tigger.

In my English 2010 class, our first paper we had to write was a "Word Meditation" paper. We pick a word that had a constant presence in our lives and use it to write stories from different points in our life. The paper as a whole also had to have some sort of over-arching theme as well as little bits of research on the word.  Anyone who knows me well knows I've always had a love for Tigger. I have more Tiggers than I care to admit. 

In case you don't already figure it out, the over-arching theme is basically growing up. I wish I could have written more but she gave us a five page limit, so that's why it may seem rushed. 

Anyway, I thought I'd share this. So uh.... yeah. Tigger. (PS I did fabricate some stuff for the sake of making it more interesting. Us writers, dude.  you just can't trust us. ) 

TIGGER

            I’m five years old. I sit in the back of my dad’s red pickup truck, my uncle sitting next to me. “Lil Megs, Lil Megs!” he says to me. He tickles my belly and I laugh. His faded blue jean eyes gleam as he beams with mischief down at me—the same beam, my dad has always told me, he has held since he was born. He kisses my cheeks and I giggle as his scruffy chin scratches my face. He smells like peppermint and cigarettes. I have no memory of the scent every bothering me; I’m used to it. It’s just the scent of Uncle Bruce. So I breathe it in and keep giggling.

            He pulls something from behind his back. I squeal with delight; it’s a small stuffed Tigger. This one reminds me of the Tigger he brought to the hospital the day I was born, with a slightly faded orange and a small ball inside that jingles when he moves. It got lost somewhere though, so I’m happy to have its duplicate. I shake the Tigger to hear the slight jing, jing he makes. My uncle’s pearly white smile grows wider, looking even whiter in contrast with his weathered tan skin. Dad was always jealous of his brother’s ability to tan; neither he nor any of us kids ever could. But Bruce’s is also rough and leathery from too many days of golf. I feel it under his prickly whiskers as I grab his face and say thank you.

            “The wonderful thing about Tigger, is Tigger’s a wonderful thing!” Bruce says his own rendition of the original phrase, then proceeds to grab me again and tickle me. As I move, I hear the jing jing of the animal. I grab the small Tigger and hold him to my chest, vowing to protect him.

            During World War I, soldiers were transferring from Winnipeg, Canada, to Eastern Canada where they would be taken to Europe. When the train stopped in Ontario, a soldier by the name of Harry Colebourn bought a small black bear cub for $20 from a man who had shot its mother. He named the bear Winnipeg, after his hometown, or “Winnie” for short. The bear was a mascot of the brigade until Colebourn gave him over to London Zoo upon arriving in Europe, where he became a popular attraction. He was the particular favorite of a boy named Christopher Robin. Christopher Robin asked his father, A. A. Milne, to take him on many trips to the zoo to see the bear. Milne began writing a series of stories involving Christopher Robin, Winnie, and other characters based off of stuffed animals his son owned. In one such book, titledThe House at Pooh Corner, published in 1926, Tigger, based off a stuffed animal, is mentioned for the first time.

            I’m eleven years old. My family stands around the bed at a care center, where my grandpa lays. He’s been sick for awhile now but things have gotten bad enough that we know the end is near. I clench the small Tigger he gave me for my eighth birthday tightly to my chest and stand at the foot of his bed. The room is silent, except for the occasional funny comment made with the intent to lighten the mood. It smells of sickness and medicine. I hear the echoes of the nurses’ antibacterial shoes against the floor in the hallway, squeaking every few steps. I look down at the small stuffed animal, and tears fill my eyes. I’m the youngest of everyone standing here, so I am hesitant to step forward. But I do. I walk around to where he lays and bury my face in his stomach. Despite his being here, he still smells of must and pine, the scents of his house. As he hears me crying, one crocodile tear trickles down his face, even as he lays there with his eyes closed, barely coherent. The silence in the room is broken as cousins and siblings and aunts and uncles embrace. We embrace each other. Embrace him. Hug, hug, hug. We can’t get enough. I hear the choir of sniffles around the room as the tears we’ve been holding in are finally set free. Before I know it, it’s time to go. I give my grandpa a kiss on the cheek, not knowing at the time that it’s the last I’ll see of him alive. As I walk out of the room with a tear-stained face, I look down at the Tigger still held in my hands. His face has no sign of tears or crying. But he’s here, and that’s enough for me.

