I remember reading the Winnie the Pooh stories as a child. Christopher Robin’s tales made me jealous. I thought it would be wonderful to have a stuffed teddy bear who could talk to me. How glorious to escape to the Hundred Acre Wood for marvelous adventures with his loyal animal friends.
Someone gave me an overstuffed purple rabbit with a carrot tattoo on his left foot. The bunny was mute, or maybe he was a stoner. I was six, what did I know? My Hundred Acre Wood comprised a single scrawny apple tree. Each summer, it produced terrible green apples so sour my entire body shook for a week after only one bite. Sour Patch, Lemon Drops, and Warheads didn’t compare with those little green bombs. When the hard, inedible fruit matured, they fell to the ground and dissolved into rotting brown heaps. The wasps loved them and aggressively protected their treasure. They transformed the backyard into a war zone, and they launched air raids against anyone who dared to enter their occupied territory.
Christopher Robin represented a fantasy. His story presented a believable lie spoon-fed to gullible children. I often wondered about Christopher Robin’s life outside of the Hundred Acre Wood. Was he a lost boy trying to cope in a chaotic adult-centric world? I considered he had more in common with Hansel and Peter Pan than Pooh revealed. Yes, if Pooh came to visit, we would have long discussions which would require a tasty morsel, and a nap, to keep up our strength.
Did you find a childhood story difficult to swallow?
Keep on writing.
Jo Hawk The Writer