Those Bear’s Don’t Scare’s Me One Bit…

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I. The Norm of the Town

Norm Withers wasn’t technically a menace to Sequatchie Crossing. But only technically.

He was what Mabel Dean Ashcroft called “one of those good-timers with a bad sense of timing.” Norm had two sons—Tom, 11, and Eric, 9—who were equal parts wide-eyed and mortified. And Norm, for his part, had two speeds: full throttle and hollerin’.

Most days you’d see him piloting his 1963 blue Oldsmobile station wagon like a schooner through the winding streets of town. It groaned like a depressed tuba and left a trail of suspicious smoke and louder opinions.

And every time Norm passed a Sequatchie County sheriff cruiser—no matter if it was moving, parked, or painted on a mural—he’d roll down the window and holler:

“THOSE BEAR’S DON’T SCARE’S ME ONE BIT!”

The grammar never improved. Nor did the volume.

Pastor Peeler assumed it was a theological reference, Boot Barnes thought it was about literal bears, and Deputy Cheryl Mayhew put in for tinnitus benefits. But Norm insisted it was simply what his own dad used to shout when authority figures got uppity.

“This town’s gone soft,” Norm would mutter at the diner. “Back in my day, a man could holler without a committee being formed.”

A committee was, in fact, being formed.

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II. Tom, Eric, and the Smoky Hill Picnic Incident

Saturday dawned so sweet and syrupy it practically stuck to your shoes. Norm loaded up his two reluctant boys and a cooler full of questionable egg salad and took them out to Smoky Hill for what he dubbed “Quality Daddy Day.”

Eric packed bug spray. Tom packed regret.

As they pulled into the meadow, Norm pointed at a park sign that clearly read:

“CAUTION: Bears Active in Area. Do Not Leave Food Unattended.”

He slapped the sign and laughed so hard he almost stalled the wagon.

“Those bear’s don’t scare’s me one bit!” he shouted, startling a squirrel into a nearby pine.

Eric winced. “Dad, it says not to—”

But Norm was already pulling out the picnic blanket and laying out a spread that would make a raccoon weep.

That’s when the bears arrived.

A mother black bear and two cubs emerged from the treeline, moving with all the casual confidence of regulars at a buffet. Norm froze. Tom dropped his Capri Sun. Eric whispered, “We’re gonna be a News 5 human-interest story.”

The bear sniffed. Norm stared. And then, from some mysterious place between denial and inherited bravado, Norm rose to his feet, spread his arms wide, and hollered:

“THOSE BEAR’S DON’T SCARE’S ME ONE BIT!”

The bear blinked.

Then, apparently deeply offended by the grammar or the gall, she swatted the egg salad cooler clean across the meadow.

Eric screamed. Tom climbed into the Oldsmobile’s front seat and locked the doors—leaving his father outside.

Norm, never one to retreat but now reconsidering that stance, shouted:

“That was rhetorical, bear!”

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III. Word Spreads Like Fire at the Fellowship Hall

By Sunday morning, the Fellowship Hall was buzzing with what Evelyn Hightower called “Bear-Gate.”

“He taunted a bear,” she told the congregation before service. “Out loud. With children present.”

Pastor Peeler tried to calm things by quoting Proverbs and explaining the difference between foolishness and bravery. It didn’t help when Clovis Strickland made a PowerPoint titled “The Semantics of Scare’s and Bear’s.”

At Town Hall, a new sign was proposed:

“Don’t Feed the Bears, Verbally or Otherwise.”

At the diner, Boot Barnes had T-shirts printed by Monday:
“THOSE BEAR’S DON’T SCARE’S ME ONE BIT” – Norm, Survivor of Smoky Hill

Mabel Dean started a petition to ban “dangerously folksy catchphrases within 100 yards of wildlife.”

Deputy Cheryl Mayhew—still recovering her hearing—cited Norm for “Reckless Grammar in a Protected Zone.”

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IV. The Town Hall Hearing and the Unexpected Twist

At the hastily convened “Bear Behavior and Public Safety Forum,” Norm stood before the town in a borrowed suit jacket that did not match his shorts. Tom and Eric sat in the back, trading eye rolls and half-hearted prayers.

“I want to apologize to the bear,” Norm began. “And to the egg salad. And to my sons, for whom I will now be packing Lunchables like the Lord intended.”

He paused.

“But I ain’t apologizing for my freedom to holler. Those bears? They don’t scare’s me one bit!”

Just then, a sound echoed from outside. Not a bear—but Clovis’s pet Pomeranian in a Halloween bear costume, who had gotten loose.

Norm screamed.

Everyone saw it.

Tom stood. “Dad?”

Eric stood too. “Did you just—squeal?”

Norm, regaining composure: “Just testin’ the acoustics.”

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V. Resolution (Kinda)

The town voted to let Norm keep his catchphrase, but only under strict conditions:

• Not within 500 feet of wildlife, including ducks, geese, or Boot Barnes in a bad mood.

• Not in school zones.

• Not more than once an hour within city limits.

The Oldsmobile got a bumper sticker:

“HONK IF YOU’RE NOT A BEAR.”

Tom and Eric got matching therapy gift cards.

And Norm? Norm still hollers, but now only at squirrels and the occasional speed bump.

“Those bear’s don’t scare’s me one bit!”
And Sequatchie Crossing holds its collective breath… every time.

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Disclaimer:

This story is a work of semi-credible fiction set in the entirely plausible town of Sequatchie Crossing. Any resemblance to real people, real bears, or real grammar crimes is entirely coincidental, intentional, and also probably your cousin Norm.

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At Sequatchie Crossing, we tell the stories of Sequatchie Crossing.

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