The Mournful Teddy

by John J. Lamb

  Fifteen minutes later, we were southbound on Valley Pike, approaching the fairgrounds, which stand on a low flat hill on the west side of the highway, hidden from view by a dense wall of tall evergreens. Although Ash had told me the Mourning Bear auction was going to attract a large number of potential buyers, I was nonetheless stunned by the traffic jam of high-priced vehicles all making their way up the long driveway leading to the grassy parking lot. There were Cadillacs, Infinitis, BMWs, battle cruiser-size Lincoln Navigators, and Mercedes—most with out-of-state license plates. Yet I shouldn’t have been surprised at the parade of automotive affluence. Anyone that can spend one-hundred-and-seventy grand on a twenty-inch teddy bear doesn’t drive a rusty AMC Gremlin to the sale.

  We joined the procession, but didn’t follow the other vehicles to the parking lot. As exhibitors, we had permission to temporarily park at the hall’s back door to unload our truck. I followed a small cardboard directional sign and turned onto a gravel lane that led to the rear of the building. There, we found maybe eight vehicles parked at various angles from which women were removing chairs, folding tables, and box upon box of teddy bears. Swinging the SUV around, I slowly backed into an empty spot near the double doors.

  “Okay, sweetheart, I’ll unload the stuff and carry it to our spot.” I handed Ash the truck keys and continued in a mortified voice, “And I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to park the truck. It’s too far for me to walk unless you don’t mind me arriving sometime much later this afternoon.”

  “I already knew that, honey.” Ash rubbed my cheek. “And there’s no need to apologize.”

  “If you say so. We’re space fifty-one, right?”

  “Right, and the map they mailed us last week shows that we’re in about the middle of the building.” She opened my old leather briefcase and retrieved a flimsy cardboard card with my name printed on it and encased in a clear plastic sheath. “Oh, and here’s your nametag, otherwise they won’t let you in.”

  We got out of the truck and had everything unloaded in a couple of minutes. As Ash drove off, I moved the seven crates of teddy bears to a spot inside the door and then lugged the first six-foot-long aluminum folding table toward our assigned space. The exhibit hall is about the size of a small high-school gymnasium and constructed of cement cinderblocks painted light green—the overall effect being that you feel as if you’ve stepped inside a gargantuan and empty carton of mint-chocolate-chip ice cream. Inside, I saw that a large, rectangular canvas tent had been erected directly in front of the hall, effectively doubling the amount of floor space.

  We were among the last exhibitors to arrive and the place was already beginning to fill with hundreds of teddy bear aficionados. The assigned spaces were marked out on the floor with blue masking tape and I quickly found our allotted place. By the time Ash appeared, I had both of our tables set up, the chairs unfolded, and the crates of bears ready for her to arrange for display. I was also sweating like an Enron executive testifying before Congress.

  “You should see the crowd out there; there’s even a camera crew from Channel Three,” said Ash, referring to Harrisonburg’s NBC Television affiliate.

  “Did you see the judges’ tables on the way in? I want to get a picture of Susannah.”

  She pointed toward the tent. “They’re in there next to where they’re going to hold the auction.”

  “Why don’t I go and take some pictures now before things get busy?”

  “Good idea, honey. I’ll get set up while you’re gone.”

  Ash began to remove the bears from the boxes and place them on the table with the same caution and care that I would have employed to defuse a neutron bomb. Mind you, I’m not making fun. She’s got a natural talent for arranging and posing the bears in eye-pleasing combinations. I grabbed the camera, kissed Ash on the forehead, and stumped toward the tent.

  If you’ve never been to a teddy bear show you really should go to one, even if you’re firmly convinced that stuffed animals are just for kids or—even worse—adults suffering from terminal immaturity. Yet in a world brimming with sorrow, strife, and mindless brutality, a room full of teddy bears, artisans, and collectors is good medicine for your soul. As a general rule, the people in the hobby are cheerful, mannerly, and laugh often. If that’s the contemporary definition of childish behavior, I’ll take immaturity any day, thank you.

