“Ovoo, Grandfather, I want to hunt a bear.”
“You are too young, and the bear is too dangerous.”
“No, Ovoo, I can do it. You take me to hunt the bear.”
Granddad shrugged, took a long pull off his pipe, and shook his head to indicate “yes.” Granddad was silent, rough, and stern. He was a widower, and my mum was widowed as well. He lived with us, and he often took charge of my training.
My grandfather and I set out into the hills and eventually entered a large cave. I heard a low grumbling sound before I saw it. The bear was asleep. I tugged at grandfather’s sleeve; I danced around as if I had to pee. “Let’s go,” I whispered, desperate to get away from the sleeping monster.
“But you wanted to hunt the bear. Here is the bear. We do not go.” “Please, granddad. I’m only little, and the bear is big.”
Grandfather waited, an eternity, I think, and finally turned toward the cave entrance and strode out, with me in his wake.
Wouldn’t it be nice if Putin left the Ukraine, but perhaps he thinks he is the bear. Then again, perhaps Zelenskyy is David.
Carole J. Garrison 