The Teddy Bear

The Teddy Bear
by Nanny Goat Primitives

It was a warm August morning in Texas. The day promised to be a scorcher. I fed our cat, Scratches, and spent the next hour or so weeding the flower beds, filling the bird feeders and enjoying our yard. The early morning was always that special, quiet time of day where I dared to dream or solved the world’s problems or simply planned the day.

I slipped quietly back inside to enjoy my first cup of coffee and a crossword puzzle from the morning paper; a habit I learned at my father’s knee. He always said working the puzzles staved off Alzheimer’s. I wondered for a brief moment if he was working on the same puzzle in Colorado. Perhaps he was having better luck than I.

The grandfather clock in the hall chimed seven o’clock. Rob would be up soon.

We were planning on running a few errands in town and then we were off to our favorite antique store. A few weeks before, Rob spotted a set of antique bookends for $50 that he really wanted but left the store without them. If they were still there that afternoon, he was going to buy them.

Rob stumbled into the kitchen, mumbled an unintelligible good morning and slumped into his chair. I set a steaming cup of coffee in front of him and watched the transformation. Without coffee, the man’s knuckles would drag the ground.

The antique store opened at noon and we arrived just as the weekend staff was unlocking the doors. The back of the store was still dark and air conditioner has already humming.

Rob disappeared into the darkness in hopes of finding his treasure.

I stopped at a booth about halfway down the aisle and admired a beautiful Hoosier cabinet. The booth was filled with all sorts of kitchen gadgets from the 1920’s and 1930’s. The upper cabinet was intentionally left open revealing a set of colorful Pyrex bowls just like the ones my grandmother had in her kitchen. Draped over the door were some pretty embroidered tea towels and a green gingham apron. Atop an old wooden ironing board was a beautiful Grandmother’s Flower Garden quilt sewn completely by hand out of old flour sacks.

I was about to leave when I spotted old aluminum washtub in the corner filled with castoffs. I found things like hand crocheted doilies with holes in them, stained dresser scarves, ratty quilts and other less than pristine linens from yesterday. Intrigued by the quilt, I pulled it out to inspect it more closely. I decided that for $20, the old quilt was coming home with me. I was refolding the quilt when I saw him.

There, in the pile of castoffs, was a small, well worn teddy bear. The faded price tag read $10. He spoke to me and I knew we were destined to be together. A child from long ago loved him very much. He was bald in spots. One of his eyes was missing and the other hung from a lone strand of black cotton thread. He had been mended many times, each time with a different color of thread. His right arm had been sewn back on in a clumsy sort of way. His sweet little head sat on his body at a haphazard angle.

Rob had found his treasured bookends, paid for them, put them in the car and was wondering where in the world I was. Rob found me sitting crossed legged on the floor in the corner of that booth enchanted with my “new” little friend. We paid for the quilt and my teddy bear. He sat on my lap for the drive home. We’ve been together for more than twenty years.

Daddy died of colon cancer on a cold December day a few years later and my little companion was there to dry so many of the tears I cried. He was there to welcome my two of babies I brought home from the hospital and to say goodbye to the one that didn’t. My children have played with him and I imagine my grandchildren will play with him too. I often wonder if that child from long ago yearns to hold him just one more time. He’s a part of our life.

He’s balder now. I mended his good eye but there’s still a hole in the place of the other that he lost long ago. His arm is still crooked and his head is still off center. In my heart, he is perfect just the way he is.

To me, that is what primitives (old and the not so old) are all about. They touch your heart and become part of who you are.