  There looked to be about seventy teddy bear exhibitors in attendance and even though I’ve been to several shows, I never cease to be amazed at the number and sheer variety of stuffed animals on display. On our aisle alone I saw reproductions of old-fashioned hump-backed bears, whimsical magenta and lime-colored bears with long arms and comically oversized feet, luxurious bears made from recycled fur coats, and realistic-looking black bears climbing up small artificial pine trees. In addition, there were many bears dressed in exquisitely handsewn costumes as nurses, barnstorming pilots, scarecrows, firefighters, witches, angels, ballerinas, Santa Claus, and even a Queen Elizabeth I, complete with a miniature white pleated neck ruff.

  Another thing I noticed was the relaxed and congenial atmosphere as collectors swarmed the tables, often greeting artisans and other fans they’d met at previous shows. Even though it was crowded, no one was pushing, complaining, or copping an aggressive attitude. Part of this might be because women dominate the hobby, but having seen the “fairer sex” ruthlessly battling over bargain merchandise at department-store holiday sales, I think it has far more to do with the teddy bears themselves. While I don’t believe in magic, I’m firmly convinced there is something almost supernatural about the bears’ soothing effect on people.

  I passed through the doors and into the adjoining canvas tent. The left half of the tent was fenced off with lightweight white vinyl railing, and within the enclosure were perhaps a hundred folding chairs facing a polished wooden podium. Although the auction was set for 3 p.m., there were thirty or forty people already in the VIP corral, and they loitered near a long table packed with baked goods, fresh fruit, and champagne bottles. Standing guard at the entry gate was a young guy—definitely out of place with his sour face—dressed in a gray suit and holding a thick stack of tri-fold color brochures. I assumed the fliers contained information on the Mourning Bear and since I’m becoming a dedicated student of the history of teddy bears, I decided to grab one.

  I smiled and asked, “Hi, could I have one of those?”

  The kid gave me the once over, sniffed, and obviously concluded I didn’t look wealthy enough to be a bidder. “I’m sorry, sir, but it’s our policy to reserve all literature for certified participants.”

  “It’s not literature—it’s a seventeen-cent brochure.”

  “And what part of ‘you can’t have one’ don’t you understand?”

  “Lighten up, my friend. This is a teddy bear show, not an anger management seminar.” I used the empathetic Father Flanagan voice that had secured more suspect confessions than I could remember. “You look unhappy. What’s the matter?”

  The kid blinked in surprise. People are almost always stunned when you don’t react aggressively to overt rudeness. Looking back and forth to make sure he wasn’t overheard, he said, “Sorry, man, it’s just that my boss is busting my ass because the Mourning Bear isn’t here yet.”

  “Is that your fault?”

  “No, it’s his for not checking with the owner when it wasn’t delivered last night. But he’s never wrong, so I get smacked.”

  “Sounds like a real jerk.”

  “Look up the word in the dictionary and you’ll find a picture of him.”

  “Well, good luck and just a word of advice from someone who’s worked for more than his share of jerks: Don’t ever let him see he’s gotten you angry. That’s how he controls you.”

  “Thanks, man, and here.” He handed me a brochure.

  Tucking the brochure into the pocket of my leather jacket, I went to the opposite side of the tent where a crowd was gathered around the tables displaying the teddy bears to
be judged later that afternoon. Susannah stood in the group of five finalists from the “Artisan, Large Dressed” category. The others were cute—a pirate, a Renaissance princess, a fairy, and a toy soldier—but I truly believed Ash’s bear was the best. My only hope was that the judges agreed with my utterly unbiased opinion. I took a couple of photographs of Susannah and then headed back to our table.

  By the time I arrived, Ash was in the process of selling her very first teddy bear. A woman was bent over the table writing a check while my wife smoothed out the blue ribbon around a cinnamon-colored bear’s neck and quietly told the toy that it was going to a good home. I was surprised to see that Ash’s eyes were moist as she lovingly wrapped the bear in white tissue paper and put it into a plastic bag. Then she took the check and handed the bag to the woman.