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            The first heard of Tigger is in “In Which Tigger Comes To The Forest and Has Breakfast” in The House At Pooh’s Corner. Tigger appears at Pooh’s doorstep with a “bounce and a bang,” where he says he’ll eat “everything” but doesn’t like honey or thistles or haycorns, so the search begins for something Tigger would like to eat. Upon going to Kanga’s house, another popular character derived from one of Christopher Robin’s stuffed animals, it is discovered that Tigger has a liking for malt, which Kanga keeps to give to her son, Roo. After his discovery, Tigger makes Kanga’s house his home, and resides there through the rest of all the series. Tigger becomes a beloved character known for individuality, fun, and craziness. Some popular phrases said by Tigger include “don’t be ridikorous!” “why, that’s what Tiggers do best!” and “the wonderful thing about Tigger is I’m the only one!” His laugh, smile and bouncy tail become trademarks of his character.

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            Barb and I sit in our regular booth at our favorite restaurant. She started out as my mom’s best friend but inadvertently became one of mine as well. We eat some of our food but mostly get distracted with talking, eating only our scones as we chat. The smooth taste of melted honey butter slips easily onto my tongue as I place the scone in my mouth. As I do this, I talk to Barb.  I share with her things I can share with no one else. I trust her.

            It’s now been six years since Grandpa died, and so much has changed. My problems have changed from who to play with at recess or when the next Fablehaven book comes out to who I date and which friends are true as opposed to which ones are gossiping about me and which college I should go to. I tell Barb all of it. Her hair is short and curly, finally starting to grow in since she stopped her chemotherapy. Her beady eyes sparkle and the edges of her mouth crinkle when she smiles. The smell of gravy and mashed potatoes in the restaurant are so strong I can taste them, feeling the hot liquid trickle down my throat. It’s calling to me from the buffet, but I ignore the urge and keep talking to Barb. The fabric of the booth squeaks when I switch positions.

            Barb tells me of how laughter and craziness are the best medicines in life, and that’s why her and I get through it all. She tells me to “keep bouncing” even after every heartbreak or lost friend, just like Tigger does.

            As she says this, I realize Barb reminds me of Tigger. And I love her even more for it.

            It’s been three months since Barb’s cancer returned and I stood before her grave at the cemetery. I vow never to tell anyone of Barb unless I really trust them. Barb becomes a sacred part of my heart of which I swear always to protect. It’s a warm summer’s night. I sit on a bench at a park with a boy. I hear the rattle of the trees surrounding us and the breeze brushes my hair against my cheeks. I think of the word rattle, and it takes me back to that rattly Tigger my uncle gave me so many years before. That Tigger has since been lost in the mess of moving rooms and buying new things and gaining new priorities. Now, I sit here with this boy, a new Tigger in my hand. He’s discovered my love for the character and bought me one while we were out. It’s three days before I leave for college and I realize I could be in love with him, but just like my Grandpa and Barb, I’ll have to say goodbye. One of my hands is held in his as the other holds Tigger. I breathe in the smell of roses and cotton trees, and sigh. The Tigger smiles up at me, oblivious to the dangers of growing up.

            As Winnie the Pooh became more popular, the daughters of Walt Disney took a liking to it as well, and in 1977 he released the first full-length feature film of Pooh titled “The Many Adventures of Winnie the Pooh.” All of the characters became widely loved but none so much as Tigger—so much so that in 2000 Disney released the third Winnie the Pooh film titled “The Tigger Movie” in which Tigger is the main character, Tigger being voiced by Paul Winchell. As various TV shows, movies, and books have been released throughout the years, Tigger has remained a character beloved by all, his phrases widely quoted and his contagious demeanor affecting all who experience him.

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            I sit in my college dorm with a tear stained face. I think back to when it was stained with tears when I was eleven, then again when I was seventeen. Wishing for my grandpa and Barb, I find the tear stains have turned again into actual tears. The room smells as it did the night I said goodbye to my parents: old wood, dust, and new sheets. I think of my parents and their last hugs goodbye. My mom, with the same smile I have and the pungent smell of sweet pea lotion, and my dad, with the same faded blue jean eyes of my uncle, always smelling of salt. I think of how they’ve always smelled this way. Of how things used to be simple, in my dad’s old pickup truck being tickled by my uncle.

I think of the boy I loved.  I think of his cologne and the way his curls felt between my fingers. I think of his smile. The tears come more constantly and my heart breaks as I remember I’ve just learned this boy I thought I could love, doesn’t love me anymore. I pick up the Tigger he gave me just before I left, about to throw it. But then, I look at its smile. It reminds me of my uncle’s pearly whites and my grandpa’s silver teeth and Barb’s wrinkles at the edge of her mouth when she smiles. Suddenly I feel them all with me, and find myself beaming as I know they would. I remember Barb’s goofy laugh and her high pitched voice as she tells me to “keep bouncing.” As the tears come to a stop, I hold this Tigger tighter, thinking of them. I smile one more time. Tonight, I fall asleep calmly under the safe protection of this small animal, still clutched against my chest.

peace

~just megsie