Pooh and I

Way, way back, at the earliest, foggy frontiers of my memories, I was given a storybook from my spinster aunt.  Entitled Winnie-the-Pooh, it was my introduction to literature, and to the wonderful world of reading.

I couldn’t read the stories myself, of course, not then, but I spent countless happy hours having them read to me, cozy on the couch in front of a warming fire. 

To this day, I remember my aunt’s husky voice speaking for the various characters, her uninhibited laughter at the situations they found themselves in, her warm breath on my cheek as we avidly devoured the pages.  Given her happiness during those times we spent together, it would have been impossible for me to grow up not loving the joys of reading.

It occurred to me recently that the values and attitudes I grew up with, and have clarified and refined during adulthood, were first suggested by the allegoric tales of Pooh and his friends.  To that end, these statements still ring true—

When you are a Bear of Very Little Brain, and you think of Things, you find sometimes that a Thing which seemed very Thingish inside you is quite different when it gets out into the open and has other people looking at it.

A little consideration, a little thought for others, makes all the difference.

What’s wrong with knowing what you know now and not knowing what you don’t know until later?

Pooh and his friends seemed always on the cusp of a figurative adventure, which appealed to me as a child, and which continues to motivate me into old age.  A partial list of chapter headings clearly illustrates their spirit—

In Which Pooh and Piglet Go Hunting and Nearly Catch a Woozle,

In Which Piglet Meets a Heffalump, and

In Which Christopher Robin Leads an Expotition to the North Pole.

The metaphoric spirit of Milne’s stories, which he originally wrote for his own son, can also be seen in these observations—

You can’t stay in your corner of the Forest waiting for others to come to you. You have to go to them sometimes.

Before beginning a Hunt, it is wise to ask someone what you are looking for before you begin looking for it.

If the string breaks, then we try another piece of string.

If it’s not Here, that means it’s out There.

Rivers know this: There is no hurry. We shall get there some day.

I particularly love that last one.

Perhaps the two greatest symbolic attributes I learned from these stories, the ones that underlie all the others, are the gift of friendship and the joy of love for one another—

It’s so much more friendly with two.

It isn’t much good having anything exciting, if you can’t share it with somebody.

I think we dream so we don’t have to be apart for so long.  If we’re in each other’s dreams, we can be together all the time.

If there ever comes a day when we can’t be together, keep me in your heart; I’ll stay there forever.

Sometimes the smallest things take up the most room in your heart.

Some people care too much.  I think it’s called love.

Love is taking a few steps backward, maybe even more, to give way to the happiness of the person you love.

How lucky am I to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.

I cherish that final thought, even while knowing I have never had to say goodbye to Winnie the Pooh.

Among my favourite recollections of those books, beyond the stories themselves, were the illustrations—pen-and-ink drawings lovingly composed by E. H. Shepard. In my mind’s eye, I see many of them still, though I have not cracked the covers of those books since I last shared them with my own infant daughters.

There is one I love more than any other, a picture of Christopher Robin and Pooh coming down the stairs together, and I still hear my aunt’s hearty guffaws as she read the accompanying plea from Pooh-— 

If possible, try to find a way to come downstairs that doesn’t involve going bump, bump, bump on the back of your head. 

Winnie the Pooh was my first and abiding friend.

_{© J. Bradley Burt 2021}