Books of Jane Smith, Writer

What happened to the Girl with the Golden Locks, Anyway?

It will not have escaped your attention that this is the first mention on this site of a non-heroic golden-haired girl. We trust it will be the last.

We've all heard the accepted story. Three bears. Porridge. Walk. Chairs. All that stuff. But the question is not "why are the three bears living in a pretty cottage in the middle of a wood instead of hibernating in a dark cave somewhere over the mountain?" the real question is "why should an accident of birth--such as golden hair--automatically make someone a heroine?"

Has anyone considered that perhaps penniless Papa Bear had to raid a beehive to feed his family? That maybe, just maybe, they had traded the last of that precious honey to be able to afford a few rolled oats for their breakfast? No one seems to care about Mama Bear slaving over a hot fire while she cooks the porridge, or Baby Bear suffering in silence while she sets the table, again.

Everyone cares about the heroine--the Golden Haired Girl. They applaud this inconsiderate little besom even when she wrecks chairs, steals food, and makes inappropriate sleeping arrangements.

The true story is as follows.

One day, after a brief, healthful, pre-breakfast walk in the forest, Papa and Mama Bear are returning home when they see Baby Bear bicycling frantically down the garden path. A few moments later they arrive home. The door is wide open, and Baby Bear is standing--dressed in her pajamas--in the middle of the dining room. She is staring down at the shattered pieces of her dining chair.

Of course parents being what they are, Papa Bear blames Mama Bear. It's her fault. He didn't want to buy those badly made things in the first place. And Mama Bear blames Baby Bear. It's her fault. She should stop eating all those dreadful high calorie snacks at school. But who can Baby Bear blame? The cat? No, even Baby Bear knows the cat is innocent. She has already discovered that the hair on the cushion of the broken chair is the wrong color.

So Baby Bear sucks up this injustice. For the time being, she will bear with it. She pulls up a kitchen stool and they all sit down to breakfast.

But wait! Where is the porridge? Papa Bear only has three quarters of a plateful left. Mama Bear has a half. And poor, hungry Baby Bear has nothing left at all.

Again Papa Bear blames Mama Bear. It's her fault. If she were a better money manager then the housekeeping budget would last till the end of Winter. Mama Bear blames Baby Bear. It's her fault. If Baby Bear didn't always need something for school then Papa Bear's income would be enough, and Mama Bear wouldn't have to go out to work.

Who can Baby Bear blame? The dog? No. Baby Bear knows the dog is innocent. The dog would not have used the spoons. So Baby Bear carefully removes the silverware and places it in a paper bag for DNA testing of the saliva residue. However, she is now getting tired of being the family scape-bear and having the claw pointed at her.

Leaving her hungry and grouchy parents arguing like a couple of bears with sore heads she goes upstairs to the bedroom. Hearing a suspicious noise coming from her parents' room she changes direction and tiptoes in. The bedroom is a bear-pit. Bedclothes are tossed everywhere. The mattress is half off the base. The latest Jane Smith best-selling novel is open, face down on the floor.

But before she can call out to her parents, Baby Bear is seized from behind. It is Papa Bear.

"Who's been sleeping in MY bed?" bellows Papa Bear.

"Not me," Mama Bear growls. "You probably haven't noticed, but I've been sleeping in the spare room for the last twenty years because you keep me awake with your snoring."

Both of them stare at Baby Bear.

"Not me either," snaps Baby Bear. "You probably haven't noticed, but I'm no longer a cute little cub. I left school ten years ago and I've been working the graveyard shift with the Forest Police Department for the last nine. I sleep in the spare room too."

"Oh," Mama Bear says. "So you've been sleeping in MY bed!"

"No," Papa Bear says. "You've been sleeping in HER bed."

"Who cares!" Baby Bear says, pulling out her police-issue sidearm. "The real question is, who's sleeping in THIS bed?" And she whips back the covers.

She knew it wasn't the cat because the cat didn't fit the profile. It's not the dog, because the dog was a red herring anyway. Instead she finds precisely who she expected; a non-cat, non-dog, non-bear, of the golden-haired persuasion, whose mother should have taught her better manners, AND should probably have spent some time explaining the stupidity of screaming your head off in a lonely cottage in the middle of a wood when faced by a royally peeved gun-toting bear... Although not many people know that.

So there you are. The truth. The real heroine of this story is Baby Bear. She was awarded the Forest Police Department's highest honor: The Silver Jelly Donut. (A Silver Jelly Donut? There are some things about these traditional folk stories that really require suspension of belief!)

It only remains to say that the Golden Haired Girl was arrested and charged with breaking and entering, malicious damage, and a series of breakfast-thefts that had been puzzling the police for weeks. She is being held at a secure facility undergoing treatment for Porridge Addiction.