Childhood Friend

Hello, Pooh Bear.

How are you?

Oh, I know that your left arm's falling off (again), and you haven't had a nose since 1973, and now you're cramped in between two bookshelves, on top of Opus, next to Kermit the Frog, and underneath Tedesco the Cow. (Interesting name for a stuffed cow; however, that's another story.)

You're kind of buried now behind two Christmas bears and a stuffed shamrock, because every new stuffed animal that I acquire ends up on top of you. So now you're complaining.

I can't argue that you have every right to complain. But still, you've been here longer than any of these other stuffed toys, so don't worry. If I've held onto you for twenty years, I'm not going to throw you out next week.

Pooh, you've seen it all. From the time I was still in diapers, until I published my first story, you've been there every step of the way. Even when you were in the back of the closet, I kept the door open a crack, so you could watch what was going on.

Neither Kermit nor Tedesco the cow were there in my crib, underneath Babar and Queen Celeste; you were. Not one other stuffed animal that now resides between my second and fourth bookshelves has been with me as long as you have. They were all acquired after I started working (well, except for Opus; he was a present). Probably the oldest one I own, except for you, is Gizmo the Mogwai, whom I bought when the first Gremlins movie came out.

It's interesting that not one of the stuffed animals that you used to share space with is still around. They're all gone, thrown away or given away or maybe even sold at our one and only garage sale. They're gone, but you're still here.

Why are you still here? Pooh, you should know that. You're still here because I loved you so much that I couldn't bear (no pun intended) to throw you out or give you away. I guess I'm just sentimental.

The excuse I've used for the last few years is that I'm saving you for my children. That is, if you hold together that long. I just don't know if they'll want you. These days, it seems that a toy has to do something to be interesting. So we have teddy bears that tell stories, teddy bears that play music, even teddy bears that repeat what you say to them. But we don't seem to have very many teddy bears that are just teddy bears. You're one of a vanishing breed, Pooh.

And why do toys have to do anything anyway? What's wrong with having a stuffed animal without a gimmick of some sort? Are kids that unimaginative? I know I always had imagination enough for ten people. They say it's television, but I watched as much TV as anyone my age, and I'm okay. I guess it just takes a special kind of kid to appreciate you.

The stuffed toys that you used to hang around with are all gone now. Someday the ones you're now buried under will be as well. Kermit will probably end up on my sister's bookshelf, Tedesco will be taken away by the garbagemen. But you'll still be here, Pooh. Forever and ever. Isn't that what every stuffed animal really wants?