Two years ago on my birthday, our neighbours Tap and Di gave me a hand crafted plaque with the inscription, “AN OLD BEAR LIVES HERE …WITH HIS HONEY.” Tap is a gifted artisan and I greatly value the gesture. To this day the plaque reminds me of the time when our children Jeremy and Vivian were age 5 and 7. At bedtime, Linda read for them a chapter from A.A. Milne’s “Winnie the Pooh.” Invariably there were bursts of delighted laughter and many exclamations of surprise. The children are adults now and have families of their own. For Linda and me the memories linger, with more than a touch of nostalgia. Now another birthday is looming on the horizon, and last week Linda and I again read the story.

At the outset of the narrative, we are introduced to the Hundred Aker Wood, an environment uncluttered by television, computers, the internet or hectic social lives. Pooh, his special friend Christopher Robin, Piglet, Rabbit, Owl, Kanga and Roo, are blithely unaware of the larger world beyond the wood.

We find Pooh, frequently referred to by his friends as “a bear of little brain,” sitting at the foot of a tree with his head between his paws, trying to think. “That buzzing noise must mean something,” he says, “The only reason I know for making a noise like that is because you’re a bee. The only reason I know of for being a bee is making honey. And the only reason for making honey is so I can eat it.” Pooh’s thought processes are pretty basic, often centred on obtaining honey. In this case he borrows a balloon from Christopher Robin and it lifts him to the top of a tree where the bees are. One stings him and he decides these are the wrong kind of bees, and they probably make the wrong kind of honey. Having not thought about how he and the balloon would descend, he remains suspended near the top of the tree. Finally he asks Christopher Robin to shoot a hole in the balloon with his gun. Christopher Robin does this and Pooh floats slowly to the ground.

Although Pooh is a bear with little brain, at times he is very practical, even insightful. When he visits Eeyore, the donkey who lives in a corner of the wood where there is an abundance of thistles, he notices his friend is gloomier than usual. Hoping to discern why Eeyore is so sad he says, “Let’s have a look at you.” He walks around him, then says, “Why, what’s happened to your tail? It isn’t there!” Eeyore had not been aware of this and thought Pooh must be mistaken. Pooh tells him, “Either a tail is there or it isn’t there. You can’t miss it. You can’t make a mistake about it, and yours isn’t there.”

Eeyore, a chronic pessimist says, “Somebody must have taken it. How Like Them.” Wanting to help his friend, Pooh sets out for Owl’s place. “If anyone knows anything about anything,” he says to himself, “it’s Owl.” Fortunately he does find the tail and when Christopher Robin has nailed it on in its right place again, Eeyore frisks about the forest.

Pooh’s love for “a little something” at times creates a dilemma from which only Christopher Robin can deliver him. This happens when he squeezes through the narrow burrow into Rabbit’s home. Here he accepts Rabbit’s offer of honey and milk. He indulges enthusiastically and when he attempts to exit through the narrow opening of the burrow, he gets stuck and cannot move forward. “Oh bother,” he says. “I shall have to go back,” but he can’t move.

Rabbit fetches Christopher Robin who says, “Silly old Bear” in such a loving voice that everybody feels quite hopeful again. He declares, “There’s only one thing to be done. We shall have to wait for you to get thin again. That will take about a week, I should think. I’m afraid no meals, because of getting thin quicker, but we will read to you.” So, for a week Pooh grows thinner and then Christopher Robin says “Now.” He and Rabbit pull and all of rabbit’s friends and relations pull. Suddenly Pooh says, “Pop!” and he’s ejected like a cork out of a bottle. That’s Winnie the Pooh, more able to relieve pandemic anxiety than a session with a psychiatrist.

About 25 years ago a chiropractor performed an “old school” maneuver on me for which he should have done jail time. It severely disturbed my sciatic nerve and for 6 weeks the pain in my back was so intense I couldn’t walk except by using powerful, suicide inducing pain medications. My mind sometimes returns to those difficult days when I think of my friend Jim.

Until about 6 months ago, Jim worked in the woods. An elite faller with a muscular frame, he had the strength to handle a large chain saw in steep terrain. I always enjoyed the visits when he came into our community. With alert blue eyes, long blond hair and a quick optimistic smile, he attracted people wherever he showed up. He bought a new Ford pickup every two years and kept it in immaculate condition. I felt deeply disappointed when I learned he had begun associating with a group of young individuals who slept during the day and partied at night.

