Muzak played softly in the background, James Galway’s flute with Henry Mancini’s “Days of Wine and Roses.” Other tunes followed one after the other unannounced and hardly noticed, just skimming the edges of conscious thought, long-ago songs like muted memories fading with time but never completely forgotten.
The early morning sun broke through a partially drawn shade to bring light into the darkened room. An aged man, having dozed off in his tattered green rocker, was suddenly awakened by the brightness and warmth. He blinked several times as he slowly opened his eyes, pale blue but clouded now with cataracts. His cherrywood pipe had gone out while he slept and had fallen from his lips, spilling tobacco in his long beard and onto his belly. He took pride in his full, white beard and brushed himself clean as he sat upright. His hair, having thinned on top, was allowed to grow long and curl onto his shoulders.
“It’s time to take your pills, Bunny,” the old man said to a frail little woman lying in bed under the window opposite him. The sunlight had bypassed her and she lay in the half-sleeping state of the elderly. Bunny was his wife. She was startled to full wakefulness by his announcement.
“I don’t want to take those damn pills,” Bunny objected with mild anger, her body too weak to protest loudly. A stroke had left her paralyzed on one side and she spent her days passively counting hours, waiting for some unknown event which never occurred.
“They’re too hard for me to swallow, Bear,” she whined. “You know that. “Bear” was the name she used for her husband.
“I’ll crush them like I always do,” Bear said in exasperation as he struggled to get up from his rocker, balancing unsteadily on an aluminum walker. “Do you want chocolate or vanilla pudding?” He asked as if having such a choice represented some kind of control in a captive situation.
“Oh, yuck.” Bunny made a sour face. “It all makes me gag.”
“Then chocolate it is,” dictated Bear. He worked his way carefully into the kitchen area where he prepared his wife’s medicine. His knees hurt from arthritis as he walked and he favored his right hip since he’d broken it two years before. Bunny had been strong then and after his surgery she had nursed him through his convalescence.
Medicine and pudding mixed, Bear came to his wife’s side. Using the walker once again for balance, he leaned over the bed and gently spoon-fed the mush to his Bunny. Her mouth drooped on the left side and some of the pudding spilled through her lips. He wiped it clean with the edge of his shirt.
Bear remembered the first time he fed Bunny. It was soon after the Great War when they were just teenagers on a picnic by the river. He had paid thirty-five cents for that lunch, out bidding Jimmy Crawford and Bill Walker. The owners of the baskets were supposed to be a secret but Bunny had discreetly whispered a description of her basket to him before the bidding began. So they shared a secluded lunch by the water’s edge, away from the curious eyes of the other noisy picnickers. He recalled the lunch in detail-cold fried chicken, biscuits, grapes, fruit punch from a jar-and how they had teasingly fed each other bits of food with their fingers. Later they shared their first kiss. Love was young and she felt so vulnerable and soft in his arms, like a bunny.
His thoughts returned to the present when Bunny began to spit and cough. He’d fed her too much too fast again but she quickly recovered, having taken ail the pudding along with her pills.
“I don’t know why I have to take all this medicine,n Bunny said when she stopped coughing.
nIt will make you better,” he responded with this simple explanation.
“I’m not going to get better,” she said with defeat in her voice. “I might as well be dead.”
“No!” Bear shouted in sudden anger. “I’ll not let you talk that way. I can take care of you.”
He still needed her. He needed her strength, old and weak as she was. He needed her laughter, though it was gone from her life. He needed her to be there, even if that’s all she could do. He needed a purpose in his life and that was as her protector. Yes, he still needed her.
Bunny was unaffected by her husband’s sudden outburst, accustomed to it after all these years. He was still Bear, strong, commanding and taking charge. But he could not control time and he was weakening as she was weakening. How long could they go on? Her mind went back in time as she recalled fondly their early courtship days, stolen kisses, secretly planned chance encounters. She remembered passionately one long-ago October after the Harvest Dance when he first claimed her as his own. He seemed so strong and powerful then, like a bear. He promised he’d always take care of her.
The rest of the morning was spent in silence until their noon meal was delivered by a county agency that provided assistance to homebound elderly people. It guaranteed them at least one hot, healthy meal a day. For some it was the only one they received. Bear set his meal aside in order to help Bunny. Fighting with the wrapper, he spilled some of the preheated contents on-to his hand.
“God damn these things!” He cursed. “Why can’t they make it easier for us?”
Inside was a slice of roast beef, corn on the cob and a creamed vegetable. When he began to slice the meat, Bear found it to be tough and gristly. He threw down the knife.
“How the hell do they expect you to eat this food!” he bellowed as Bunny waited passively for her dinner. “You can’t chew this meat. And corn on the cob?” He dipped his finger in the creamed vegetable and tasted it. “Too salty,” Bear proclaimed as he took away the whole platter. “You’re not supposed to have salt. I’ll have to fix you something myself.”
Bear was in the kitchen a long time and he became tired and breathless after scrambling up some eggs. It was difficult for him because he couldn’t stand without support and he teetered precariously on his walker. He was irritable when he finally brought the plate to his wife. Muzak still played lazily on the air, a watered-down version of an old Beatles’ tune.
“I’m tired of that sleepy mush for music,” Bunny complained then added lightly, “I want to hear some dancin’ tunes.”
“Why?” Bear snapped. “You can’t dance.”
The pain on Bunny’s face was instant, expressing a blow to her spirit and she couldn’t respond. Tears welled up in her eyes.
Bear was immediately ashamed of what he’d said. “Please forgive me,” he begged. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”
He reached for her hand which was lifeless in his grasp but the damage had already been done, a wicked reminder of what they’d become. She turned her head away from him.
“I’ve hurt her again,” he agonized to himself, “With harsh and thoughtless words.”
He loved her still after all these years and depended on her love in return. But Bunny refused to eat the scrambled eggs offered to her and Bear returned, defeated, to the green rocker, deep in his own private pain.
“But it’s true,” he thought to himself. “We can’t dance anymore. Why pretend?” He answered his own thoughts. “Because pretending is all we have now. We can only pretend to live. We can’t dance; we can’t love; we can’t care for ourselves anymore and I am unable to be her protector. All we give each other now is pain and heartache.”
Their bodies had failed them but refused to die. In his despondency Bear knew what he must do. He sadly yet tenderly watched his Bunny as she faded into a light sleep. Her body still looked vulnerable and soft to him but he could not bring himself to take her with him at this time. Bunny could join him later. Someone else, more capable than he, would have to be her protector now. Bear rose heavily from his rocker and made his final walk into their darkened, unused bedroom.
The sound of the gunshot awakened Bunny. Her muscles tensed and her heart pounded rapidly as a stab of pain sliced through her body. She looked for Bear in his green rocker but saw it was empty, the only sign of life its slow abandoned rock working its way to a stop.
“Bear!” She called out but received no answer.
Oh, God! What has Bear done? The realization left her breathless, her mind in an uproar screaming wordlessly in anguish. “I’m all alone now,n she thought frantically. “Who will take care of me?”
Her body began to shake and her lungs heaved in uncontrollable sobbing. She cried herself to exhaustion and thought of her husband, fallen in the other room, and his final outrageous attempt at control.

