(We are always pleased to bring back David Henson –the Eds.)

When I was in school, we had atomic bomb drills. We crouched under our desks and clasped our hands behind our heads, a few of us giggling until the speaker crackled, and the principal declared the drill over. Sometimes the class clown walked around stiff legged, arms extended and said they were glowing. Today, bear drills have replaced those for the atomic bomb. Bears should never get inside a school, but it can happen if someone leaves a gate ajar or a guard nods off.

The principal launches the drill by whispering Bear over the PA system. The teacher, who’s memorized the protocols, unlocks a drawer containing a spray can of Ursus Away and practices a two-handed grip. A pre-designated student locks the classroom door. Instead of hiding under their desks, the children pile them at the entry. The students pretend a bellowing, stinky bear is lumbering up and down the hallway. Everyone is supposed to be quiet, but although it’s only a drill, a kid with an overactive imagination might whimper. It probably doesn’t matter because a bear can smell a chocolate chip cookie from a mile away. A human can’t outrun a bear so the children lie prone, playing dead, trying not to sneeze from the dust bunnies. A couple students grip sharpened pencils … as if that could stop a bear. In the event of the real thing, the students know a few will be sacrificed, but even the hungriest grizzly will fill its belly before the whole class is devoured. When the speaker buzzes, and the principal announces All Clear, no one giggles; the class clown doesn’t act up. Hoping the next time is also only a drill, the children rise and drag their desks back into rows.

David Henson