Lion-Hearted

Looking around the 110-year-old home that I share with my husband, I notice intricate wood lovingly restored; an old steamer trunk; artifacts from journeys around the world; the viscera of words, drawings, and maps; a blanket lying across the futon-like a lover’s shirt. On the walls are pictures of railway trains and posters anatomizing mighty machines veined with steam and joints of steel.

Sitting here, I realized how much I had gotten rid of over the last twenty years, especially those years spent with Barkley the Lab before I met my husband. By selling or just giving them to people in need, I had probably reduced my possessions by three-quarters. What I had when we got married would fit in a two-bedroom house, nothing bigger. I occasionally look at photos of the showpiece that was my previous home back East, 3500 square feet custom built, vaulted ceilings, and a new BMW in the garage, and feel a twinge of “Wow, that was nice.” But I wasn’t happy there; it took all my time, all my money, including money I hadn't even earned yet—and the only people who were dazzled by such luxury were the kind of people I didn’t care whether they were impressed or not.

Smaller was better; everything paid for but the roof over my head; the things I have left around me are only the most meaningful possessions that speak of history, not ego. But looking at some wiring that was recently redone, I thought, what if the place caught fire some night or a flood was imminent, some sort of disaster? What would I take with me? It would be books, pictures, some mementos of my brother, badges of damage, and ribbons of courage.

Most things can be replaced: clothes, videos, a lot of books, music, cookbooks. A lot of our photos today are on a hard drive backed up somewhere, not a photo album. But there are those things you can’t replace, memories captured in small boxes, small heartbeats of time you can’t get back. The small crafted things, made for you by others, or your dad’s old military uniforms. It’s your life, and you only have a moment to grab those things that confirm you’re alive, this archaeology of dreams.

First would be any living creature in the home, family, dog, or guest. If I had time, I’d grab the briefcase with the paper trail of my life, my pistol next to the bed, and whatever precious things were on the nightstand, my mom’s picture, my badge, and my wallet. I’d also take if I could, something that would make absolutely no sense to anyone but myself. I’d take a beat-up stuffed lion that stands guard.

Larry the Lion showed up one Christmas when I was about four. There were always wrapped presents under the tree, but on Christmas morning, there would also be something just from "Santa"  that would be unwrapped and lying on the big brick bench around the fireplace.  It was usually something good to go with the stocking loot. But it wasn’t a lot. Dad explained later that he didn’t think it right to get a ton of fancy toys from Santa and then tell some kid at school who only got a shirt and much-needed shoes from Santa about all the toys he left for us. There are some things that aren’t fair, Dad said, but Santa, like Baby Jesus, never loves unequally, only unconditionally, the gifts not always being what is held in your hand.

Christmas mornings were always the same. We would wake up Mom and Dad around 5:30 a.m., and they’d come dragging out to watch us look in wonder at what we’d been given, shreds of wrapping paper scattered on the floor like spent brass. 

I initially got the prerequisite baby doll stuff, but my parents soon learned I was more of an “action toy” type of girl. I later grew to love the trains, my Daisy rifle, and Legos, but one plush toy sort of stole my little heart when I was so very young, and he and I were inseparable for years.

It was Larry the Lion. I got him for Christmas one year when I was running around on chubby legs, and I never let go of him.

Larry talked, and not the “goo goo gaa gaa” of most dolls. Larry talked in Mel Blanc’s voice. (Bugs Bunny, anyone?) When you pulled his string, he said about twelve different things: “I’m ferocious, aren’t I?” and “(Growl) OOOH! I scared myself!” and “I’m a very, very, very brave Lion... Grrrr.” When he spoke, his whole mouth moved, a soft plastic lion’s mouth that responded to both the pull of a string and the gentle kiss of a little girl.

Larry the Lion was my favorite stuffed companion for several years. Then he was put aside as I discovered adventure that lay outside my playroom, launching myself like rapture from tree limbs, building models and trains, a carpenter of light and noise. That was fine with me until I turned thirteen, and stuffed animals among young teenage girls were suddenly cool again. But Larry was nowhere to be found.

I was certain my brother had taken him as a prank, holding him out in the playhouse or another secret fortress of play, waiting to trade him for something valuable. I also knew that wherever he was secreted, he was waiting for me. Listening with a quiet “I’m a very, very, very brave lion,” as he stayed on a silent watch until I claimed him.

