wind

Whenever I hear the wind howling at the windows I immediately think of Pooh. "It's a blustery day," says he. And thinking of Pooh immediately puts me in mind of my grandmother, who was a first class A. A. Milne afficianado.

One of my favorite things about time with my grandmother was at bed time. She would "tickle" our backs as she tucked us in, reciting verses from Milne as she did so.

"They're changing guard at Buckingham Palace.
Christopher Robin went down with Alice..."

or

"James, James, Morrison, Morrison, Weatherbee George DuPree,
took great care of his mother, though he was only three..."

One of the things I miss about not having little ones to tuck into bed is repeating that ritual. But I can recite verses to myself and think of Pooh when the wind sweeps with gusto through the branches of the trees. I can remember with joy a grandmother who shaped me in more ways than she perhaps realized, and hope that somehow my life honors her. Perhaps the wind is one of the ways she checks in.

Here's to you, Boppy. You are loved and missed.