“I love you, Bear,” she whispered hoarsely one last time.

lois ann morrison

There’s a proper way to put your pants on. Here it is: first, retrieve your trousers from the closet, door knob, or floor where you dropped them last night. Shake them several times to smooth the wrinkles out, to ensure the pants legs are not twisted, and to remove foreign objects. Now, set those pants neatly on the bed, chair, or floor. You’ve got to don your underwear before anything else.
Good, you should have clean and unholey underclothing on now. At least, your mother and I hope you do. Next, sit on your bed, chair, or floor and put your socks and shoes on. Why socks? Because they are kind and gentle on your feet. So are shoes. But why before pants? To dust off your shoes as you put them through your pants legs and to give you better balance when you stand on one foot to pull the opposite pant leg up.
Excellent, you now ought to have your footwear on. And it’s highly recommended that you tie the laces securely at this time, too. Trust me. Bending over is much, much easier with your pants off.
Now, grab your pants again. Stand up and hold them with your two hands, one on either side of the pants waist. Allow your pants to fall neatly in a heap just in front of you. But don’t take your hands off them. Elevate the clothing a little off the floor, lift your left leg, put it into the left pant leg, and pull that side of your pants up as you balance yourself on your right leg.
Great. See how much easier it is to do that with your shoes on? So, hold that portion of your pants up with your left hand, and place that left foot back on the floor. Next, lift your right leg as high as it will go and carefully step into your right pant leg, pushing your right leg through until it touches the floor, as you pull that side of your pants up with your right hand. At this point, you should be holding the right and left side or your pants at the waist.
Okay, then, pull, button, snap, hook, tie, or do whatever the contraption requires to secure the two sides of your pants together. Your next step is to reach down with your right hand, regardless of which hand is dominant, and grab the lever at the bottom of your fly. Making sure that all pants material, and everything else, that should be inside is, delicately, but firmly, pull your zipper up to the top and fold the lever down to lock in place.
If you have a fly that’s not zippered, but buttoned, just start buttoning from the bottom and work your way to the top. If you have neither a zipper nor buttons, you may have a serious problem, and you’d better see a good tailor soon.
With your fly closed, you can put a belt on if you like. On the other hand, your pants may have an elastic waist band, which negates the need for a belt.
The last step is to push in all your pockets to make sure they are not hanging outside your trousers. Also check for pocket holes at this time. Then inspect your pants cuffs, if you have any, to see that they’re not turned down.
If you’re going to put a shirt on next, and I hope you do, you’ll find it easier to unhook your pants, re-open your fly, and drop your pants a little. Then spread your legs apart to prevent your pants from falling all all the way down. Now, put the shirt on, button it, tuck it into the pants, then hook them up again, and rezip your fly.
They say that all men put their pants on the same way-one leg at a time. That’s a myth. Some men put their pants on two legs at a time. To do so, just sit on a bed, chair, or floor. Now scrunch up your pants so that when you hold them up in front of your eyes, you can see through both pants legs. When you have your pants like that, lift both your feet at the same time and stick them through the pants leg holes. Next, stand up on both feet and pull your pants up to the waist. The rest is the same as the one-leg-at-a-time procedure.
I assure you, there is no third way to put on your pants. Several people, however, have tried and failed, dislocating knees, hips, and even arms in the attempt. At the same time, pants have been ripped, punctured, and badly damaged in the process. And all for what? Some third way to put your pants on that just doesn’t exist.
To keep your pants especially clean, you may wish to put them on while standing, not on the floor, but upon Some higher platform, so the pants never touch the floor, getting dirty there. Perhaps the best thing to stand on is a footstool. And you may wish to forgo having your shoes dusted and keeping your balance more easily by putting your shoes on after you’ve pulled on your pants while standing on that footstool.
If you want to be weird like that, go ahead. Just don’t let anyone who knows better see you.
And now you know how to put your pants on.