POUF OR POOH, EITHER WILL DO

This problem occurred in the early morning when I awakened. Should a blogger write about a “pouf” or a stuffed bear that has survived the tale of Winnie the Pooh?

The pouf is a new addition to our living room in New Iberia, Louisiana. It’s a round ottoman that looks like a blue sea urchin poised to consume tired feet after they have been pacing all day indoors while the corona virus rages out there in the threatening yonder. This pouf could be a puffy hairstyle or a dress gathered into a puff, or a headdress, but in the case of this household, it’s just an ottoman.

Now, the stuffed bear in question bears the name of Jimmy Bear, so named for my deceased Uncle Jimmy, and he looks as though he were wounded in the War of 1940, several limbs still heavily bandaged from a battle between me and my older brother Paul. Years ago, Paul had written a one-page story about this bear, then claimed the stuffed animal as his own. To no avail. I won that battle by right of possession. The bear was mine, and it sits on a blue stool in my bedroom. It’s a reminder of my Uncle Jimmy and of a happy childhood that included a library of children’s books, including Winnie the Pooh my mother purchased during WWII when goods were rationed. 

The bear’s subject was inspired by discovering a photo of me at age four sitting beside Uncle Jimmy on the lawn of my grandmother Marquart’s home in Lake Arthur, Louisiana, the infamous bear lying in front of us. Two days ago, I sent the photo to my first cousin Mina Raymond in Baton Rouge, then ordered a copy of Winnie the Pooh. Further inspiration came from reading aloud verses from Now We Are Six by A. A. Milne, my feet propped on the pouf.

Pouf and Pooh seemed to belong with each other.

“Don’t you ever think about commonplace things?” my friend Vickie asked.

“Well, I learned from reading about the Laurel People of the Cherokee Little People that we shouldn’t take the world too seriously, and we must always have joy and share joy with others,” I answered.

“You could give more simple replies,” she said, feigning impatience.

“Laurel people are humorous. It’s better than being Rock People who practice getting even because one’s space has been invaded.”

“You think too much.”

Perhaps she’s right. However, as I meditate on Pouf and Pooh, or even Laurel People, I conclude that pondering can be a healthy activity. So, I think I’ll put my feet up on the pouf and read about Pooh Bear holding a balloon and ascending into a blue sky instead of succumbing to thoughts about the black cloud of the virus hovering out yonder.

 

Photograph by Victoria Sullivan