The Adventures of Bubico the Great
Join Bubico, a brave 3-year-old, as he navigates the streets of Paris to find his lost teddy bear, meeting new friends and overcoming fears along the way.
Bubico lived in a cozy apartment in Paris. One sunny morning, he couldn't find his favorite teddy bear, Mr. Fluffy. Bubico felt sad. 'I must find Mr. Fluffy!' he said. So, Bubico decided to go on an adventure.
Bubico started his search in the playground. He looked under the swings and slides. But Mr. Fluffy was nowhere to be found. Bubico sat down and felt a little scared. 'Where can Mr. Fluffy be?'
Next, Bubico went to the bakery. The smell of fresh bread filled the air. 'Have you seen my teddy bear?' Bubico asked the baker. 'No, little one. But I'll help you look,' said the baker. They searched together but found nothing.
Bubico felt like giving up. He sat on a bench with tears in his eyes. 'I will never find Mr. Fluffy,' Bubico said sadly. 'Don't cry, Bubico,' said a kind old man. 'Let's think about where you last saw him.'
Bubico remembered he had Mr. Fluffy at the park. 'Let's go to the park!' said the old man. 'Yes, let's go!' Bubico felt hopeful again. They hurried to the park together. Bubico's heart was racing with hope.
At the park, they saw a little girl holding Mr. Fluffy. 'That's my teddy bear!' Bubico exclaimed. The girl smiled and gave Mr. Fluffy back. 'Thank you!' Bubico said, hugging his teddy tight. Bubico learned that courage and kindness can solve big problems.
Bubico lived in a cozy apartment in Paris. One sunny morning, he couldn't find his favorite teddy bear, Mr. Fluffy. Bubico felt sad. 'I must find Mr. Fluffy!' he said. So, Bubico decided to go on an adventure.
Bubico started his search in the playground. He looked under the swings and slides. But Mr. Fluffy was nowhere to be found. Bubico sat down and felt a little scared. 'Where can Mr. Fluffy be?'
Next, Bubico went to the bakery. The smell of fresh bread filled the air. 'Have you seen my teddy bear?' Bubico asked the baker. 'No, little one. But I'll help you look,' said the baker. They searched together but found nothing.
Bubico felt like giving up. He sat on a bench with tears in his eyes. 'I will never find Mr. Fluffy,' Bubico said sadly. 'Don't cry, Bubico,' said a kind old man. 'Let's think about where you last saw him.'
Bubico remembered he had Mr. Fluffy at the park. 'Let's go to the park!' said the old man. 'Yes, let's go!' Bubico felt hopeful again. They hurried to the park together. Bubico's heart was racing with hope.
At the park, they saw a little girl holding Mr. Fluffy. 'That's my teddy bear!' Bubico exclaimed. The girl smiled and gave Mr. Fluffy back. 'Thank you!' Bubico said, hugging his teddy tight. Bubico learned that courage and kindness can solve big problems.
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The Overcoat
One day, I will tell you about the overcoat. The vintage brown artifact with epaulets and pockets stoically suspended from the stout wooden peg in the recesses of the hall closet. The coat no child would ever dream of wearing outside. That coat. You might come to love that garment one day, as I do; to value its heft and utility, to see it, perhaps, as an extension of yourself. One day, you just might. I brought the coat with us that Thursday to the hospital near Tel Aviv; or perhaps I intended to bring it but did not. I had been cherishing the garment since October and tossed it in the trunk of the Camry — on top of the ballistic helmets and vests — before leaving home to collect your older sister from preschool. Your grandmother, Auntie Bella, and I. "A Jew should always have a coat. Preferably one with pockets." Not that we needed outerwear that afternoon. The weather was dry and bright; the sun winking through enormous clouds as it tends to do in March after consecutive days of rain. Winter was still in charge, but Spring was teasing. The scent of seasons changing was such that you would savor — grassy, earthy, and engaging like a fine tobacco blend. With the moonroof open just right, to let in the sort of texture I prefer. One day, I will tell you about that Winter. How I was crafting these sentences in a writing workshop during your birth. One day, you will know how — by the time we were navigating toward the maternity ward — I had been stabbing my hands deep into the side pockets of the coat since October and shrugging my shoulders for comfort more than warmth. One day, you might hear about those ballistic helmets and vests. About The Day The Music Died, and everything that came next. “Tell us about the coat, Grandpa,” you might insist one day. A coat with many pockets; weighty, functional, and warm. Like the forest green U.S. Army bomber jacket your Zaidy Sam kept phylacteries in during WW2, when stationed in Burma. Like the woolen trench coat your Bubbie Bella hid gold coins in during that same war, when surviving in a Ukrainian forest. A coat well made keeps one snug and has pockets to store essentials. A Jewish coat also has pockets for necessities one often forgets. Pockets for conflicting emotions. Pockets for Worry and Sadness. Pockets for Gladness and Hope. That Winter I had been making use of the garment’s more practical hollows and neglecting others. That is how I remember it. I was rummaging for solace in all the wrong places and brought the allegorical coat along to reach into pockets I suddenly recalled were there. Pockets for Poetry and Prayer. Pockets for Loving and Light. Like your birth that March in Israel, your other Zaidy also emerged from such pockets in Poland during another period of Darkness. Our family knows about hardship and sorrow. Our family knows about hidden pockets, too. “Tell us again about that Thursday, Grandpa,” you might one day insist. Then, I might set aside my briar wood pipe and tell you about when the sun in March was grinning. When your Grammy baked sweet potato muffins for your mother — you know the ones — and we had to double back to the hospital from the highway after forgetting to leave important documents behind for your father. How the Fall holidays had not yet ended and the Spring holidays were unimaginably looming after 153 Days of Discontent. How you were a second — and also a first — in our family. How your arrival offered Light when we needed it most. “That is how I remember it,” I might one day tell you and your sister who devours stories like M&M’s. “Later, the coat was on its peg when your parents would finally bring you home.”