As I was walking along Daly Avenue in Hedley one day, Jim pulled over in a battered red Toyota pickup he must have rescued from an auto wrecker. His morose expression told me something had changed. “I was let go by my employer. The finance company repossessed my pickup,” he said, turning off the ignition. “My wife got fed up with me hanging around the house, then leaving her to put the boys to bed while I went and partied. She told me to move on and not bother coming back. I really miss my boys.” He paused for a moment, wiped a tear from his cheek, then said, “I need to change my life.”

In subsequent encounters the smile was gone, replaced by an expression of deep despair. Several times he again said, “I know I need to change my life.” Initially, I thought he would make the effort to turn his life in a better direction. The pain was searing his soul. I said more than once, “Jim, your friends are eroding your understanding of who you are. You need to break from your associations.” He agreed, but seemed unable to unfetter himself from the devious forces accelerating his slide into futility.

Reflecting back now on my own experience, I realize that like Jim, I had little hope my circumstances would change. I didn’t know how long I could live with the pain. I was eating mostly green grapes and flavoured yogurt and shedding weight, Linda feared my body was going into shock. Many nights, after she went to bed, I sat on the floor of our livingroom, seeking a way out of this frightening cauldron of physical, mental and emotional misery. The doctor who prescribed the pharmaceuticals had not troubled to warn me they might bring on thoughts of suicide. Although weak with pain, I considered dragging my body to Clearbrook Rd. and throwing myself in front of a big truck. The thought holding me back was that it would not be fair to Linda.

After about 6 weeks of crawling on the floor on hands and knees, I began getting help from a different chiropractor and a personal trainer. Now, to retain my ability to walk, I still do stretches and exercises to strengthen my body core. Since then, I’ve come to realize most of us will at some time need to grapple with a potentially life shattering circumstance. Several of my friends have lost their spouse, a few have been cut down in their prime by cancer or a debilitating illness. Others have been overtaken by financial loss. I’ve wondered what enables some to battle fiercely and again thrive, while others, like Jim, remain bogged down in mental and emotional quicksand, unable to extricate themselves.

I’ve concluded that one factor is the thoughts we have entertained over the years. My Dad was always generous with time and money. He sought to uplift people whenever possible. His thoughts made him optimistic, even in difficult times. At age 89 he fell and broke a hip. For the next five years he was in a long term care facility, unable to walk, get in or out of bed, or even turn over in bed. I asked him if he was hanging on to life for his family. I assured him if he wanted to let go, we’d miss him but we would be o.k. He replied, “No, I still like to live.”

When Linda and I departed from Abbotsford last Thursday, we anticipated the usual uneventful drive back to Hedley. Stopping in Hope for coffee to go, we received our first indication things might be different this trip. Two ambulances with sirens screaming rushed by to the east at race track speed.

By the time we passed through Manning Park we had forgotten about them. Then, approximately 50 km. west of Princeton, the traffic slowed markedly and came to a full stop. The line of cars stretched to the next corner and probably beyond. People were already emerging from their vehicles, stretching bodies stiff from prolonged sitting.

An elderly man with a long white beard stood beside his pickup, agitatedly scanning the rugged terrain. On the right side of the highway he faced a precipitous drop to the river below. On the left the rocky mountain rose abruptly. I wondered about the source of his evident discomfort until he determinedly set off at an awkward, hurried gait toward a sparse clump of bushes at the edge of the roadway. He disappeared from view. After a few moments he reappeared and jauntily returned to his vehicle. Next a woman of about 40, in a pink party dress skittered toward the bushes on high heels. The bushes quickly became a popular source of sanctuary. Most ladies apparently were reluctant though and demonstrated remarkable forbearance.

We had come somewhat prepared to weather any short term wait. We ate the sandwiches, bran muffins and fruit Linda had assembled. For some time we listened to John Grisham’s “The Rain Maker.” Then we joined others walking along the side of the highway. Initially the conversations between all these strangers consisted mostly of “heard anything?” A young man on a skateboard had gone to the head of the line. “A transport truck rolled and struck a van and there are injuries,” he reported. “Police are there and a chopper has flown out the casualties. We’ll be here a couple of hours.”

I was reminded of the Hope Slide in 1965 in which several vehicles were crushed and 4 people died. On that occasion Highway 3 was closed several days. It occurred to me our situation would be difficult if this was winter, with freezing temperatures and abundant snow. It was a reminder we need to prepare more fully for future trips in mountainous terrain. I wondered if the woman in the party dress and high heels was having similar thoughts.

The skateboarder returned and said, “They’re going to open the road in one to five minutes.” We scurried to our vehicles and waited hopefully. No movement. Fifteen minutes later the skateboarder returned and said, “Sorry, now they expect it will be another three hours.”

