Jo-Ann Mapson

Peter Jennings and the Bear

One month to the day following the terrorist attacks, we woke up to snow. A couple of inches had fallen during the night, and my formerly drab world had turned white. I ran downstairs and opened the back door just in time to see a skein of Canada geese about a hundred strong fly overhead in their typical V. Their honking against the blue winter sky roused the dogs, who were soon out in the white stuff, sinking in up to their various tails and nubs.

As I begin my second Alaskan winter, every temperature drop, every fallen leaf, the crunch of frost underfoot, still excites me, and informs me. I listen as the vet's receptionist tells me that snow's coming this weekend, and envy her that innate knowledge of seasonal shift. Fall offered leaves so gold they nearly hurt the eye. Then came the rains, and the earth drank its fill. Now we have snow and beneath it, ice that will last for months and cause me to step carefully. Nowhere is it apparent more than in Alaska that the world reinvents itself on a daily basis. Glaciers move, whales migrate, moose rub off their velvet and go a little crazy during rut time.

This year those changes seem more precious to me. I tell myself to enjoy them as if this is the last time they'll be there, because I know that for far too long, I've taken them for granted.

I have to stop watching the news, I tell myself. Not even CNN knows the future. But I persist, scanning the channels for a news anchor I can trust, and somehow I always end up watching Peter Jennings. For one thing, he's such the dapper dresser. For another, he's articulate far beyond the monitor feed. Under his handsome, dignified face I see deep emotion, but restrained, the way men wise in the ways of the world are able to project. I guess I'm Peter Jennings's cheerleader. So I skipped ER and tuned into his special, Minefield, in hopes of gaining a larger view of the war.

Peter Jennings walked across an in-studio map of the world. Whole countries that were previously only names to me began to take on dimension and history. In film footage of Afghanistan, my heart ached for the level of poverty, the lack of sanitation, and their unspeakable treatment of women. When I imagine myself in the place of an Afghani woman, I can see life would not be worth living. I feel like a fat American, indulged and lazy and possessing very little perspective. How is it that I sit here in my warm office, surrounded by my books and college degrees, while other women are not allowed to learn? How does writing books help any of that? I was sure somehow this program would help me intellectualize and therefore govern my own internal terror, which lately manifests itself in headaches, insomnia, and a clenched jaw.

Not so.

When Mr. Jennings signed off, a large part of me wished she had watched ER. So we decided to take a walk, or at least things started out that way. Jackets zipped, gloves snug, hats secure, and taking along Verbena, my Papillon, off-leash, we decided to amble through the snow down to the end of the block. And for about twenty feet or so, it was lovely-the silence that accompanies the first snowfall, the spruce trees heavily laden, the air crisp and chill.

Then Verbena veered across the road, clearly intrigued by something. Since she weighs about 8 pounds, I looked, too, always worried some big dog will annihilate her in the name of play. Spying an unfamiliar bulge on a neighbor's tree, I stopped, and heard a scratching noise. Then the bulge moved and looked at me, its face clearly ursine and interested.

Do you have any idea how fast a 49-year-old out-of-shape writer can run? And her little dog, too? Relating this story to a writer friend of mine, he laughed and said this time of year the bears are full and tired and move real slow. Well, I'm still learning. But in my book a bear is a bear, and up close and personal, who knows what will happen next.

Today I tried to drive to school and ended up in a snow bank. The sun continues to shine through a blue sky as snow drifts off the trees. Somewhere unsettlingly nearby I imagine a bear is making his winter den. And Peter Jennings? I like to think that he is doing something completely arbitrary, that in his time off he forgets the news he so stoically delivers to us each evening. That he's taking his own winter walk, and rejuvenating his spirit for whatever comes next. Me, I'm taking time to pet small dogs and appreciate winter, because it's the best I can do.

More later,
Jo-Ann

^Top