My grandfather was born in 1892 on the western slope of the Blue Ridge here in the Shenandoah Valley. When he was a small child he was picking blackberries on the mountain when his younger brother disappeared. Their grandparents found him in a clearing playing with a bear cub. They hustled him away quickly, but this uncle was called Bear for the rest of his life.
Bears are thick around here. My wife, daughter and I saw one while hiking on Sunday. We watched him for a minute, then I clapped my hands and sent him on his way.