But he was just gone, never to be seen again. When I told my brother I thought he had taken Larry, he got that expression, sudden, intent, and concerned, that you just can’t fake. My brother had a penchant for practical jokes, but he wouldn’t hurt me for the world, and he helped me search. I missed Larry with that awareness of pages missing, longing with the unbridled hope of children even if I was much older. I tried to act like it was no big deal, being a cool teenager and all, bluffing my way into impending adulthood. But after combing the house for Larry, I went into my room and cried, sound rupturing from someplace deep inside. I cried hard, perhaps because I had to cry quietly, perhaps because I felt the way about tears as I did about weakness: don’t show it—but if you do, get it over and done with quickly before anyone sees.

I looked around the house one last time a few years ago. Funny how some things just stay with you, but Larry was truly gone. After Mom died, Dad had gotten rid of so many of her things that were hard for him to see, touch, and feel. A putting away of memories that he believed were his to dispose of as he pleased. But these memories were still connected to my brother and me by tiny strands—filaments of touch and smell that would bring Mom back to us in those quiet moments when we’d sneak into a closet to touch what was gone. Things we needed, things no longer there. I don’t blame Dad; he dealt with his grief in the way he could. But other than her badge from the sheriff’s department, some cookie molds, and her housecoat, all Mom’s clothes and personal things were given away, including most of the crafts and artwork she had done. Gone as if she’d painted a door and walked through it, never to return.

I figured Larry accidentally went out in that general removal of pain for my dad. As I entered adulthood and learned about loss of my own, I totally understood, even as I mourned with a lover’s urge the dismantling of white picket fences and happy endings.

Then, about a year before my brother died, I got a package from my hometown. While cleaning out a closet in the guest bedroom, he had found Larry—carefully packed by my mom in tissue and placed in a hatbox to be found after she passed. My brother got him boxed up and sent him to me.

Larry arrived, carefully carried by the UPS man. On an afternoon as quiet as the closet he had been hidden in, I opened the box, gently unfolding Larry from the tissue paper—still missing a whisker. He was a little dusty, needed a comb for his mane, and smelled of the sleep of reason, which was childhood. When I pulled him carefully from the box, he looked at me intently as if waiting for me to speak, if only in my imagination.

Surprisingly, he could still talk as clearly as he did years ago, and I pulled his string again and again, laughing like a child.

In the rush of life and all it brings, Larry was sometimes ignored. But like all true things, he was always there, waiting quietly in the wings until I was ready.  One night, I’d come in from a day out in the field. One of those days that followed me home, leaving invisible footprints from the door to my bed where I would walk in circles all night in my sleep, looking for that one thing I might have missed. Such days were hard; having to be tough, having to be impersonal, not knowing who was watching or if the media was nearby, brain deeply engaged, but heart floating spectral above the immense yet demarcated ruin filled with the voice of fire and grieving water.

I could call my husband, but he would be asleep in another time zone, far away. Years ago, I would have called my brother. I wouldn't tell him the details of the day, just as he didn’t share his details; some things were kept silent by choice or by honor. But we would talk until I couldn’t talk anymore, my way of simply telling him I missed him, sharing those stories of childhood.

But he'd been gone 10 years, and the phone is silent.

As I walked through the house before bed, I saw Larry’s shadow on the wall, the well-rubbed ears, the little ring on the string—and I pulled him close to me. I’d spent the day being tough, watching fate arrange the remains of what was left like a still life. I’d spent longer than that proving that such things don’t leave on me the bruises of stories unfinished, that I don’t get too attached to anything or anyone. But I do, with a capacity that has surprised me greatly, finding out emotion is not a measurable container.

I stood there, tired and dirty, with a knee that felt like it was made of gunpowder, barbed wire, and scorpions.  I could only stand, a grown woman, breathing deep the small form of a well-loved stuffed toy with a ratty mane and a missing whisker. There were no words for the time when holding something that was precious, however untranslatable. Holding on tight because he was all I could hold on to at that moment, sticking my face down into his fur, and for that instant, being small and strong at the same moment.

I looked out onto a night that resisted words and to a photo of my brother by the bed. With a small smile, I gave the string another quick pull as I held him close if only to remind ourselves that we were both still very, very brave.  - Brigid