The grumpiest teddy bear

An Olympic legacy, inspiring me to be patient with myself as I learn new tricks

I always say I’m a life-long learner. As a former educator, I wear it like a badge of honor, in fact.

After taking a cooking class in Cambodia in January, I’m looking forward to learning to prepare new foods we encounter as we travel the world. And, of course, I am all about learning to appreciate new flavors of cinnamon rolls¹, new takes on the classic chocolate chip cookie, and avant-garde flavors of ice cream. Although my memory isn’t as quick as it once was, I still love to try memorizing poetry and Bible verses. And I’m excited to learn how to play the harmonica I bought for myself as entertainment on the road.

But this whole “I love learning” thing is not entirely true; it has its limits.

Recently it has become abundantly clear that I only like to learn things that I want to learn. This hasn’t been much of an issue over the years until more recently. But since we’ve been building Walter, our big yellow truck, and getting ready to hit the road, I’ve discovered a great many things I need to learn—that I’ve never had any interest in before. And still don’t.

Ugh.

It has proven important for me to learn to be more confident and comfortable with shop tools. I’ve needed to learn about fiberglass. Yuck. I’ve needed to learn how this works and how to do that thing.

And now, worst of all, I need to learn to ride a motorbike. It seems like it should be enough that I’ve had to learn to be a good passenger on the back of the bike.

Again.

I used to ride on the back of Andy’s motorcycle back in my 20s. It didn’t bother me then; in fact, I quite enjoyed it. But something happened as I got older, going decades without riding at all. I became a certifiable chicken-butt. I wrote about it here. When we got to SE Asia and found it was cheaper to occasionally rent a scooter for an entire day, rather than paying for individual bus and taxi fares all the time, it just made sense. I struggled, but I did it. I rode on the back of a scooter many times in several different Asian countries. I wrote about one of those days here.

But now I need to learn to ride from the front seat.

As the driver.

Alone.

Blah.

Some of you ride. Cool. Good for you. It just never interested me. And it turns out, it’s not so easy to learn something you don’t want to do. And the longer you don’t do something, the harder it is to start doing it.

But we bought our cute little Roo, a vintage Honda 110 trail bike, as our back-up transportation for our nomadic life on the road. If Andy is sick or injured, or there if is an emergency or even just a major logistical glitch and I can’t ride it alone, we could be in a fix.

From my perspective, at least, it’s not a simple bike. It needs to be kick-started. It has a clutch and gears. The compact nature of Roo’s frame means the starter, the shifter-thingy and the clutch pedal, as well as the brake pedal, are all awkwardly placed. There are several steps to remember just to start the thing—and it doesn’t necessarily start on the first try. For most people, it might not be hard to learn, but I feel like an old dog trying to learn new tricks—new tricks I don’t even really want to learn.

I can do it, and I am slowly improving, but it’s not intuitive for me for some reason. I can’t say I’ve yet experienced the joy of the open road and the thrill of freedom I hear others speak of. For me, it’s a slog.

I know I need to learn, but sometimes—when I can’t get it to start, or I’m not progressing like I feel I should, or I downshift when I meant to upshift—I get a little grumpy.

I actually get grumpy easily these days, to be honest. With my age and stage of life, the occasional yucky hormonal mood swings of toddlerhood, the teen years, and pregnancy have returned with a vengeance. Even beyond frustrations with riding Roo, sometimes I just don’t like anything or anyone and all of everything is STUPID. Sometimes I can’t handle my own silly mistakes or minor clumsiness, and I spiral into an unattractive and unhelpful bout of self-loathing. Sometimes I feel barely controllable rage welling up in me and I just want to slam all the things and throw all the things and yell at all the things. It’s not pretty when it happens, and sometimes it inadvertently bubbles up and spills all over Andy, the one I love.

Yucky freakin-frackin-frick.

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I had to chuckle, though, when I saw my high school in the news repeatedly during the Paris Olympics. Apparently, my alma mater, Woodrow Wilson High of Long Beach, California, has produced more Olympians than any other school in the nation. We’ve been represented at every summer Olympics since 1952.² That’s quite a streak!

What does this have to do with my recent tendency toward grumpiness and my dreaded need to ride a motorbike?

I’m glad you asked.

It’s this face:

Me at my 30-year class reunion, in the gymnasium where I used to play volleyball

Not mine. I mean the mascot’s face. For as long as anyone can recall, Wilson’s mascot has been an adorable but decidedly grumpy teddy bear.³ In a world dominated by fierce and aggressive-looking sports mascots, this is the face that has inspired a 72-year-old stream of Olympians.

For whatever reason, this brings me comfort this week. I am part of this legacy. I also can be a little grumpy about things sometimes, and still achieve hard things. My fellow alumni have been doing it for decades. Occasional struggles and mood swings need not cause me despair and make me feel like a failure. They’re just part of my life right now. I need to better channel them into determination—and, if possible, seek out ways to remain soft and somehow adorable in the process.

A year ago, I got online and found t-shirts for both Andy and me featuring our respective high schools, as another way to connect with people we meet around the world. This week, I’ve been wearing my shirt intentionally. That grumpy teddy bear reminds me to be brave and not to get too down on myself for learning more slowly than I’d like, or for occasionally getting grouchy.

