Being the Bear
The secretary smiled and offered me an apple. I was perplexed by the kind gesture. I could grasp it in my “paw,” but surely she noticed that the Smokey Bear suit had no “mouth.” I was about to rumble a “no thank you” when the principal strode into the room, businesslike and half-scowling. When he saw me sitting in the corner, his brows pinched as if in disapproval — or perhaps surprise — at a full-sized Smokey Bear in ranger hat and blue jeans. Had he not been informed of my visit to his elementary school? Then a wide grin creased his face, and without breaking stride he raised a hand and called out, “Hi, Smokey!” As he disappeared into his office I heard him say, “That's great!” There was no trace of irony in his tone.
Only minutes before, while walking across the school parking lot with a forester, I saw four raucous teenage boys approaching. They were pointing and laughing, and I feared the worst: Would they trip me, pull down my pants, decapitate me? Perhaps all three? But instead we slapped high-fives all around, and they affectionately jived with me: “Hey, Smokey! You're the man!” I understood that to be Smokey is to be respected, perhaps loved. An even more vivid demonstration was only minutes away, but first some history.
I was being The Bear today because in 1942 the Japanese Navy fired a few shells into southern California. The harm was negligible, but it was the thought that counted, and the thought was to ignite wildfires. The Japanese also launched balloons laden with incendiary bombs, hoping that massive forest fires in the American West would divert manpower, equipment and dollars from the war effort.
That threat, along with the customary incidence of fires, prompted the supervisor of the Angeles National Forest to convince the federal government to mount a significant fire prevention blitz. The War Advertising Council, a public service organization, helped to establish a national media campaign. Slogans such as “Careless Matches Aid the Axis” were soon in wide circulation. One early poster portrayed a fire in the guise of a ferocious wolf leaping out of the woods, with a firefighter facing the beast and brandishing a double-bit ax. The header read, “Strike Down This Monster” because “Forest Fires Delay Victory.” In 1944, Walt Disney's Bambi — who escaped a raging fire in the movie — was featured on a poster that became one of the most popular propaganda images of the war.
In 1945 the advertisers introduced a new symbol — a teddy-like bear outfitted in dungarees and a ranger hat that quickly captured the public imagination. Then in May 1950, Smokey dramatically sprang to life when a real bear cub, injured by a blaze in New Mexico, was found clinging to a charred snag. After veterinarians treated its burns, the bear was conscripted into government service and assigned to the National Zoo in Washington, D.C., where he died in 1976.
So not only was Smokey a real bear, but the Smokey Bear Act of 1952 actually protected him as a trademark, limiting the use of his image to fire prevention. Therefore, unlike Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny, Smokey is pure. He doesn't peddle blue jeans, ranger hats or soft drinks, nor does he extol the fire safety of smokeless tobacco. He is true to the mission of public service, unsullied by commercialism. This seems implicitly understood by the public, and Smokey enjoys a level of devotion that elevates him to a kind of civic deity.
According to an Ad Council tracking survey, Smokey is one of the most familiar figures in the United States, ranking with Mickey Mouse and Santa, recognized by 97% of adults. Also, 75% can spontaneously recall, “Only you can prevent forest fires.” According to Peggy Conlon, president and CEO of the Ad Council, “Smokey Bear is the center of the longest-running and one of the most successful public service campaigns in U.S. history.” These days he has profiles on MySpace, Facebook and YouTube.
If the costume wasn't so hot and uncomfortable, I'd be tempted to live in it to constantly reap the benefits of universal admiration — like what happened after the principal of the elementary school gave his friendly greeting.
I was waiting for a summons from the forester who had preceded me into a classroom of kindergarteners. I clutched a handheld radio in my “paw,” and after he delivered a short presentation about fire prevention and campfire tips, the forester handed his radio to one of the children and suggested a call to Smokey.
A soft, timid voice came over the air: “This … this is Amanda … calling Smokey.”
I keyed the mike and lowered my voice to an ursine rumble. “This is Smokey. Go ahead, Amanda.”
The classroom was only two doors away, and I heard the kids squeal with delight. Then: “This is Amanda, Smokey. We want you.”
“Ten-four, Amanda. I'll be right there.”
When I ambled into the classroom, I was greeted with a general gasp — the suit makes me almost 7 feet tall — but I waved and offered a cheery “Hello, kids!” and the faces settled into enchantment.
The forester asked if anyone had any questions for Smokey, and one boy jumped to his feet immediately. He wondered how it felt to go through the fire in New Mexico. I was impressed, but his teacher looked baffled. After I'd said something suitable about the pain and danger, she asked, “What fire?” I briefly related “my” adventure in 1950. The boy looked smug.
Several children had statements to make. They'd heard much about fire safety and were proud to share the knowledge with Smokey. They mentioned “stop, drop and roll,” calling 911 and having an escape plan — making no distinction between structural fires and wildfires. One girl solemnly stated that if your house catches fire you should “throw the babies out the window so the firemen can catch them.” The forester tried to steer us back to the forest by reminding the kids about campfire safety during the coming Memorial Day weekend, and the teacher pointed out that although Smokey was a friendly bear, they needed to stay away from bears they might see in the woods.
Finally, the forester said, “Smokey has to go now,” and I was lifting an arm to wave good-bye when a rapt little girl in the front row bounded up and threw her arms around my leg. “I love you, Smokey!” she cried. In a moment two more kids rushed up to seize my other leg, and then the entire class surged forward, literally mobbing me with affection — yelling, squealing and clutching at my “fur.” I awkwardly attempted to pat heads and squeeze arms, but I was overwhelmed. The forester was backing out the door, bemused and at a loss as two of the bigger boys tried to leap up and hug my neck.
Visibility is poor inside the suit, and the mob pressed me off balance. I stumbled as I tried to exit the room and was suddenly alarmed. What if I fell on top of the kids? But then the teacher and her assistant gently muscled in, prodding and peeling the children away. Freed, I eased out the door, chuckling. I knew what it felt like to be a superstar.
The U.S. Forest Service rules for being Smokey assert: “Authorized individuals shall behave with dignity when wearing the costume.” Excellent protocol, of course, but easier said than done while being swarmed by ecstatic kindergarteners. Nevertheless, I was confident that a potent impression had been made, and I suspected that if any of those kids ever lit a wildfire, they'd be racked with guilt for betraying the bear.
Smokey lives, Smokey sees — and ultimately, you may thank the Imperial Japanese Navy.
Peter M. Leschak, a municipal and wildland firefighter, is the author of Ghosts of the Fireground and several other books.
Acceptable Use Policy blog comments powered by Disqus
