This fictional story provides the link between A Letter From Me, To Me and A Letter From Me, To You.
When I was young my family would drive several hours to visit my grandmother. She lived alone in a large tri-level house next to a forest. My family would go inside. I would say hello. We would catch up. Then I would run to the safe to see what was new. She kept a small safe on the floor near the door. The safe was not locked. In the safe she would place something new for each visit. It was always a small trinket which I would play with for a few minutes and then move on my way to whatever else we had planned for the day.
There had always been two items in the safe. A metal dog training clicker and a metal whistle on a red string. I picked up the clicker each time I visited. I would click it and listen to it's clack echo through the big house. I would take the whistle around my neck and blow it as if I were a policeman directing traffic or running after a burglar. As I grew older, I was not as interested in the new things, but I always enjoyed clicking and whistling.
My grandmother and I would go walking in the woods. We would look at the foliage and the changing of the seasons. We would talk about wild life. We would talk about bears. We would talk about life and how to live. We would talk of simple things. She would share her wisdom, and I would share mine. Sometimes we would just walk for a long while without talking. Absorbing what nature had to offer, enjoying the sounds of the forest.
One day as we walked along we came upon a large stone table. My grandmother had been to the table many times. She maybe even had it built years before. It was my first time to the table. She told me a story of Native Americans having built the table and how they held sacred ceremonies around it. She called it the Indian Table. It had six legs made of stacked stones, and a large slab of flagstone for the table top. It was roughly six feet long by three feet wide.
On one visit when I was about ten, my grandmother and I went for a walk and arrived again at the Indian table.
"I am growing old," she said as she sat on the edge of the table. "I will not be able to join you for many more walks, my boy. It is time you made your own path, come and lead me home."
I stood next to her and held her wrinkled hand and we stared at the sun filtering through the leaves.
We walked back to her house in silence, listening to the sounds of the forest, remembering what we had been taught. We looked forward as well, with mixed emotions.
When we arrived at her home, my grandmother sat down heavily in the chair next to the safe.
"Pick out your two favorite items," she said breathlessly. I pulled out the dog training clicker and the whistle.
"I knew you would pick those," she said. "This clicker was given to me by my father who trained dogs with it. By clicking before giving a treat, a dog's behavior can be modified. With practice, it doesn't take long before the dog will behave a certain way just by the series of clicks given by the trainer.
When I was a teenager I lived for a summer at the ocean and was a lifeguard. A whistle was given to every life guard. We were taught to blow sharp reports when trying to correct the behavior of swimmers. We were told to blow the whistle incessantly when we needed immediate assistance from other lifeguards.
When you go into the woods, I want you to take the clicker and the whistle. Don't go too deep in the woods but as you go, stop at every turn you take. Take a picture with your mind and click the clicker, so you will remember the location of your turns.
If you are ever in danger, blow the whistle incessantly and I will come and find you."
On my next visits, my grandmother slept often, and I would grab the clicker and the whistle and head out for a walk in the woods. I walked for a long while, enjoying alone time with nature. I would go to the Indian Table. I would travel the streams and look at all the trees. I felt alive, large and small at the same time.
On one of our final visits, I gave my sleeping grandmother a kiss and grabbed the clicker and whistle and headed off into the woods. I took a meandering path and eventually arrived at the Indian Table. I pictured Native Americans standing around it holding a ceremony. I chanted and raised my hands and danced around the table, imagining myself as part of the ceremony.
I heard rustling behind me. I turned around. There was a mother black bear and two cubs rumbling through the woods toward me. I panicked. I screamed. Like a little child, I screamed as they came toward me. They were not deterred, but seemed more interested in me.
The cubs were leading the way, and came within 5 feet of me when the mother bear growled. They stopped but continued to look at me. I jumped up on the table, still screaming. The mother bear raised up on her hind legs, a full foot taller than me even standing on the table.
I panicked again and jumped down from the table and climbed under it. The underside of the table served as a cage, and I imagined myself locked inside by the six legs of the table. I frantically pulled the clicker from my pocket and clicked it furiously, naively trying to change the bears' behavior and get them away from me. The cubs came toward me and the mother followed. I grabbed at the whistle around my neck and fumbled with it. I put it to my lips and blew furiously. Long frantic blows. The cubs came through the holes in my cage and pawed at the clicker, scratching my hand. I stopped clicking and clutched the clicker to my chest, curling up in a ball and blowing my whistle.
The cubs were curious. They raked their claws across my back, batted at my face. One cub gnawed at my wrist that was holding the clicker. I blew the whistle until my throat would burst open. I screamed through the whistle as I blew, yet the cubs kept clawing at me. At some point I passed out.
I awoke some time later and my whole body writhed in pain. I put my hands to my face and screamed. Torn flesh and pine needles covered my bloody hands. I reached for the underside of the table and left a red hand print. I wretched and slithered out from under the table, dragging my limp left arm behind me. My hand was still clutching the dog training clicker. I could not loosen my grip on it. I blew the whistle again, more weakly. I spun around the table, delirious, trying to discover the right path home. I used my right hand to pry my fingers away from the clicker. I imagined myself arriving at the Indian Table earlier in the afternoon. I chose my spot and clicked the clicker and headed toward home. I kept the whistle in my mouth and sounded it with every exhale as I breathed. I stumbled through the forest, clicking when necessary to find my way back to my grandmother's house.
I came through the forest and started across the lawn to the kitchen door. Darkness was starting to envelope the yard as I walked and the shadows from the trees reached out behind me and pushed me gently toward my destination.
I fumbled with the door and stumbled into the kitchen.
"Where have you been?" my mother said with her back to me while cooking.
I looked at her and at my father who sat astonished in his chair.
"Where is Gran?" I asked.
"She's been sleeping all afternoon," my mother replied. She spun to look at me and dropped the pan she had been holding and screamed.
I looked in her eyes then fell to the floor and lost consciousness.
I regained consciousness sometime later in the hospital room. I was already crying.
"I blew my whistle. I blew my whistle," I mumbled through the sobs.
"We heard you blowing it, it sounded like you were playing a wonderful game of cops and robbers," said my father.
"I wasn't playing a game. I was being attacked by bears."
"Clearly, but everything is alright now, honey," said my mother.
"I blew my whistle, but nobody came," I sobbed. "I blew my whistle but nobody came."
