I watch a recycling bin slowly tumble down the hill on which I live. The
stop sign across from my house is shaking back and forth as remnants of long
fallen leaves chase one another down the street. It is a blustery day here
in Nebraska. That is hardly uncommon but it is always noteworthy.
The weather man says the winds are gusting to 50 miles per hour. While no
hurricane, it gets light objects moving. I stand by my window on my day
off and watch the spectacle unfold. When a particularly strong gust
rattles the windows I take increased notice. They shake for a few moments
and then the wind dissipates. Up the hill a trash can just blew over and
is lying in the street. A plastic bag rolls for a time and then
stops. Then the wind pushes it on once again and sends it frolicking along
down the hill. It pleases me that the temperature is 44 degrees and there
is no snow being driven by the wind. All at once I am reminded of my
childhood. One of my favorite books from the time I could remember was
“Winnie-The–Pooh and the Blustery Day.” If you are not familiar with the
story, it revolves around a stuffed teddy bear named Winnie –The-Pooh and his
friends in a magical place called the Hundred Acre Wood where they come to life.
(In England, where it was written, that must be a big stand of trees) To
sum up the story, a wind and rain storm comes along and raises havoc with Pooh
and his friends. Their good friend and creator, Christopher Robin, comes
along and helps save everyone in the end. I never grew tired of hearing
that story. It was especially good when I would cuddle by my mother and
listen to her read the various parts with different tones of voice.
Everywhere we went, that book came with us. My oldest brother and sister
would go to high school on the other end of a long, grand bridge. After
they were dropped off in the morning my mother would take the off-ramp from the
bridge on the way back and take me to a park by the river. In the days
before car seats I sat on my metal lunchbox and was belted in. We would
often go sit under a tree and would unpack out breakfast snack from the
lunchbox. There were sandwiches and a thermos full of milk. They
were wonderful picnics. Afterward she would take me over to the swings and
push me. There was no one else around except for a stray fisherman.
It was just Mom and I and I could not imagine a more wonderful time. If it
was windy, raining or snowy we had our picnic in the car and she would read
Winnie-The-Pooh to me. Even though I could not read, I would say the words
along with her from memory. She would laugh as I pretended to read the
story to her. My mother had the most beautiful laugh. When we were
done we would go home and go on about our day. But for that brief time, it
was just the two of us and she was giving me her full attention without anyone
else to disturb us. Years ago I drove across that same bridge and saw they
had built a casino where the park used to be. I was sad. The park
was gone. My mother was gone. Now only the book remains. And
so I watch the wind blow from my window. I think of my mother and all that
she gave me.
stop sign across from my house is shaking back and forth as remnants of long
fallen leaves chase one another down the street. It is a blustery day here
in Nebraska. That is hardly uncommon but it is always noteworthy.
The weather man says the winds are gusting to 50 miles per hour. While no
hurricane, it gets light objects moving. I stand by my window on my day
off and watch the spectacle unfold. When a particularly strong gust
rattles the windows I take increased notice. They shake for a few moments
and then the wind dissipates. Up the hill a trash can just blew over and
is lying in the street. A plastic bag rolls for a time and then
stops. Then the wind pushes it on once again and sends it frolicking along
down the hill. It pleases me that the temperature is 44 degrees and there
is no snow being driven by the wind. All at once I am reminded of my
childhood. One of my favorite books from the time I could remember was
“Winnie-The–Pooh and the Blustery Day.” If you are not familiar with the
story, it revolves around a stuffed teddy bear named Winnie –The-Pooh and his
friends in a magical place called the Hundred Acre Wood where they come to life.
(In England, where it was written, that must be a big stand of trees) To
sum up the story, a wind and rain storm comes along and raises havoc with Pooh
and his friends. Their good friend and creator, Christopher Robin, comes
along and helps save everyone in the end. I never grew tired of hearing
that story. It was especially good when I would cuddle by my mother and
listen to her read the various parts with different tones of voice.
Everywhere we went, that book came with us. My oldest brother and sister
would go to high school on the other end of a long, grand bridge. After
they were dropped off in the morning my mother would take the off-ramp from the
bridge on the way back and take me to a park by the river. In the days
before car seats I sat on my metal lunchbox and was belted in. We would
often go sit under a tree and would unpack out breakfast snack from the
lunchbox. There were sandwiches and a thermos full of milk. They
were wonderful picnics. Afterward she would take me over to the swings and
push me. There was no one else around except for a stray fisherman.
It was just Mom and I and I could not imagine a more wonderful time. If it
was windy, raining or snowy we had our picnic in the car and she would read
Winnie-The-Pooh to me. Even though I could not read, I would say the words
along with her from memory. She would laugh as I pretended to read the
story to her. My mother had the most beautiful laugh. When we were
done we would go home and go on about our day. But for that brief time, it
was just the two of us and she was giving me her full attention without anyone
else to disturb us. Years ago I drove across that same bridge and saw they
had built a casino where the park used to be. I was sad. The park
was gone. My mother was gone. Now only the book remains. And
so I watch the wind blow from my window. I think of my mother and all that
she gave me.
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