Spotting the spotting by The Abominable Yellow Snowman struck a nerve, rekindling troubled memories of a dark incident which occurred last spring.
You may recall my testimony on the black bear at our door in the fall of 2005 ("I Didn't See That Coming"). I've been on high alert ever since, consumed with the whereabouts of that potential man mauler and kitty hors d'oeuvres gourmet.Seriously, at least two dozen times around each lap of the clock, I found myself peering out windows for a glimpse of the lumbering, giant hulk. I sort of think Ed McMahon is retired by now from those million dollar publisher's check deliveries, so I repurposed the time and effort spent looking for him into gazes through the glass for the lumbering hulk-equivalent bear.
The seasons changed and we did not see the animal.
We were relieved through the cold hibernation months, although I remain unclear as to how intensely bears sleep in the winter. Are they dead to the world? Or do they get up for a stretch and a snack from the fridge before returning to bed and recurring nightmares of riding atop a unicycle in a polka-dotted bellhop's fez on the next "Ellen?"
Near a midnight in late March or early April, I made my farewell rounds through the house on the ritual path to Electric Blanket Nirvana.
I turned off lamps, decreased the thermostat, and told my TiVo I loved it.
While securing the bolt on the kitchen door, I glanced outside. My heart sunk like a falling anvil onto Daffy Duck.
There in the driveway, centered under the only pool of light in the wide, wooded vicinity was THE BEAR! He lounged nonchalantly -- and largely.
He was huge! He had grown to somewhere between the girth of a two-seater overstuffed couch and a small third world country.
When he yawned and protruded the tongue, an overstuffed couch with a recliner footrest.
I say "he," but maybe it was a she. I don't know which.
There was room for both.
Continued: How Do You Solve a Problem Like Mike's Yard Bear?
The original stage play, a slamming doors farce spinning around airline stewardesses and pilots, is back on the boards in London. Apparently, the script is different than the Tony Curtis and Jerry Lewis film ("The Big Comedy of Nineteen-Sexty-Sex"), which never worked, probably the result of having the amusing innuendo removed by Hollywood censors, as was often the case. 
We used to rib my mother about the ugly ol' picnic table on her screened porch in suburbia. She painted the jumble of boards more than 25 years ago with some leftover enamel she had tucked away in her utility closet. It was a form of mental cruelty to eat a meal on the monstrosity, an expanse of loud, icky green framing our food.
To my bemused annoyance, I inherited the splintered dilapidation awhile back and relocated it, reluctantly, to our yard at the edge of the forest.
The picnic ensemble has also been a big hit with the local wildlife. We've seen many species fly in or amble up to sniff its aura, and uncover the acorns and berries nearby.
We hopped into the roadster and excelled at high speeds and misdemeanors to dinner and a movie.
