Winnie the Pooh
12:16 PM, Friday afternoon. Things are bright and shiny-hot here and I’m...uninspired. For a while I was updating this journal on a weekly basis, lately I’ve been struggling to write anything. I guess all the nice weather has me distracted...
Several days ago, my parents were cleaning out their attic. In a plastic bag filled with old stuffed animals, my mother found Winnie the Pooh. Let me tell you: I got a little choked-up when she showed him to me. (Let me also tell you: if unabashed sentimentality and more than a little mush bother you then you’d better skip the rest of this little entry.)
My parents got me the stuffed Pooh Bear doll when I was born. I used to sleep with it in my crib. Eventually both of my younger brothers also played and snoozed with Pooh. He was always the toy with the most seniority when we were growing up. Now though, as you can well imagine, he looks a bit worse for the wear.
Most of Pooh’s fur has been worn away, revealing bare patches of cloth. His shiny black button eyes now have metal showing through. His mouth is gone and his nose is more than a little raggedy.
When my brothers and I were still children our pet dog got hold of Pooh and pretty much de-stuffed him. Emergency doll surgery was required and my grandmother replaced most of the fluffy-looking stuffing and sewed-up the tear in Pooh’s neck.
Years later, Pooh is fairly limp. A bit exhausted looking.
There is still something about the doll, though. Maybe it is all the time me and my brothers played with him (and I know it sounds cheesy but a child’s love is bright and unreserved -- and the three of us gave a lot of that to Pooh Bear as well). Maybe it is all the memories associated with him. Perhaps it’s just sentimentality -- I’m okay with that, too. Pooh still seems important to me, though.
He’s got grace.
At the moment, I have him sitting on one of my bookcases.
I pat him on his head every once-in-a-while when I walk by.
--- JWR, 5/29/98