Philip Dampier's Blog

Toby’s Bear

by

Philip Dampier

Beyond the cracked sidewalk, and the telephone pole with layers of flyers in a rainbow of colors, and the patch of dry brown grass stood a ten-foot high concrete block wall, caked with dozens of coats of paint. There was a small shrine at the foot of it, with burnt out candles, dead flowers, and a few soggy teddy bears. One word of graffiti filled the wall, red letters on a gold background: Rejoice!

The wet teddy bears rested side by side on the faded green bench where Charlie had sat for over twenty years weaving and selling his split oak baskets. The smallest bear sat at the end of the bench which was next to the spent flowers and the black wicked candles. The rest of the bears sat on the bench in a row from the least to the largest, proclaiming that something terrible had happened to a youngster. They could not talk, but their very presence indicated tragedy.

The smallest bear was dark brown with dark eyes, just like its owner, Toby. Toby’s mother purchased the little brown bear three days before Toby’s birth. It was the only gift, besides life, that she ever gave him. When Tobias Blackwelder went home from the hospital, the bear, two glass bottles, and a small container of baby formula accompanied him to his grandmother Maize’s house.

Toby’s mother left the nursery a day earlier and had not been seen or heard from for the ten years of Toby’s life. In a way, that may have been a blessing because Toby was raised by a grandmother who not only showered him with love but was able to take care of him. Her husband died two years before Toby’s birth; when Toby came to live with her, he filled the void the death of her husband had left.

The only other relative still available to Toby and his grandmother was his great-uncle Charlie Thompson. Charlie owned a small acreage on the edge of town, but he had long since given up his vegetable farm in favor of oak trees. The young oaks were the source of the oak strips Charlie used to make his one of a kind basket. Charlie had produced and sold the handwoven baskets for over twenty years before the teddy bears came to sit on his green bench beside the wall.

During the week, Charlie would harvest the wood which he then turned into thin strips. He then soaked the strips in water until they were soft and pliable. On Saturday, Charlie would take the strips to the city and turn them into beautiful baskets. Each Saturday, for those twenty-something years, Charlie had been sitting on the green bench next to the concrete wall weaving and waving to those who slowed down to watch. Ladies from all over the area drove by to ooh and ah over the baskets and then place an order. The following Saturday they would pick up their basket, each one an individual work of art. Charlie’s gray slacks, light blue shirt, and tan felt hat were as well-known a trademark in Southern City as his baskets.

When Charlie first began his basket weaving the concrete wall was new and covered with dazzling white paint. A shade tree grew on the other side of the wall from Charlie’s bench and cast a shadow on the hot summer days. The paint on the bench was fresh and bright, making the green bench stand out against the white wall. They kept the street running parallel clean, and people waved as they passed the basket weaver.

In twenty years everything grew older, including Charlie, and with increasing age, changes occurred. The neighborhood declined, potholes multiplied in the street, and the green painted bench faded under the hot southern sun. The wall was the only part of the scene that saw renewal as young people expressed themselves with repeated coats of symbols and letters. The layers overlapped. Charlie’s skin wrinkled under the same sun, and his hair turned lighter and lighter.

The baskets got better and the price Charlie received also increased. Charlie’s work was in great demand, and customers considered it the height of decor to have one of his handmade oak baskets on display somewhere in your home or office. Customers still drove to the wall, but ladies were now cautious about getting out of their cars and Charlie often had to provide curb service. At the end of the day, this often meant that he had several hundred dollars in cash on his person.

Two wonderful things happened to Toby as he approached his tenth birthday. Christmas came two months before he turned ten and a Christmas Angel selected Toby’s name from a tree in the mall. When Christmas morning came, the Angels presented Toby with a new bicycle. Both he and his grandmother were surprised, and Toby’s world suddenly increased in size.

That same Christmas another angel delivered a similar present to the girl who lived two doors down from Toby, Hannah Washington. Toby and Hannah were best friends and played together in the nearby public park. Now that they both had transportation they began to explore their neighborhood together. By the time Toby’s tenth birthday came, the two of them were veteran riders and pushing the envelope of their traveling territory.

Two days before Toby’s birthday his great-uncle Charlie came by to visit Toby’s grandmother and Toby. During the conversation, Charlie asked his grandnephew about his upcoming birthday.

“Well, Toby, now that you’ve got a bicycle what could you possibly want for a birthday present?”

“I want to learn how to make baskets like you do, Uncle Charlie.”

“Really? It’s hard work, Toby, and it’s not easy to learn. Do you think you have the patience?”

“Oh, yes. I do. I want to be an artist and be famous like you.”

“Well, well. Uh, Maize, do you think Toby could ride his bicycle to my bench?”

“He rides most everywhere else, him and that Hannah up the street,” Maize answered.

“Okay then. You be at the green bench at 9:00 next Saturday.”