When my mom was pregnant with me, my parents bought a house in the middle of a forest, as in, trees coming up to the house. They spent a great deal of time clearing the land so that we kids could have unevenly-cut and poorly-stacked firewood to play on. Given our locale, it wasn’t surprising when displaced wildlife ventured into our yard. What is surprising is the apparent lack of a vision health plan for my family, because my mother once chased a bear off our property with a broom, thinking it was a dog. When her mistake was realized, she grabbed us kids off the woodpile and we high-tailed it to the house. I guess I’m saying that maybe it was living in this kind of environment that drove my dad to his bear-obsession.
Bear-paraphernalia has just always been around the family, probably in the same way that a foster kid would tell you that “the crack pipe was just always around.” There were crystal bear paperweights, small carved wooden bears, pets named after bears, and holy smokes, I just remembered, my parent’s pet names for each were bear-based! “Honey Bear” and “Sugar Bear.” Or maybe those are cereal-based pet names? My dad does like cereal. Hmmm.
Anyway. Before retiring, my dad had his business on the top floor of a small, downtown Seattle office building. He was there for over thirty years and no doubt began to see himself as the Mayor of the 15th Floor. Or, at least, he felt comfortable enough to vandalize (okay, not really) the elevator foyer with stickers of bears wearing suspenders, bears eating honey, or my personal favorite, the self-designed “no bears in the elevators” sticker. For some reason (!) it kept being taken down, but he kept putting it back up. I saved this from the back of a letter he sent me during this phase (please note the bear’s office attire):
So when my dad started showing up in Facebook posts wearing a little yellow bear reflector, we (the sisters) were not alarmed, even when he was wearing it out of context, like, you know, DURING THE DAY. We commented on the prevalence of the reflector, joking that it must have something to do with his recent move to Finland with his wife, Oona. But, joke’s on us, because according to Dad these reflectors are all the rage in Finland.
And maybe in retrospect, I unfairly assumed that the Great Bear-Frenzy-of-Finland, as reported by my father, was actually more like this thought process (“thought process” might be too generous; I think this all happened on an amphibian level):
- What is that little girl wearing?
- Is that a bear reflector?
- I love bears!
- I love traffic safety!
- Is it okay for me to wear a bear reflector?
- Yes, if it indeed is the fashion, then why not? And because I want this, it must be the fashion!
And, seriously, I don’t think I was that out of line to think this because: 1. My dad does love bears; 2. My dad often remarks that if he is ever killed by a car, as a pedestrian, then it is fault of the driver of the car because (sub point 1) he never crosses against the lights, and (sub point 2) he always wears his bright, reflective yellow jacket in the dark, so (sub point 3), make sure we sue the driver; and 3. Everyone in my family is prone to stating half-truths as fact. And that’s a fact. But, yeah, obviously I question my father’s declaration of current-Finnish-fashion as possibly truth-stretching. Which is why I Googled “reflectors, Finland” and came to learn:
“The Nordic countries established universal standards for pedestrian reflectors in the 1980s. In the ‘90s the European Union countries began to adopt standards for PPE (personal protective equipment) such as helmets and other devices. The PPE Directive included standards for high-visibility warning clothing and for pedestrian reflectors. On January 1, 2003, 42§ was modified to read “pedestrians traveling roads after dark must generally wear an appropriate reflector.” Now it includes lit as well as unlit areas, because street lighting is usually weak. There is still no penalty for non-compliance” (Wikipedia, 10/20/12)
[Sidebar: It’s worth noting that the Finnish also invented the reflector, which makes me question their motives ($$$) when issuing laws that require residents to wear a (bear) reflector. No wonder my dad was always wearing it. Who knows what kind of Nazi-like street gangs roamed Helsinki, roughing up people without reflectors.]
It’s not often that anyone can say that Wikipedia shook their world. Or, even provided them with reliable information. Whatever. But, this did turn everything that I thought I knew about personal protective equipment (not to mention my dad’s fashion declarations) upside down, because who the fuck would have ever thought that this was a THING? Even when Hattie went to Finland and returned and told us that, yeah, actually the people do wear reflectors, I kept thinking that maybe she didn’t understand what she saw, because that couldn’t be true.
Okay, so, Oona and Dad move back to Seattle, but not before my father buys these Finnish bear reflectors in bulk to sell “door to door” at churches (to which my father has no affiliation). (Also, is there a correlation between churchgoers and pedestrian safety?) (And, FYI, so far my father has yet to execute this plan, thank god). We meet for a family welcome-home brunch at (where else?) “the Firehouse.” It’s not called the firehouse, but it was at one time a firehouse, and this is good enough when making plans. Michael and I arrive; Oona and Dad are standing outside waiting for a table. Instead of the usual stiff lean-in-hug, Dad instead shakes my hand, and then Michael’’s, slipping us each a bear reflector, like it’s a drug deal. And as each family member arrives, he does the same with them. And on each bear is his phone number, written with a Sharpie.
“My calling card.” No name. No area code. Just 7 digits.
But so far, this is just the standard eccentricity. Until! The waitress comes out to let us know that the wait for a table large enough to accommodate us is easily over an hour, and do we want to walk around and then come back? Just give her a cell number and she’ll let us know when they are ready.
My father offers her a reflector-bear calling card.
“Or,” says the waitress, “I can also just take your number and give you your bear back.”
“No, no… keep the bear.”
But, I just don’t get it. According to dad, “Every new client (including visitors to my office) get a bear with my phone number. ” And the thing is, if it included his (complete) contact info, maybe his profession, then this would be a pretty good marketing technique.
“The Bear has a name. He is City Bear. That is his name in Helsinki…. I did not make it up.” And by the way, my next question would have been, “DID YOU MAKE THAT UP?” Actually, no, I would never have asked that.
So anyway, the waitress declined the bear and we declined her offer to wander around for an hour. Instead we went to the Kangaroo and Kiwi Pub, “the only Australian restaurant in Seattle.” To which I asked, “DID YOU MAKE THAT UP?” Okay, no, I didn’t really ask that. Actually, K&K’s website says that they are the only Australian restaurant from Vancouver B.C. to San Francisco. I don’t know if that’s true or not, but out of my family tradition of turning half truths into full facts, I honor this statement.