Hibernation Over

Spring had come to the forest.

Slowly the mother bear stretched, yawned, and emerged from her den. She sniffed the air and growled: dust and days' worth of overdone scrambled eggs, that's what it smelled like. She lumbered into the kitchen and looked around. Terrible! Empty plastic bags, dirty dishes, Sunday school quarterlies, greasy frying pans.

In the living room she slumped on the couch and shook her head at days of newspapers strewn all over, shoes, junk, dust, and dirt.

With a savage croak she summoned her cubs. Fearfully they slunk in, sensing that their carefree days in the forest glade were over. "Work time," she announced, brooking no opposition.

They stripped the bedroom, from curtains to mattress pad, and hauled it all to the laundry room. Dozens of random kleenexes went into the trash. Out came the dust rag and vacuum cleaner, away went the books and videos.

Then to the living room. Papers in the recycle box, shoes upstairs, vacuum the rug, move the chairs. Things looked much better already.

Off to the kitchen. Clear, wash, toss, wipe. The cubs began to slow down. One of them slowly put a tea bag into half of an eggshell and tried to fit the other half on top. A sharp growl in his ear brought him back up to speed. This was no time for foolishness.

Finally the floor was swept, the dishes were washed, a window was opened to freshen the air, and Mother Bear said they could all quit. She collapsed on the couch and coughed. The cubs scampered away.

Father Bear came home. He stopped inside the back door and his eyes lit up. "Hmmm!" he said, "I think someone is well again."