Dispatches from Home – Pop and the Polar Bear June 2023
My father loved to travel. His two favorite means of travel were the family auto or by train. Planes were a last resort because Pop loved to see the countryside. Two of our road trips by car are acid etched in my memory. One was in 1964 when I was 12. We were gone three weeks and drove, yes drove, to Mexico City in our 1961 Mercury Comet. The other trip was in 1970 for my High School Graduation. For this family vacation, we were gone a month and drove, yes drove, to the West Coast via Las Vegas and onward to San Francisco, then up the Pacific Coast Highway in our brand-new Plymouth Fury III. That trip was our last long vacation together as a family. I graduated from college, went to work, moved out of Mom and Pop’s house, and the rest is history. But that did not stop Mom and Pop from traveling the countryside.
Oh! The places they traveled to. From as far north as Alaska to as far south as Miami, as far north as Chicago, and upward to Maine, they toured the country in whatever new family auto Pop had just purchased. As they aged, however, Mom did not like to travel far from home. She enjoyed the family fireside, so to speak, as opposed to far-away delights. Not Pop, though! If he smelled the gas or heard a train’s plaintive whistle calling him onward, he’d pack a bag, and off he went. Mom and I would wave him goodbye as he drove off or as the train pulled out of the New Orleans train station. And this is what we did in the fall of 1992 when Pop took his last major vacation—another three weeks rumbling along on the tracks to the wilds of Manitoba, Canada.
Why Manitoba? Who knows. (Big Smile!) But Pop must have read in a magazine about a train that caught his attention. And the one that did so traveled north through Canada until the tracks ended—literally ended—nothing more to see except miles and miles of frozen tundra stretching farther north. He did tell me that the train stopped at numerous towns along the way, Churchill being the largest. And that’s where Pop met the polar bear.
My father and I had little in common except for a love of old movies, history in general, and a particular love for the Titanic. The other thing we had in common was a curious streak that often landed us both in trouble. However, Pop’s curious streak almost proved fatal on this particular trip. When he arrived in Churchill, a huge sign greeted him: POLAR BEARS AND PEOPLE DON’T MIX. Beneath those words were some additional warnings. Pop was also informed by a train employee that the polar bears were migrating, which could also cause other problems. Walking to his hotel, signs in all the little storefronts warned people about the bears. Pop read them all.
My father was a Marine, so he was accustomed to following orders and adhering to the rules—life lessons that I’m thankful he instilled in me. Don’t forget, though, about his curious nature. Wandering away from his friends that he’d met aboard the train, he walked behind one of the little shops that lined the street. Before him lay a vast, opened stretch of parched-looking earth and rocks. The sun crouched behind low, grey clouds as a damp cold wind blew from the north. With camera in hand, Pop started snapping photos, fascinated by the landscape’s bleak beauty.
As Pop continued to snap away, from off in the distance, he heard a man shouting something, but he could not see the man or understand what he was saying. Then, as if out of nowhere, Pop saw it. A massive, pounding ball of white fur was barreling down the hillside. At first, Pop thought the bear was not a threat. His thoughts changed, however, when a beat-up pickup truck roared over the top of the hill. The driver screeched to a stop and, via a bullhorn, yelled, “Get the hell inside. He’s lookin’ for food, and you might be it!!”
Pop hadn’t run much since he used to chase me around the backyard with his belt. — He ran that day! Pop said the bear was gaining on him fast when a store owner lunged out of his backdoor, grabbed Pop by the collar, and pulled him inside the store. It was just in the nick of time too. Just minutes later, the huge bear scratched vigorously at the backdoor, made of thick metal. Moments later, the sound of crashing garbage cans was heard as the massive bear rummaged through them, looking for food. Pop was thankful that he did become the bear’s evening meal. Oh! I forgot to tell you, Churchill, Manitoba, is called the “Polar Bear Capital of the World.” (000)
This was one of the last stories my father regaled me with while recovering from major heart surgery at Ochsner’s Hospital in December 1997. Mom, Dad, and I had a good laugh at his expense, and we laughed about other stories as well. I’m thankful we had that time together. Not long after the New Year, Pop took a turn for the worse and passed away as I held his hand and watched his hospital monitors flatline. I thank Father God for allowing me to be there when my father breathed his last. And Pop, just to let you know. I did as you asked. The last thing you said to me as you were taken into surgery was, “Son, take care of your mother.” And I did Pop, I did. I miss you, Pop. But one day soon…
Pop and the Polar Bear Sign 1992
Pop at the Paz Manitoba train station
The Truck and the Polar Bear