A Book Review for Life
By Terry Donnelly
If one could own only one fiction book for a lifetime let me
suggest Winnie-the-Pooh by A. A.
Milne. The collection of short-stories, published in 1926 impart meaning to
listeners and readers from age four to 104.
The book doubles as an instruction manual for parents.
Christopher Robin gets read to all the time. Ask any teacher and confirm that
the one single most valuable activity for developing a child’s literacy is
being read to.
In the beginning no small child can resist hearing the
wonderful flow of language created by Milne. The characters chase woozles, or
is it wizzles? And then they hunt heffalumps. The prose is poetic (Isn’t it
funny, How a bear likes honey? Buzz! Buzz! Buzz! I wonder why he does?), which enhances
a young person’s sense of how language should sound. A friend relates his
grandson’s oft-repeated request, at age four to “Read Pooh!” I recall my own
children’s similar requests/demands.
Once off to elementary school, kids still love the stories.
I defy you to name one eight year old who hasn’t gathered family and friends,
donned hats, turned blankets into capes, stuffed any article that could be a
makeshift backpack with provisions, and struck out on an “expotition” to the
North Pole after a session with Pooh and the gang.
The stories appear to be targeted at six to nine year olds,
but so much more is left for a more critical mind. We are not done exploring
the depths of Pooh merely because we can also read Catcher in the Rye and War
and Peace.
Exactly when was it that I discovered the depth of the
writing? I can’t give you an age, but it was when I realized that there was one
kangaroo living as two in the home of Kanga and Roo. The yin and yang played
out with Kanga, the overbearing mother, keeping Roo, the rascal, inquisitive
son, so close that their names mergee into one.
On yet another level there is pure, pun-loving droll humor.
Pooh lives “under the name of Sanders”–not because of witness protection, but
literally with a sign nailed above his door. Piglet’s grandfather was
Trespassers William. That bit of genealogy came from the logical conclusion
reached after finding a broken piece of an old wooden sign in his belongings
that read only “Trespassers Will…”
Droll humor isn’t your bag? Then how about slapstick? Pooh
eats too much honey and subsequently gets stuck in Rabbit’s front door. The
ensuing days find Pooh fasting and all the friends in a row (large to small, ending
with Small, a beetle relation to someone) pulling Pooh out while Rabbit makes
the best of a bad situation by using Pooh’s legs as a towel rack. The scene rivals
any Three Stooges film.
Want some nostalgia? Playing Pooh Sticks is a metaphor for
any lazy summer day when there was nearly nothing to do–a couple of friends
just hanging out watching clouds form, trading some baseball cards, or I guess,
being in proximity of each other listening to different I-Pods.
As we age further, we learn of the character’s flaws–their
humanity. The sage Owl can’t really spell his own name, but has everyone in the
woods convinced he has any answer required. I’d propose that he was modeled
after the Beatles guru, Maharishi Yogi, who inspired the song “Fool on the
Hill”, but Owl came first.
The terminally insecure Piglet would have been constantly
cowering in a corner had it not been for one, rock solid friend–Pooh. There is
also the clinically depressed Eeyore. A loner who eats thistles and loses body
parts is one to pity, except for the care provided by his neighbors. They act
communally, as the model for Habitat for Humanity and provide him with shelter,
plus free medical care with a surgical tail reattachment.
Finally, there is the anti-Peter Pan moment when we must
accept that the routine changes as we grow up. Christopher Robin, the creator
and caretaker of this Kibbutz, has to leave the woods and take the next step in
life–kindergarten for him–but any transition will apply.
The hope that is present in all good literature remains
because Milne argues with Thomas Wolfe and suggests that one can indeed go home
again, get together with old friends, and take up anew. Isn’t that the measure
of a true friend–one who can be absent for long periods of time, but nary a
heartbeat seems to have skipped upon reuniting?
I am fortunate to have a few such friends and I am fortunate
to have spent the entirety of my life with Winnie-the-Pooh. Or, is it Winnie-ther-Pooh?
Bear isn’t quite sure.