7 Questions

This week I interviewed another person who has persisted and pushed past fears and hardship—and no doubt, occasional grumpiness.

Mel Bjorgen is a new friend, someone I met here in the Substack writers’ community. She is the author of Literary Christian Meatloaf, which would be a medal contender if Blog Names was an Olympic event. You absolutely should check out her writing and subscribe to receive her weekly posts. We have yet to meet in person, but Andy and I hit the road next week (!!!), and as we wander around the Lower 48 United States for a season, meeting up with Mel is high on my list of priorities.

But enough of my rambling. Without further ado, here’s Mel Bjorgen:

Where were you born and where do you live now?

• I was born in Puerto Rico, raised in the Washington DC area of Maryland from 3 months old, stayed there until I was 21, then I lived with my husband in South Carolina, Arizona, Belize, Mexico, and now…Columbus, Ohio.

Of all the names and titles you have answered to over the years, do you have any favorites, and why?

• My favorite title has to be the one I’m currently in: Suicide Prevention Coordinator. This title is important to me because each week, I train everyday people on how they can prevent suicide. I can offer this training for free and have met some of the best people doing it. I am someone who struggled most of my adult life with thoughts of suicide. I am acquainted with the way it tortures the mind. I had some key people in my life who helped me stay alive. I get to spread a message of hope each week to dozens of people. I love what I do.

  The other title I love is “Caregiver”. I am a mom to three exceptional children. They each have struggles they are overcoming, and they blow me away with their faith and determination. This year, my husband and I have been in the trenches with them, offering them hope and getting them help. Watching them flourish in their own way is a blessing.

Can you tell me about one person who has had a significant positive impact on your life?

• Hands down, my dearest friend Barb Conner. About 12 years ago, she contacted me when I needed someone to cling to. She told me she would never let me go, and she never has. She was a counselor, then a mentor, then a friend, and now one of the most precious friends of my life. Last year, she sacrificially took care of me during my dark days. We laugh together, cry together, sing together, and cherish one another. I’m in my 40’s, and she is in her 70’s—friendship has no age limit.

What feels most like home to you and why?

• This is the most challenging question for me, and why I put off answering these questions. “Home” was a hostile place for me for many years as a child. As an adult, I struggled to find comfort in my home environment. As I’ve worked through my issues in therapy, I’ve become more comfortable in the family environment and in the house we call “home.” I’ve discovered that my home is my husband, John. I feel safe with him, even when he annoys me (haha). When I think back to a place I live that gives me that homey feeling, I think of the village I lived in, in Belize, not because it is beautiful (it is) but because of the people who I left behind there. They will always have my heart.

What is one thing that makes you ridiculously happy?

• Jesus Christ, the one source of true abiding happiness in my life. Truly. I’m not just throwing around “Evangelical Speak.” He saved my life in more ways than one; each day, I wake up grateful to be alive.

What is one thing that makes you terribly sad?

• My childhood.

What is one important thing you have learned over your lifetime?

• God’s grace. It is deep, wide, rich, and free. His grace is all-encompassing and so generous. I grew up a conservative Christian and was taught I was a dirty, worthless sinner—there was not much grace. This year, God taught me to abide in him and accept his grace; it was there all along. Looking back, I can see how he has been teaching me this lesson my entire life, and one day, I finally learned it—that’s grace.

Finally, I asked Mel to provide me a photo of her choice and she sent me this scene—a literary glamour shot if I ever saw one:

Mel Bjorgen

Thanks, Mel. I look forward to the day we can meet in person. Until then, I will just keep eating my weekly serving of your Meatloaf.

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Look at that face again. Not Mel’s; not mine—the mascot’s.

Determination. Do hard things. Learn new skills, even if they come slowly. Accept the challenge—even when it’s one you never wanted to or thought you’d have to face.

What are you struggling to learn, friend? What’s causing you to spiral unnecessarily? If you’d like, and you think it might help, you can borrow the grumpiest, most determined teddy bear. Be brave, yes, but also stay cuddly, friend.

Until next week,

Sherry

P.S. For fun, I’d love to hear about your school mascot in the comments!

P.P.S. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to leave this coffee shop where I’ve been sipping on jasmine tea and Wi-fi, so I can go practice riding Roo. I’m determined to learn.

1. One of the residents where we are currently camping made carrot cake cinnamon rolls a few days ago and shared them with us. Oh. My. Goodness. I will be singing her praises for a very long time. I wish I’d taken a photo, but you wouldn’t be able to taste them in two-dimensional form, so it wouldn’t help much anyway.

2. The only Olympics since 1952 that did not feature a Long Beach Wilson alum was the 1980 games in Moscow that the U.S. boycotted.

3. The mascot is actually called a Bruin, not a teddy bear. When the school opened in 1925, a group of students was tasked with coming up with the official mascot name and school colors. They decided to honor the two most prestigious nearby universities at that time, UCLA and USC. One served as the inspiration for the mascot, and the other for the school colors. We became the Wilson Bruins, sporting cardinal and gold.