12/09/02’s illustrious band:

Glambalinglung

Brought to you by the first four notes played by the wind-up music box in the rump of my beloved Pooh Bear. “Glam-ba-ling-lung” are the “words” I always sang to the first bars of his song. I can remember the rest of the tune, but not the rest of my lyrics.

This Christmas marks Pooh’s and my 30th anniversary. I received him as a Christmas gift when I was, I think, 3 years old, and we remain together. Some highly embarrassing -- and, thankfully, silent -- home movie footage of me enthusing over my gift probably still exists in the Media family archives; doubtless Mother Media knows where it is.

Pooh has been a steadfast friend and companion throughout my many adventures. He’s been to numerous friends’ houses, to college in eastern South Dakota, even to grad school in Maine. He’s seen me single, married, and single again, and absorbed all the associated tears. He’s been sniffed by every cat I ever lived with. He’s been dressed in various articles of clothing, including a crocheted cap and jacket, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen him in pants. He is, in short, my main man.

I don’t need to sleep with Pooh any more to know his comforting presence is with me. But I remember the first time I slept without him. It was a big decision, the choice to leave him behind. I was as much worried for his peace of mind as for my own. My Girl Scout troop was planning a “camp-in” at the newly constructed Rushmore Mall, which was a Wonder of the World for that area at that time. I was afraid Pooh would get lost in the hubbub of Scouts hauling and dumping and rearranging their gear. I was also afraid I’d get teased for bringing my bear, and while I was willing to put up with it myself, I didn’t want Pooh to be subjected to humiliation. After many reassurances of my prompt return, I left him home. We both survived, but I tried not to do it too often.

Pooh is a mature bear now, with an arthritic shoulder that keeps one arm raised in cab-hailing position, a broken line of a mouth, and a Michael Jackson-esque sorta-there/sorta-not nose. He’s still smiling, though, still singing, and still keeping me company. Everyone should have a friend this good.