  As soon as we were alone, I asked, “Honey, are you okay? I thought you’d be overjoyed to sell a bear.”

  “I am. I’m thrilled, but it’s kind of hard to give a bear up after you’ve spent so much time making it absolutely perfect.” She pulled a tissue from the briefcase and dabbed at her eyes. She gave me an embarrassed smile. “I guess that sounds kind of stupid, huh?”

  “Not at all. However, I do think you’re going to get plenty of practice on giving up your bears today,” I said as three women approached our table.

  I sat down and let Ash do the talking and with good reason. She’s the artist who translates her wonderful visions into plush and mohair reality. I’m the guy that shoves polyester foam into the bears and hopes to someday graduate to pouring beans into their bottoms. Be honest: If you were buying an artisan teddy bear, which of us would you rather talk to?

  After awhile, I got bored with watching people and I pulled out the brochure. There was a color photograph of the Steiff Mourning Bear on the inside—and aside from the fact that it’s one of the most rare and valuable stuffed animals in the world—there wasn’t anything too remarkable about it. The bear was made from black curly mohair with a shaved snout, black embroidered nose and mouth, yellowish-taupe paw pads, hockey stick-shaped arms, and glistening eyes the color of anthracite.

  I already knew the basic tale of how the Mourning Bear came to be created after the sinking of the Titanic, but the brochure contained some mildly interesting additional information. Apparently, the bears were produced in two separate groups, with the first 494 made shortly after the disaster in 1912 and another 161 produced between 1917 and 1919 for a total of 655.

  Under the heading “Provenance” there were some generic personal facts about the soon-to-be former owner, Elizabeth Ewell, and how she’d come to own the bear. The lady was eighty-six years old and had spent her entire life on a large farm bordering the South Fork of the Shenandoah River in an area known as Caisson Hill. With a start, I realized that Miss Ewell lived approximately three miles upstream from us and I wondered if Ash knew her.

  I read on and was surprised to learn that there was no connection between the Titanic sinking and the Ewell family. Rather, Ewell’s Uncle Dorsey came home from World War One with the bear as a gift for his newly born niece. Uncle Dorsey was vague as to how he’d obtained the bear, telling the family only that he’d “found” it while on occupation duty somewhere in Germany. Call me suspicious, but I can’t tell you the number of thieves I’d met during my police career that, when arrested for possession of stolen property, claimed that they’d “found” the hot goods.

  Once Ash was free to talk, I asked, “Hey sweetheart, do you know who owns the Mourning Bear they’re auctioning today?”

  “No. Who?”

  “A neighbor. Elizabeth Ewell. Recognize the name?”

  Ash’s lips tightened slightly. “I know of her. Liz Ewell is very wealthy, so she didn’t come into town very much to associate with us rabble.”

  “Yow. I believe that’s the first time I’ve ever heard you say anything bad about the people around here.”

  “She’s different—thinks she can get whatever she wants just because she has money.” Ash’s voice became increasingly surly. “Back in nineteen-seventy-two, she decided that she wanted some bottomland next to her property that my daddy owned. She offered to buy it, but daddy didn’t want to sell, so she got a Richmond lawyer and went to court and claimed that the survey was wrong.”

  “What happened?”

  “She won—not because she was right, but because she had so much money that she could have bankrupted us just by keeping it in the courts.”

  “That stinks.”

  “Tell me. And you know what she told my daddy when they were done?”

  “What?”

  There was an unholy light in Ash’s eyes and a dormant Virginia mountain accent emerged in her voice. “She called my daddy an ignorant hillbilly and said she hoped he’d learned his lesson not to cross his betters.”

  I exhaled slowly. Calling somebody a “hillbilly” and meaning it around here elicits the same violent response as standing on a South-Central Los Angeles street corner and screaming the “N” word. After a moment, I said, “Well, maybe she’s changed. After all, she’s donating the auction proceeds to charity.”

  “More likely trying to buy her way into heaven.”

