch and my wife and I went to bed. The next morning there were bear paw tracks up over the car. The garbage had been torn apart. There were tracks over the car as he left. And we never saw him again. A few years later at a zoo in the west, I reached
down to touch a bear cub. His little claws were like sharpened
iron horseshoes and I realized the bear I’d confronted could
have ripped me to shreds with one swipe of his huge paw. * * * Skip to a specific chapter below:
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