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| OUT OF HIBERNATION — The Oxford Bear, once the symbol for all county citizens, roars back to life as part of the official logo of the Oxford County Bicentennial celebration. |
OXFORD
COUNTY — In advertisements and on promotional items — and soon gracing signs to
go up on all roads leading into Oxford county — the silhouette of a bear is
being used as the logo for the county’s 2005 bicentennial celebration.
One
might wonder, “Why a bear?”
Certainly,
there must be other mascots that would be more suitable for the Western Maine
foothills. The moose? Maybe a loon?
And aren’t there enough dented hoods as evidence of the local deer
population?
But
the bicentennial committee chose a bear.
It was not just because a bear is strong, or cuddly, or easily
identified. The bear is, simply put,
highly important to the long and storied history of Oxford County.
At
a recent meeting of the Oxford County Municipal Officers, Larry Glatz, chairman of the
bicentennial committee, told the story of the Oxford Bear. It was local history of which many town
fathers themselves were unaware.
It
started in the early nineteenth century.
When Oxford County was first created, Maine was still a part of
Massachusetts. Maine counties at the time
boasted large mercantile centers and seaports linking them to trade and
commerce. Oxford was the first
landlocked county.
Back
then, every county was represented equally in the Massachusetts legislature,
and a rural, agrarian county would almost certainly mean another seat for the
Jacksonian Democrats.
Glatz
speculated that this is why some towns, such as Minot, were removed from the
proposed county borders, and others, including Fryeburg, were added. It may have been assumed, he said, that Fryeburg,
as the largest business center in the area at the time, would help to balance
out the rural vote.
But
it didn’t quite work out that way.
Ballots still were generally cast for the Democrats, at a time when that
party promoted farming, independent living, and a decentralized
government. Meanwhile, the Federalists,
and later the Whigs, championed the interests of business and industry,
favoring a strong federal government and a central banking system.
Following
the 1838 elections, Luther Severance, editor of Augusta’s Kennebec Journal,
became so incensed at how people in Oxford County voted that he wrote a
scathing editorial depicting them as little more than hillbilly bumpkins.
As
Glatz told the gathering, anyone who thinks political campaigns today are too
negative should have witnessed the bile and hate that was hurled about so
freely in those days. Back then,
newspapers made no pretense at journalistic objectivity. Many existed solely to promote the views of
one political party.
“The
result was that most places had two papers,” said Glatz, noting that Norway and
Paris were no exception. “What most
people did was subscribe to both — which was sensible.”
Some
newspapers, already charged with partisan politics, would print additional broadsides
and pamphlets during an election cycle.
Severance's Augusta editorial was published in one such limited edition
paper called “Voice of the People.” It
appears to have only been circulated for a few issues in the fall of 1838.
In
it, Severance described Oxford County as a “benighted region,” whose farmers
and loggers were unfit for self-government.
They were, he said, simple “backwoods bears.” The “huge paws” of these “furrow-turners”
were suitable to handle only the plow — not the pen, Severance claimed.
But
our Oxford Hills forefathers were not so easily intimidated.
“They
liked it,” said Glatz. “They jumped
right on it.”
As
with the Republicans and the Democrats, who were later satirized in the
cartoons of Thomas Nast as plodding elephants and jackasses, local citizens latched onto
what was originally intended as a graphic insult and held it dearly, as a badge
of honor.
Soon,
this very newspaper was publishing letters signed, “A True Bear,” “An Oxford
Bear,” and “With a Big Bear Hug.”
In
subsequent political campaigns, the image of the majestic bear was trotted out
to rally popular support for any issue which pitted the humble and honest
farmer, or the hardy mechanic, against the big city interests of the “urban
aristocracy.”
By
the late 1840s, the term “Oxford Bear” seems to have outgrown its political
origins. But, by then, the icon had
become so ingrained into local culture that it became the adopted mascot of
local debating societies, athletic teams, and even firefighting companies.
“Norway’s
old hand pumper [purchased in 1850] is called ‘The Oxford Bear,’” noted Norway
Town Manager David Holt, explaining that the title had nothing to do with the
town of Oxford, as many today assume.
Local
companies used the bear in advertising, and some even incorporated it right
into their very names. Fraternal
organizations, too, were fond of the image.
A late 19th century organization of county expatriates, several hundred
members strong, was known formally as “The Sons and Daughters of Oxford
County,” but more commonly as “The Oxford Bear Association.” Their annual pilgrimages back to the region
would frequently draw railroad carloads full of people, marching bands, and
such political notables as Vice-President Hannibal Hamlin and Governor John D.
Long as keynote speakers.
Baseball
games of the time pitting socially important men of Norway against their Paris
peers would feature bragging rights as the prize winning trophy. The winners got to call themselves Ursa Major
(“The Big Bear”) while the losers were forced to hang their heads as Ursa
Minor.
In
1888, the town columns that still run in the Advertiser-Democrat were featured
under the headline of “The Bear Brigade.”
Later changed to “The Oxford Bears,” the title remained until 1926.
In
fact, for more than 100 years the image of the bear was so intrinsically tied
to Oxford County’s progeny that it became the primary identifying feature, even
for those “from away.”
In
his Civil War journals — published under the title “The Rebel Yell and the
Yankee Hurrah” — John Haley recalled that his company was comprised mostly of
men from York County, “with a few Oxford bears sandwiched in.”
The
last known use of the bear in a political campaign came in 1935 when Republican
Donald B. Partridge, of Norway, was elected to the U. S. House of
Representatives. His campaign signs had
featured an Oxford Bear striking a bold and noble pose set against a
tree-studded skyline.
Perhaps
ironically, the same interests that gave birth to the bear also struck its last
champion from the political landscape.
Reapportionment, due to the 1930 census, cost Maine one of its
congressional seats, and Partridge’s was the one to go.
In
1935, the last bear symbol left the local economy, with the demise of the Oxford
Bear Fruit Growers’ Association of Buckfield and Hebron. Soon, the only bear still visible on the
public scene was the one over the Oxford Bear Lodge of the Hanover Knights of
Pythias, which also is now gone.
Today,
the once mighty Oxford Bear is not even so much as a school mascot.
“I
don’t know where Oxford Hills [Comprehensive High School] got ‘Vikings’ from,”
Glatz lamented.
Is
it possible, as the Oxford Bear rumbles forth once again for the county's
bicentennial, that student sporting teams might change their name to the
Bears? Probably not. Might we see the rise of all-new Oxford Bear
debating societies, or social groups?
Doubtful. Or, could we see the
emergence of a whole new Oxford Bear political action league? Hardly likely.
Still,
for more than a century, the bear — proud, independent, self-reliant — was the
symbol of Oxford County.
“We
thought it deserved, at least, another day in the spotlight,” said Glatz. “It would be nice if it would catch on.”
