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

 

 

 

WHEELS

 

“Plasma Yellow Pearl?”

 

Yep, that’s the color — the color of the new 2021 Subaru Crosstrek parked under our carport. And, believe me, the strange hue has incited more comment than I care to hear. I think the color is either olive or avocado, but I’ve never claimed to be a conventional type person who would follow my grandfather’s color preferences.

Grandfather Paul Greenlaw, who sold Ford autos from 1908 (Model T’s) until the early 1940s would have disowned me if he’d seen this audacious car in our drive. A conservative man, Paul Greenlaw, sold mostly black and a few blue autos, but plasma yellow pearl?! He should have lived until the 1950s when Ford offered buyers an olive-colored (not plasma yellow) Mustang during the “pony car” craze when Cobras, Mustangs, and Thunderbirds flooded the market.

For some inexplicable reason, the Plasma Pearl Yellow Subaru purchase inspired me to order back issues of the Ford Times, a now-defunct magazine published from 1908 until 1919 when publication halted, then resumed in 1943 until 1993.

A small magazine 4” x 6” and later 5”x7," I discovered copies of this treasure on Grandfather Paul’s desk on the sleeping porch of his Victorian house in Franklinton, Louisiana. I was fascinated by the paintings (lots of watercolors), travel destinations, articles about restaurants, festival listings and other feature stories, and illustrations of the latest lines of Ford automobiles that I coveted at the time Grandfather owned this automobile franchise. In the attic of his home, I also surreptitiously played thick recordings in which a high pitched voice belted out “Henry’s Made A Lady Out of Lizzie.”

The sight of all the Fords featured in Ford Times created feelings of nostalgia for the old Ford coupes in the showroom of Motor Sales and Service on the main thoroughfare of Franklinton, Louisiana, as well as feelings of being a traitor to Grandfather Paul’s favored line of automobiles…especially since the Subaru is such a “loud” color. However, at the age of approaching 86, I’m sorta’ glad to present evidence that I still have some reputation for being just a little outrageous.

 

Photograph by Victoria Sullivan 

 

 

PANSIES

Pansies 211 Celeste Dr.

After they took down the wrought iron fence that surrounded the yard on 10th Avenue, the yard looked bare. They also removed the cattle guard on the drive because new town laws prohibited cows from grazing on residential lots… except for the milk cow grazing on an empty lot that I avoided when I walked up the street to visit my Aunt Kathryn. The barrenness of the front yard and drive troubled my Grandmother Nell. So she decided to put in pansies in front of the tall steps leading to the front porch. She didn’t turn the ground herself, but Ernest, the yardman, dug a large round bed that covered half the front yard, and she put in pansies using a trowel with a splintered handle and adding a small amount of Vigoro and water.

“Frost won’t kill them,” she said to my aunt. “They can weather as low as 25 degrees. I’ll put in purple ones for sure. They’re symbols of love. My granddaughter will like them.” I was only three years old when she began her landscaping project, but  to her I seemed old enough to appreciate the beauty of flowers. I also knew what love was because she told me often how much she loved me.

Era Leader Clipping

She sent brief messages to the society column of the Era Leader, the town of Franklinton's newspaper of note: “Little Miss Diane Marquart of Baton Rouge is spending the week with her grandparents, Mr. and Mrs. P.E Greenlaw.” She felt that the message distinguished our family living in a provincial southeastern Louisiana town of 1,000 or more inhabitants. After all, little Miss was the granddaughter of a Greenlaw, a descendant of the Scots clan among the Humes, although I’m sure no one in that small redneck town knew or cared about the lineage of the Greenlaws. Or about my frequent visits to that community.

However, Grandmother Nell clipped and pasted these society mentions in a scrapbook that is now stored in a sideboard of my living room in New Iberia, Louisiana. I was three when she showed me the circular bed of purple pansies. “Puppy dog noses,” I promptly said, and she clapped her hands as if I’d vocalized the most precocious statement of any three-year old in the world.

Those colorful symbols of her affection became my favorite flower — and remain my favorite flower, planted every fall, sometimes in the spring, by friends who know this story about the language of love that flowers impart.

 

Photography by Victoria Sullivan