When I was a child I spent a lot of time in imaginary worlds. It was necessary for my survival to escape. Luckily I had a great imagination to escape into. I use to do a lot of role playing. Not the sit around the table, roll dice type of role playing (but that is so cool too) but I would step into these characters, run around and be them for hours at a time whenever I had time to escape life. When I played Transformers with my friends, we WERE Transformers. We didn’t play with toys. The same goes for G.I. Joe, He-Man and She-Ra, Justice League and a myriad of other characters. In those games I was anyone else but me. I needed to be anyone else but me. These escapes into other worlds is probably one of the reasons why I love acting to this day, why acting is still a vital part of my personal mental health program. My childhood was not a happy one. My mother is an alcoholic and she is bipolar. Not a great combination. For as long as I can remember, I was the mom of the family. It was my job to take care of my mother and my little sister. Most of my time was spent being an adult and not a child.
Despite the troubled childhood, I do have wonderful memories about those years and a few good memories of my mother. I wrote before I owe my love of gaming and games to her. My love for books and reading is also due to her. There was nothing I looked forward to more as a child than the moments where my mom would take time out of her life for my sister and I. Times where my sister and I were not a distant afterthought. Those moments normally involved being read to.
The book she would read to us most often was Winnie The Pooh. She would read to us out of this ancient copy (in our pre-6 year old minds it was ancient) which belonged to her brother when he was our age. It had a brown hardcover with a red inlayed outline of Winnie the Pooh and Piglet. The pages were yellowed with age. When you opened up the pages, a wonderfully comforting musty smell would waft out. On the inside cover, which was wallpapered with a repeating image of the single cover image, was an inscription stating whom the book belonged to and whom it was from. It was perfect. My sister and I knew magic was about to happen when our mom would pull out the book and tell us she was about to read.
When she read, she was full of life. She would make voices for all of the characters and read to us with great enthusiasm. It was like listening to a full orchestra. There was a richness and fullness to her voice. Her voice would rise and fall, slow down and speed up, ebb and flow. She was animated and happy. We were happy. My sister and I would listen intently as she very carefully unravelled the story for us, vividly painting pictures in our heads of the adventures of Christopher Robin and his toys. Winnie the Pooh made us a family. So it is of no surprise that my sister and I would take these stories and make them our own reality.
When my sister and I were younger, we lived on two properties that had a ton of acreage. The first of these properties had a little bridge over a little creek. The property was so vast, we would have to drive golf carts to get from one area to the next if we wanted to get anywhere in good time. But on days when we were in no hurry, on days where we had moments to escape, my sister and I would walk down the road and visit the creek. This creek was the source of much amusement. On the banks, grew watercrest. Sometimes we would pick the watercrest and pretend we were proper ladies eating watercrest sandwiches. But most of the time, we would play Pooh Sticks.
My sister and I would take our times finding just the right sticks or pine cones for this game. After all, a lot is at stake during such a game as Pooh Sticks. This is not a decision you make lightly as any old stick will not do. After we had found our lucky sticks, we would very ceremoniously walk to the dropping point. I am sure that we had rehearsed dialogue that would take place as all of this happened, but to this day I cannot remember it. All I remember was the anticipation that we felt finding the stick. My sister and I ensuring we did not rush the decision that will either cause us win or lose. Making sure that every moment of the escape was exact and picture perfect. We would drop our sticks very solemnly and then quickly run to the other side of the bridge to see who’s stick appeared first thus declairing the victor. Once in awhile we would imagine Eyeore floating under the bridge with out sticks. From time to time, we would include extra sticks and pretend all of the animals from the 100 Acre Wood were there playing with us. And if it was I who lost or my sister, we would start up some conversation directly out of Winnie the Pooh about how the stick needs to be dropped in a twitchy sort of way or other such methods for effective stick dropping that would enable victory.
Our own Adventures of Winnie the Pooh did not end there. We moved to another place that had acreage. The property was not as vast but there was more usable forest, allowing us to take our role playing to a whole new level. Heffalump hunting! We would spend hours upon hours digging Heffalump traps, covering them with pine branches and pine needles, and making sure our tracks were covered while we found a place to hide and wait. Wait for those sneaky Heffalumps to show their faces. Wait for the perfect moment for us to jump out from our hiding place and surprise them while springing the trap. Because if you are not smart and if you are not careful those tricky Heffalumps will sneak up behind you and steal all your honey! We would also spend many hours with our noses to the ground following Heffalump tracks. This is very tricky business. You have to tiptoe ever so quietly because if you make a noise you are bound to be Heffalump food. If by chance we broke a twig, heard a snap or a rustle in the woods, or even the noise of any bug or animal, we would yell and jump for the nearest cover. We would shoosh each other and try our best to breathe ever so quietly and pray the approaching Heffalump would not find us. This is very serious business. If you ever had the unfortunate circumstance to run into a Heffalump (such as my sister and I did on many an occasion) you would understand why. They are not exactly the friendliest of creatures.
There were other Winnie the Pooh adventures we would reinact from time to time, but none gave us more pleasure than playing Pooh Sticks and going Heffalump Hunting. Those memories stand out the most. Those two games were the beginning of many years stepping out of reality and stepping into fantasy. Those two games allowed me to be free. Those two games allowed me to be a child.
Winnie the Pooh will probably be my favourite book for the rest of my life. When I was growing up, I could not wait for the day that I could impart on my own children the joy and wonder that is Winnie the Pooh, for the days when we would have our own Adventures in the 100 Acre Wood.
Winnie the Pooh may be a silly old bear but he is my silly old bear.
julia sherred