Some people were becoming impatient. Cars and pickups began leaving the line and turning back, probably to access the Coquihalla. A semi just ahead of us could not turn on the narrow strip of highway. Once again people emerged from their vehicles. Conversations became longer. There seemed to be a sense that we might as well use the time profitably. When Linda met a woman from Taber, Alberta, she said, “I was born in Taber. Do you know my cousin Merv Craddock?” She did and they were instant friends. A woman from Princeton told me she and her husband had recently bought a small ranch in the area. “Do you know Don and Thalia?” I asked. “Yes,” she responded. “We’ve helped them on their ranch.”

At about 5 pm, we were again told the police were going to open the highway. Hurrying to our car, we passed the man with the long white beard, slumbering peacefully behind the steering wheel of his pickup. A little farther along, the lady in the pink dress had not heard the news. She was pouring herself a drink from a large brown flask. Back in our car, I was reminded that along the highway of life we are certain to encounter adventures and challenges. How we respond will depend on our thinking.

As we passed the accident scene we saw the semi lying on its side, the dark underbelly exposed. It occurred to me that compared to the unhappy event that had overtaken the people in this accident, our little ordeal was no more than an insignificant hiccup. I did hope the lady in the pink dress would arrive at the party or wedding on time.

Over a lifetime of celebrating numerous birthdays and drinking too many cups of strong coffee, I’ve become intrigued by the ways humans respond to various types of adversity, especially loss of freedom. Having set foot in more than a few West Coast prisons, and some long term care facilities, I’ve had plenty of opportunities to observe people who have lost the liberty to move as they please. In prison they are often constrained by chain link fences topped by razor sharp berka wire. Within high security prisons there are cells with sturdy locks on steel doors. Even seniors care facilities often have locks on perimeter doors. Seeing television coverage of crowds on the streets of large cities protesting covid related restrictions, I began thinking of the various ways in which I’ve seen people respond when their freedom is eroded.

One individual I liked to observe was incarcerated at Matsqui Institution. A 67 year old, chain-smoking veteran of the provincial and federal prison systems, Albert had invested at least half his years in prison. Addicted to heroin, he had long been a street level trafficker, at a time when our courts were still sending even small scale drug dealers to prison. Albert had never had a vision for more. When I saw him in court wearing a suit and tie, I thought he could have passed for a banker, college professor or even a prison warden.

Albert had long ago made a decision not to fret at being behind that high chain link fence. Rather than become bitter, complain or attempt to escape, he concentrated on building relationships. When I met him he was in charge of the hobby shop at Matsqui. Prison staff at times came for a chat, and within the confines of his assignment, life appeared surprisingly normal. Like the Bird Man of Alcatraz, he had found meaning within what was a harsh reality for most inmates.

At the B.C. Penitentiary I met Jim, a soft spoken burly man in his late twenties. His powerful physique might have given him entrance into the world of professional wrestling, if an inner void had not prompted him to seek solace in alcohol and drugs. He had murdered his girl friend while in a substance induced stupor. In the sombre grey world of concrete and steel bars, he could not find any meaning or purpose to sustain him. At night he was tortured by troubling images. He did reach out to our organization for a citizen sponsor, but the forces of darkness and despair overwhelmed him. When I phoned to arrange a second visit, the prison switchboard operator said, “I’m sorry, but Jim is no more.” He had hung himself in his cell.

At Menno Hospital in Abbotsford, I met Gladys, a former airline hostess. At about age 40, her face still retained vestiges of former beauty. Now confined to a wheelchair by MS, she wasn’t able to adjust to her dismal reality. Angry and bitter, Gladys refused all overtures of friendship. I attempted to engage her in conversation several times, but she just lashed out at the unfairness of life. When she was transferred to another institution, she left without saying good bye to anyone. Life had become something to be endured.

Eighty-three year old Anna was a resident in the same facility. As a young woman she had lived with her husband and two children on a collective farm in Ukraine. After Communist agents took her husband away, she never saw him again.

Anna was endowed with a streak of daring. During WW II she escaped to Germany, then emigrated to Canada. Here she created a good life for her family. Then, at age 82, shortly before I met her, she climbed a cherry tree to enjoy the fruit. A branch broke and she fell. Her aged body never recovered. Now in a wheelchair and totally dependent on others, she spent her days in the dining room, always wonderfully cheerful. One day as I was about to leave, she grasped my hand firmly and spoke a blessing over me in her native German. I wondered if she knew she wouldn’t see me again. A few days later this cheerful elderly saint went to meet the God she trusted.

Headwinds along the path of life are inevitable. We can complain, cringe or buckle. Or we can choose to dig deep for the resolve to persevere.