Fred

On the brink of adolescence, I made the decision to part ways with the things that represented my childhood. Not because I wanted to, but frankly it was because I did not want to be teased and ridiculed. I was a collector. By collector I mean hoarder of all things childish – toys, books, music. I believed that all toys, even my pillows and blankets, had emotions. To discard them, give them away, or not play with them would hurt their feelings. But the day came to put aside childish things and thoughts and continue along the path to adulthood.

It was the 1980s and, on that day, I said goodbye to the Transformers and Hot Wheels, all things Star Wars, GI Joe was gone too, and with him He-Man and the Thunder Cats; even those cheap Happy Meal Toys that fall to the bottom of the toy box found a new home. I moved forward in life, or at least time pushed me along. I replaced those inanimate friends of mine that I sought in my loneliest times with video games like Mike Tyson’s Punch Out and Metroid along with sporting equipment, and a music collection. My childhood was in my rearview mirror. I aspired to create an identity for myself through the things I owned and wore; by the people I associated with and the girls I chased.

Phased out long after the phasing out of my childhood was the cassette tape. Growing up a rock fan, listening to the likes of Van Halen, AC/DC, Aerosmith, Metallica, and Guns-N-Roses, I never could bring myself to part with my cassettes. They ended up getting packed in a box and stayed there through three moves, being replaced by CD versions over time. I was twenty-two years old and about to be married when my mother asked me if she could give that big box marked TAPES away to her co-worker’s son. He was in his early teens and starting to develop an ear for rock music.

Before throwing the box in my mom’s car, I wanted to check the contents of the box and make sure there wasn’t anything personal in there; incriminating photos of me drunk at a young age, pornographic material, a poem I wrote for the pretty girl at the head of the class freshman year that I never found the courage to give her; just about anything embarrassing that could come back to haunt me I wanted to find first. When I peeled back the packing tape and raised the box flaps, my childhood came racing back to me like pages in a flip book; a book designed to make a character appear to be moving through a series of drawings flipped in rapid succession. Except I was only getting glimpses of things that didn’t line up. I was hardly registering what I was seeing in my mind’s eye.

There, lying comfortably on a bed of evenly stacked cassette cases, was a tattered old teddy bear with most of his bright orange fur worn to a nub. The red threads that lined his dark blue bib and formed an apple in the center were ratty and missing in some places. His eyes were unique, just two black patches of vinyl threaded in the right spots. He had a hard button nose with black thread that formed a tiny smile on his tan snout.

A memory came to mind, a memory of a picture. It was Christmas and I had just turned six-months-old. In the photo I’m on my belly wearing a baby-blue onesie looking up, laughing at my brand new, soft, and shiny teddy bear that had been called Fredbear forever since.

The peculiar thing is that I do not remember setting aside Fredbear as sentimental when giving up my toys. Nor do I remember packing him during the moves; but there he was, a toy older than me according to his indestructible Mattel tag. I tried to use the squeaker, to see if it still worked. It did, but required large strong hands, not the little ones of the toddler that once obnoxiously squeaked him while running through the house driving his parents to the edge of insanity.

Fredbear brought back memories of the whole cotton and thread zoo I treasured so much as a child, all some fifty of them in varying sizes, and memories of the softer side of my childhood. It was childhood filled with playing guns, jumping bikes, and mimicking Hulk Hogan and Mr. T during the day, but at night, before bed, I would arrange those fifty stuffed animals around me in bed so none felt left out, none would get jealous, none would get scared. On blistering hot days, when no child would venture outdoors, I would pull the sheet off my bed and throw it over the air vent in my room, creating a dome. I would crawl inside with each and every furry little friend and bury myself in them and fall asleep.

But none stood out like Fredbear. When I was in the hospital at age five, he was there. When I watched Stephen King’s Salem’s Lot at the age of six and got scared that night, he was there. When I had bronchitis and had a 104° fever, he was there. So maybe I did subconsciously put him aside for sentimental reasons. Obviously, I must have.

The reemergence of Fredbear in my life brought about a change in me. No longer did I want to strive for an identity based on material possessions and the opinions of others. I wanted to return to that simpler time in life when I did things just because they brought me joy. I kept Fredbear as a reminder of that, a reminder not to chase those things that don’t matter and focus on the things that make me happy.

I experienced a second childhood with my sons due to that change in attitude. They got into collecting Pokémon cards when they were five and three and scattered them all over the house. I looked up online how to play the game and taught them how to play, which encouraged them to care for their cards. We spent twelve years bonding over that game, taking part in tournaments and growing their collection. We bonded over a great may other things like Legos, hiking, and Marvel Movies, but I don’t think I would have gotten so involved in my sons’ hobby the way I did if it wasn’t for Fredbear reminding me what it was like to be a child and how much joy such things can bring to a kid’s life.

These days, Fredbear is hanging out with my daughter. Last time I saw him, he was poking out of her backpack as she was exploring a creek.