Once, during a long, Minnesota winter, my young daughter and I spent our days living as Piglet and Pooh. As Piglet, I fretted; as Pooh, my daughter offered calm. In our old two-story house, our own Hundred Acre Wood, we went on expotitions, admired Christopher Robin, took advice from Owl, doted on sweet Roo. Pooh stopped by in search of honey, or stood under an umbrella waiting for the rain. When I was scared of the unknown, he held my hand. That winter, A.A. Milne’s books, and the characters he’d created, were as real to us as the never-ending snow outside our door.
Those young days with my daughter disappeared, still every Christmas season we unpack the little mailbox where Pooh and Piglet left each other letters long ago. That winter, before she was a reader, my daughter could decipher Piglet’s simple messages, and the notes that filled our mailbox were cryptic little letters, simple child drawings Pooh and Piglet understood. Piglet wrote to Pooh; and Pooh wrote back. And those letters meant so much to us, they're still inside that box
How far we were that Minnesota winter from A.A. Milne and his 1920’s England, yet how present his work was in our quiet, daily lives. What he’d once imagined, we imagined; and we took it to our hearts, and made his story ours. Even to this day I am my Pooh’s Piglet.
Who can guess the power of a book: the way the characters are company, the way they are our friends, the way they teach us how to live and love?
Thank you A.A. Milne for those winter days of dreams.
MRY KRSMS POO