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Any child would be delighted to find a stuffed bear like this one under ther tree on Christmas morning.

Michael came into my life in 1951. I was four years old that Christmas day when my grandfather winked at me (his way of telling me he had something special) and handed me a package wrapped up as a present.

"Go ahead," he said.

I took off the ribbon and peeled back the wrapping to see a teddy bear looking back at me. My eyes must have been bursting in their sockets as I pulled my new friend out of the rest of wrap.

I held the bear up for my mother and father to see.

"What are you going to name it," my father asked.

"Why not name it for your grandfather," my mother said.

I was puzzled. "Grandpa?"

"No," my grandfather said with one of his trademark laughs. I always loved listening to my grandfather laugh — sometimes he spiced up that laugh with a few choice words that I knew that I should never say. My mother would always admonish him, but he'd just ignore her. "Name him 'Michael,' that's my name," Grandpa said.

I held the teddy bear out and said, "Michael." I gave the bear a hug and repeated the name, "Michael." I ran out of the living room and out to the "mud room."

I put on my boots and my jacket. "Here," my mother said.

I looked up while I was pulling my boots on. My mother handed me a scarf. "Michael, might need this." I stood up with my boots half on, took the scarf and wrapped it around Michael.

"What do you say to your mother?" My dad's voice came from the kitchen.

I knew the answer to that question.

"Thanks, Mom."

I finished putting on my boots and raced out the back door into the wintry cold with my new friend in tow wearing his new scarf.

I took Micheal everywhere. I showed him off to my sister. Her name was Mary Elizabeth, but we called her "Sissy."

Sissy didn't have a teddy bear; she was only three years old. I was four, and Grandpa reminded me that next year I was going to be five.

"Soon you'll be this many," Grandpa would say, holding out all five fingers on his hand.

"This many, Grandpa," I would answer holding up as many fingers. I set up a special spot for Michael on my bedroom table (Sissy didn't have her own bedroom, but I did!).

I could say "good night" and see him first thing in the morning.

At first I took Michael everywhere: to my fort in the back yard, to the firehouse to see the firemen with Grandpa and in the car when I went on rides with my dad.

One time I lost Michael. I panicked. I cried.

"You left him in the store, didn't you?"

I wasn't sure, but I had noticed that my dad was usually right. I climbed into the car with him. He gave me a reassuring pat on my head. We went to the grocery store. My dad hoisted me up onto his shoulders. He pointed and there was Michael sitting on the cash register looking back at me.

As I grew older Michael spent most of his time in my bedroom. First grade came. Once I took Michael to school for "show and tell." Second grade passed by, and then third grade. When I was in the fourth grade I put Michael up on the shelf in my bedroom. Every now and then I would look up and he would stare back.

Then one day my mother asked if she could tuck Michael safely away in a drawer. I was a big boy by then, in eighth grade. The years passed: high school, college, the Army. I moved to Europe, where I lived for nine years. I married.

When my wife, Pauline, and I came home from Germany, my mother took me to her bedroom. She opened up a wooden chest, and then a box marked "Dennis." There was Michael. I took him from his box and introduced him to Pauline.

More time went by. My parents passed away. Sissy wasn't sure what Mom had done with that wooden chest. Michael was gone. But every now and then I see a picture of a teddy bear and remember my boon companion of so long ago.