  I chuckled. “And I’m the one with the cynical view of humanity. Want to hear something else interesting?”

  “What’s that?”

  I lowered my voice. “As of about an hour ago, the Mourning Bear wasn’t here yet.”

  “Now, how do you know that?”

  I held up the brochure. “The kid from the auction company told me when I got this. The bear was supposed to have been delivered last night and the auction company owner is apparently in shake factor five.”

  “Well, you know what I think? Liz Ewell would steal the pennies from a dead man’s eyes, so it’s impossible for me to believe she’d give anything to charity. I’ll bet that greedy old witch decided not to sell and is having a big laugh over all the fuss she’s caused.”

  Chapter 5

  During the next hour or so, a constant stream of collectors stopped to admire our bears and Ash sold another one—Gloria Excelsius, a white-winged bear dressed as an angel, with sparkling highlights woven into her plush ivory fur and holding a tiny brass French horn. Based on the envious and admiring comments of our neighbors, our business was brisk by teddy bear show standards.

  After awhile, I noticed something sad but not particularly surprising. Although most of the women I saw wore wedding rings, men were about as scarce as lawyers in heaven and I wondered why. Yes, I realize teddy bear collecting is primarily a women’s hobby and I’m undoubtedly very different from most guys since I actually like bears, and, more importantly, want to be with Ash all the time. Still, how much effort would it have taken for all those absent husbands to turn off the college football or NASCAR race for just one Saturday and go to a teddy bear show with their wives?

  Right around noon, a woman walked up to our table, picked up Joey, a honey-colored bear dressed in periwinkle baby’s corduroy overalls and oversized white baby shoes, and began to carefully examine him. I paid attention to the newcomer because unlike the other collectors that had thus far visited our table, she wasn’t chatty or even very cheerful. Her demeanor was businesslike, bordering on taciturn, and her only response to Ash’s greeting was a distracted but firm, “Just looking.”

  The woman was forty-something, of medium height with a willowy frame, had straight collar-length reddish-brown hair and stunning green eyes. Another distinctive thing about her was her clothing. Most women attending teddy bear shows dress for both comfort and to advertise their beloved pastime, which usually means blue jeans and a blouse or pullover shirt decorated with teddy bears. Yet, our visitor was wearing gray woolen slacks, a burgundy-colored turtleneck cashmere sweater, and matching blazer—and I know enough about women’s clothes to be certain that nothing in that ensemble was purchased off the rack. She also had a briefcase, and once she put Joey down she reached into it and produced a Nikon digital camera.


  “Do you mind if I take a picture of him?”

  “Not at all. His name is Joey,” Ash said.

  “Yes, I saw that from the tag.” She crouched, aimed the camera, and the strobe flashed. As she turned Joey for a profile shot, she continued, “You’ve got a bear in the finals for artisan-dressed. The pink girl in the Victorian costume, right?”

  “Yes. Susannah.”

  “Original design?”

  “Of course.”

  “Do you have a business card?” The camera strobe flashed again.

  Ash handed her one.

  The woman looked at the card. “Lyon’s Tigers and Bears. Cute name. Don’t you have a web site?”

  “Not yet. We’ve been kind of—”

  “Get one. Good luck with the judging.” The woman stuck the business card into her briefcase and she disappeared into the crowd.

  “Charming conversationalist. Did she graduate magna cum laude from the Donald Trump School of Etiquette?” I asked.

  Before Ash could reply, one of our neighbors leaned over in her chair and said, “Oh my God! Do you know who that was?”

  “No. Who?”

  “Lorraine Cleland.”

  Ash’s eyes widened. “From the Boston Bear Company?”

  “Uh-huh. I’d give my left arm for her to stop and look at my things.”

  “Why? Isn’t she exclusively mass-market plush?”

  “Not any more. She’s about to expand her line of bears with some licensed artisan, limited-edition designs. It was in last month’s Teddy Bear and Friends.”

  “It’s the first I’ve heard. We just moved here and in between unpacking and getting ready for the show, I haven’t been able to look at any of the magazines.”