life

Because California is void of visible seasons, the only way to tell when spring has sprung is the return of the bears from a short winter’s nap. Ah…like the swallows returning to Mission San Juan Capistrano.

I have mentioned before that Boo-Boo, with his honey-colored fur, is our bear. Over the years, Boo-Boo has been a frequent visitor to my garage freezer in search of chocolate mint ice cream. Not this year. I secured the garage door so that it was flush with the driveway, closing off his access.

Thursday night, I found him rummaging through my trash.

“Welcome back,” I smiled.

I watched as he approached the secured garage door. His expression said it all before he left in a huff. “What’s this? I thought we were friends.”

Saturday night, I had an early dinner and Margaritas with friends. By eight o’clock, I was home for the night. Suddenly, Sam came running into the den.

“MOM! DO YOU HEAR THAT?”

Boo-Boo had returned. I flew out front. Shocked, I screamed, “NOOO!” He was ripping the wood off the garage door.

He looked at me and stopped. Then, he moseyed over and, with one paw, knocked over the trash can like a petulant child.

Usually, he would leave down the street. Not tonight. Tonight, my neighbors were celebrating their daughter’s college graduation. The smells of the taco truck caught not only my attention, but Boo-Boo’s as well. The gates were wide open. I could see the fifty or more guests seated at tables covered with pristine white tablecloths under an illuminated tent. Simultaneously, Boo-Boo and I saw the opening under the balloon arch.

Not at all dressed for a party, wearing jeans, a sweatshirt, and barefoot, I darted successfully, heading him off.

It played out in my head. The bear runs through the party, knocking over tables and tossing grandmas, uncles, aunts, and friends into the pool. The taco truck crashes, and hot grease ignites the chair cushions. They must be warned. Immediately.

I needed to be discreet, not go in yelling, “BEAR!”

I scanned the crowd until I spied my neighbor, Nick. In a quiet tone that commanded attention but not panic, I leaned up next to him, mindful I probably smelled of Tequila, and announced, “The bear! The bear! He’s in your front yard. NOW! We’ve gotta stop him from coming in.”

Nick looked confused, “Um, OK?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of everything. I just wanted to warn you.”

“Thank you, I guess.”

I dashed across the yard. By now, I was drawing a lot of attention. I’m sure they were wondering who this wack job was.

“Mmmm, he’s not here.” I whipped around. Wait a minute. Is Nick wearing a different sweater? No time to change clothes, for God’s sake. There’s a bear on the loose!

“The bear is here?” Nick questioned me, surprised.

I hesitated, “That’s what I just told you.” I felt like I was in a Hitchcock movie. Now I was seeing double. Those Margies were stronger than I thought.

Nick laughed, “That’s my twin brother.”

“Identical,” I nodded.

From the front yard, I could hear voices shouting, “There’s the bear, walking down the street!”

“Jigs up!” The Nicks kindly insisted, “Please stay for tacos. A glass of wine? Some cake?”

“No, thank you. My mission is done here. Thanks for bearing with me.”

With my daughter, Lindsay, in school across the country, I sometimes worry, “What if something happens?” Naturally, my heart fluttered when I received a phone call on Thursday morning.

“Mom, my tooth hurts. I think my wisdom tooth is coming in.”

“Oh, you’ll be fine; it’s just breaking through the gum. Gargle with saltwater.”

But on Friday morning, she said, “Mom, my jaw is swelling. It hurts so much,” her voice cracking. What should I do? I have to leave camp at noon tomorrow.”

“Don’t worry,” I tried to reassure her—foolishly. I don’t know any dentists in Chicago.

I called my friend Michelle for advice. She’s good at these sorts of things. Immediately, she replied, “Here’s one.”

For all we knew, it could have been a Mr. Smile in a strip mall, but it was already 1:00 on a Friday afternoon.

“Doctor’s office, Pamela speaking.”

“Hi Pamela, I’m a mom calling from Los Angeles. My daughter goes to college out there, and she is having a problem with her wisdom tooth. She’s in a lot of pain. Can you help me?”

For five minutes, we chatted about Lindsay’s school, living in California, and everything under the sun except her tooth.

Finally, “Can you send over any recent x-rays? That will save you lots of money.”

Money? The wheels began to spin out of control, like the reels on a slot machine. In emergency oral surgery, this will cost thousands of dollars, and I don’t have dental insurance.

“Mom,” I could barely understand her, “Pamela just called me and told me NOT to come in. My x-ray showed my tooth in a weird position. I need to call this other dentist.”

That other dentist would not be able to see Lindsay for a week.

I called Pamela, “Listen, can this dentist please see her? I need boots on the ground; you’re the only dentist I know. If he can assess the situation, maybe it’s infected. You can give her antibiotics or a painkiller until I can get it pulled.” I began to panic.

“Alright, I just hate to waste your money.”

“Please, I insist.”

“Can she be here at 8:55 tomorrow morning?”

When I first called, I had no idea where this area code was. Luckily, they were half a mile away from Lindsay’s apartment.

Saturday morning, Lindsay arrived sporting a furry moose hat, which barely snapped together under her swollen chin.

Lindsay texted, “They’re so nice. The dentist is wearing a white suit. They’re pulling it.”

I worried about the anesthesia and her recovery.

Twenty minutes later, I got a FaceTime call from Lindsay. “They gave me a shot of Novacaine, and boom, pulled it out! Three hundred dollars. It didn’t hurt at all! I feel so much better. The dentist said I should thank my mother and be grateful that she insisted that I come in. I could have been in serious trouble in 48 hours. Thanks, Mom!” She held her tooth up in its plastic case like a trophy.

“Wow, did that huge thing come out of your mouth?”

When I called to thank Pamela at 9:40, an answering service picked up my call. “No, they’re never open on Saturday. I’m sorry, you must be mistaken. Can I take a message?”

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