HANK PHILLIPPI RYAN:
Aw. Love you, Mary Feliz. We are
honored to have you here today.
Reds and readers, grab a cup of tea or coffee. Just–take
a minute for this.
Two men and their bears...
When I first spotted Michael
Bond holding a Paddington Bear who clearly adored him, I gasped. It was the
same noise that might result from being punched in the stomach, but I'd been
punched in the heart. Or had my heart squozen so hard the sound splurted out.
I couldn't figure out a way
to tie my need to write about the death of Paddington Bear author Michael Bond
with a blog about Mystery and Thriller writing. But I knew I couldn't write
about anything else.
Michael Bond died in June
2017. My own father had died weeks earlier. Born six months apart, they grew up
in the Great Depression and served in World War II. And both had bears they
loved, with photos to prove it. Both had enormous respect for children and
bears and were dispensers of the unconditional love some people connect to only
in dogs or stuffed animals.
My own relationship with
Paddington is a meandering one. I didn't grow up with him, but the bear wandered
into my life several time. At age eleven, inching beyond the age of wonder but
with one foot still firmly anchored in childhood, I discovered the Paddington
books. I don't remember the text so much as the illustrations, which looked
nothing like bears, as far as I was concerned. With his ears covered by a
slouchy hat and a nose that was far too pointy, I thought Paddington resembled
a porcupine or muskrat more than a refugee bear. I wrote to the author and told
him so. I don't remember receiving a response, but Paddington was a refugee in
London and as such needed a hat to keep his ears warm and dry. He's also not
the sort of bear who worries about keeping his hair coiffed, or who bothers about
spilled marmalade.
Eight years later, I embarked
for a year at a British university. While I immersed myself in academics I
didn't skimp on sightseeing or gastronomic exploration. I made friends and
became part of a community. When I left I was given a stuffed Paddington, which
had recently taken toy stores by storm. The shopkeeper instructed my friends
that his boots were "specially made for him by Dunlop." My housemates
were quite taken by Paddington's wellies, and by the idea that "when you
have children, they can wear them." At 19, the idea of children was
terrifying, but in little more than a decade, both my children stomped around
in Paddington's wellingtons. (Paddington was happy to share.)
Paddington now supervises
my writing desk. He kept me company in the days following my father's death,
when creativity and sleep escaped me. Bond knew similarly difficult days and
credited Paddington with pulling him through, “There is something so
upright about Paddington. I
wouldn’t want to let him down."
Which brings me to my
father's bear. I don't know whether he had a favored soft toy as a child, but
he certainly honored those my brother, sister, and I chose as companions. He
conversed with them and instructed them to watch over us. He solemnly tucked
them in at night when he put us to bed. Many years later, when my husband's
mother suffered from dementia, my father suggested a stuffed animal might provide
comfort. In her case, we chose a snuggly elephant who protected her when she
was in the hospital among strangers and surroundings that were stranger still.
A year or two later Dad's
memory began drifting. His hallucinations included gang members who lived in
his living room and threatened my mother. As his doctor struggled to find a
medication that would banish the gangs, I lived a continent away and scrambled
for ways to help. In the wee hours one morning, I decided Amazon could provide
a bear to protect my Dad from his demons. (My stuffed Paddington supervised
while I logged into my Amazon account. Paddington hales from Peru, which is
home to the Amazon River. Coincidence? I think not.)
Did my Dad believe the bear I
sent him was real? I don't think so. But, partly to entertain me, he spoke to
him in "bear language" and made sure he was tucked in at night with a
view of the front door he guarded. When I learned my dad thought 24-hour
protection service might be too arduous a chore for a single bear, we adopted a
friend. The second bear was smaller, fit under my Dad's chin when he slept, and
became known as Rusty. On a dark, rainy night when my Dad fell out of bed, we
called paramedics to tuck him back in. When they handed him Rusty (with all the
respect a proper bear companion deserves), raindrops shed by their turnout gear
had dampened Rusty's fur. My dad noticed. "Rusty! You're all wet! What
happened to you?" Full of concern, he dried Rusty gently with a corner of
the sheet. "He gave the fireman a hug," I told him. "The
fireman's coat was wet because it's raining outside."
"Ahhh," said my
father. "Well, you're safe now." And they both fell asleep quickly.
Years ago, I learned that many
law enforcement officers stash bears in the trunks of their squad cars to give
to youngsters in trouble. In comforting the stuffed toys, the children feel
stronger. And while a child might not admit her fears to a stranger, she might
be willing to reveal the terrors stalking her bear.
And that brings me full
circle, back to talking about writing, characters, and the community we all
need to feel safe and connected. Community arises spontaneously among humans
even in the most dire of situations because we all feel that need to both give
and receive comfort. My mysteries look at what happens when that sense community
takes a damaging blow, and what members do to restore the balance between good
and evil. While my characters aren't based on real people, I strive to make
them seem authentic. Michael Bond felt the same way about Paddington, “Unless an author believes in his character,
no one else is going to."
Whether my father or Bond believed their bears were real isn't
important. Both respected bears and people, particularly people in danger of
being overlooked. In 2014 when tempers erupted in Europe regarding the influx
of refugees, Bond said, "Paddington,
in a sense, was a refugee, and I do think that there’s no sadder sight than
refugees.”
Bond didn't shy away from
Paddington's illegal entry into the UK. In the books, the bear's adopted family
is ever aware of his risk of deportation. (Paddington reached London after
stowing away on a steamer from Darkest Peru.)
After my father's death,
friends, neighbors and former co-workers wrote to my mother. Nearly all of them
penned some version of this description, "He was a kind and genuine man
who helped me when I needed it most." I think the same could be said of
Michael Bond and any man who is beloved by a bear. My Dad and Mr. Bond, had a capacity
for unconditional love and an ability to embrace the imaginary world that means
they both will live forever.
HANK: As I said. Oh, Mary, you
are a treasure. And Paddington, too. We talked about him recently, I know…(and our darling Coralee told me where to find an okapi! Thank you!)
Do you still give
stuffed animals as baby gifts? Which ones?
And aren't you glad Mary came to visit?
Mary Feliz writes the Maggie McDonald Mysteries featuring a Silicon Valley
professional organizer and her sidekick golden retriever. She's worked for
Fortune 500 firms and mom and pop enterprises, competed in whale boat races and
done synchronized swimming. She attends organizing conferences in her
character's stead, but Maggie's skills leave her in the dust.
Mary's newest:
Silicon Valley Professional Organizer Maggie McDonald tackles her toughest case yet when a dear friend is falsely accused of murder. Aside from a depressed mastiff with PDSD, the only witness is an undocumented teen. Should he make a statement and risk deportation or stay mum and let the bad guys run amok? Or can Maggie organize a third solution without putting her friends, her family, and her community at risk?
I got strange looks when I placed him on Queen Victoria's head in Malta but I had to document that he had been to every place with me.
(See him on the wall?)
