Four

Call it coming to terms with mortality, learning of the relationship between action and reaction or simply a crash course in physics. Whatever it was; I learned it when I was four. Un-related also at the age of four, I learned that adults, the ones you look up to, lie. Four was a big year for me.

Tough as it might be to get up every other day of the week, Saturdays have always come early for me. As a kid I mostly would watch cartoons and catch the week in review news which was 99.9% totally over my head. At one point there was a story about Smokey the Bear, a bear who was saved from fire in Yosemite. The bear was at a zoo and I hoped to someday visit him.

The Saturday before Mother’s day that year was a windy day in the suburb. Standing on a neighbors fence, coat stretched out and held cape like at the bottom end of the zipper with my hands, I could jump from the fence and land on the grass further away than if I simply jumped from the same height. In my mind that was proof enough that I could fly.

The flying game went on for some time that afternoon. My neighbor friends and I took turns jumping to see who could fly the furthest. The experience was the essence of childhood play. Late in the afternoon something went horribly wrong. I landed with my arm straight out, the forearm snapped as if I had two elbows on the same limb.

Weeks later, my mom enrolled me in a pre-school. The teacher was a Mother Goose like, retired elementary school teacher. She gave off a vibe of safety and comfort; someone a kid could trust. I was excited to spend my days doing whatever activities were planned. One particular day the teacher said, “Tomorrow we will have a special guest; Smokey the Bear.”

Excited beyond words, I woke up the next morning having pee’d my bed. Unfortunately the laundry was not up to date and I learned going commando was. All through breakfast, during the drive and as we pulled up to the school, my mom continually reminded me, “Don’t forget to go potty and be careful when you zip up your pants.”

Class went on for what seemed like forever until we all sat on the floor in front of the chalkboard for our afternoon special guest. I could barely contain myself. A fire truck drove into the parking lot and we were told that after visiting with Smokey we could climb all over the truck.

I could have cared less about the truck. I wanted to pet and play with Smokey. After a few songs and a game called “Let’s see who can be the quietest,” for which I never won, in walked a fireman. Then another, holding the hand of what looked like a guy in a bear suit with a ranger hat and holding a shovel. Other kids pointed and yelled Smokey’s name. I raised my hand then screamed out at the top of my lungs, “That’s not Smokey the Bear, that’s a man in a costume.”

Obstinate, the teacher quickly sat me on her lap. The guy in a furry suit told the class to not play with fire. I thought maybe the firemen should not have toyed with the emotions of kids. The rest of the summer went okay.