Sepia Tones

Tripp and his mother and me tumbled outside into the gentle fall morning to play soccer. When his sneakered feet hit the grass, damp with dew, Tripp's small back stiffened and he looked down.

"In 5, 4, 3, 2, 1," his mother joked, watching for his reaction.

"Oh, it's wet, " Tripp declared, but then he was off racing in circles like a puppy, darting and weaving.

"Catch me!" he shouted.

"I'm gonna GET you!" I bellowed, chasing him, scooping up his joyous squealing body and spinning him in circles.

"Let's play in the driveway," I suggested.

Tripp ran and ran, kicking the soccer ball with either foot up the slope of the driveway and down.

"Goal!" he shouted, or "I DID it!"

"You did it!" we yelled.

He avoided a particularly treacherous looking corner of the driveway where the soccer ball inevitably rolled, where a clump of menacing yellow maple leaves had drifted, their glistening wetness posing an inexplicable threat to a boy of three.

"Get it, Beauma!" he demanded pointing to the ball centimeters away.

To demonstrate my athleticism, I trapped the ball with my feet and jumped, flipping the ball toward him.

"Okay, never do that again," said my daughter, bent at the waist and snorting.

"That hurt my feelings," Tripp said sorrowfully.

"But, why," I asked, snorting myself. "Why did it hurt your feelings?"

"They're talking about feelings at school," my daughter clarified.

"I have to go pretty soon," I said to Tripp.

"Why?" he asked.

"I have to drive all the way back to Vermont."

"But, not right now."

"No, we can play a bit more first, and then you can wave to me from the steps the way you always do."

"Okay, Beauma. Watch me!"

*

Driving along the lane to my mother's house, I come upon the small wheelchair procession. Mom is swaddled in a blanket, a brown fringed shawl wrapped around her shoulders. I roll down my window as the three women approach the car.

"It's your daughter, Mrs. Victor," Lynn says, her long blonde hair tumbling over her face as she bends down close to my mother's ear.

"It's Amy," I hear Liz the nurse prompt.

My heart lurches.

"Hi, Mom! I smile and eagerly search her eyes for a glimpse of recognition, finding confusion, vacuity.

Back at the house, Liz brings me an aluminum chair with a pink seat then disappears, while Lynn shuffles boxes in the garage.

I sit near my mother in the sun. I touch her still, soft hand. I rest my hand on her arm. I rub her back. 

"Oh, hi," she says.

Her head droops as she dozes. I weep silently, wishing to reclaim the past as it was and as I wish it had been.

"I love you, Mom," I say. I kiss the top of her head. We sit together in the warm sun. I've been asking myself to remain open and curious about this winding down of a full, full life. I want to capture this moment in the sun, the pale golden leaves fluttering down around us, the two of us.

*

Wadduh Wadduh Everywhere

It was simply poor timing that just as Tripp and I emerged from my car in front of the cavernous Long Island Children's Museum, four school busses filled with excited campers in emerald green or banana yellow tee shirts were lining up outside the door.

"I want to go back to my house," Tripp said, shrinking back from the clamor.

"Oh, no, buddy, this will be fun!" I enthused.

Once inside, however, the noise was amplified in thunderous, booming echoes. The shrieks and giggles of happy kids was deafening. As lines of wriggling giggling children snaked through the ground floor, Tripp buried his face in my shoulder.

"Too youd!"

"It is pretty loud," I agreed, hastily purchasing our tickets. "Let's go see what's outside."

As I placed Tripp on the floor, he swiveled instinctively toward the museum's shop. "I sink it is not too youd in there," he said.

"Let's check outside first."

Just beyond the door was a sandpile with buckets and shovels, and beyond that in a secret bower was a wooden bench surrounded by plants and flowers. On the bench was a book. The book was "The Itsy Bitsy Spider," (the long form) containing the words to Tripp's favorite song. As we sat together and read, a young male counselor strode by. "The Itsy Bitsy Spider?" he asked. "Dude, I love that story."

We explored a bit and discovered an amazing area of pumps and shower heads that released water when one tugged the end of a rope.

"Wow!" I exclaimed.

"Too wet," said Tripp, waggling a finger.

"Let's just see," I said, guiding his small body through a gate. There was a stream with gurgling water in which one could wade, a series of sluice gates that could be raised and lowered to let orange and red plastic fish and boats slide down, and wheels to turn and buttons to push to move water down spouts. There were  aluminum buckets to fill.

A small band of sopping wet toddlers splashed happily about, observed by parents.

"Too wet," Tripp said, drawn in spite of himself to a wheel like the wheel of a sailing ship which he began to spin, watching as a small trough filled with water.

"Hold my glasses," he ordered, doffing his purple shades. "There is a yot of wadduh."

"I like his look," a dad observed, "Especially the collar turned up."

My grandson was wearing his khaki shorts (over big boy space ship underpants,) a green polo shirt with the collar just so, golf socks, and brown canvas sneakers with velcro tabs.

"No, my wheel," he said as a little girl with long brown hair appeared to his right.

"Can we share?" she asked.

Tripp looked doubtful.

"What's your name?" I asked.

"Lily."

"Lily, this is Tripp," I said.

Lily and Tripp shared the wheel, then turned a crank which moved a pulley to which small canvas bags were attached. The canvas bags scooped water from another trough, then released it into a bucket.

"This is how some people have to work together to get water," Lily explained.

"Why?" Tripp asked, not minding that the front of his green polo shirt was now drenched.

"Because they live in different places where it isn't so easy to find water."

"Why?"

"Because water doesn't come out of the tap."

"Why?"

"Why don't we take off your shoes and socks," I interrupted.

"No."

"If we take them off, you can splash in the stream and lift the sluice gates."

A few minutes later Tripp was standing on a block of wood lifting gates and watching as his blue plastic boat sped down the current. He returned to the wooden wheel to fill pails and empty them.

"Watch me," he said to Lily.

"Where's my number 5?" He turned to me.

"What number 5? The pails don't have numbers on them," I said.

"I need my number 5!"

Lily and I looked at each other and began to search for a pail with the number 5 on it. After examining 8 to 10 pails, we found it. A pail with a tiny 5 stamped upside down on the bottom. Lily handed it to Tripp without a word.

"What are you, Rainman?" I laughed.

"No, I'm Tripp!"

"I know you are," I said, and kissed the top of his head,

When Tripp was completely soaked I led him over to a chair and removed his shirt and sleeveless white  undershirt.

"Oh, no," he protested.

"You don't need that undershirt," I said, knowing it to be a peculiar penchant of Nora the nanny. "It's too hot." I used the undershirt to dry his feet.

We wandered back inside and into the shop where we purchased a new tee shirt, and after circling a few dozen times, and I had counted to 5 slowly, Tripp grabbed a microscope. And a ball. And a brightly colored octopus that clanked when shaken.

"How about just the microscope," I said.

"Okay, Beauma."

We ventured into the bubble room, grabbed some colorful fruit snacks from the cafeteria, called each other on phones from my childhood, entered a room with lots of drums and xylophones that could be beaten incessantly, and then into a room with SHHhhhhh written on the walls and round comfy looking cushions, which led one's grandmother to suppose it to be a quiet room.

"Let's sit here for a bit," I said.

BABABABOOOOM! WHOO! WHOO! BOOM! CHUGGA CHUGGA!! burst from unseen speakers. Purple and pink strobe lights began to flash.

For a small boy sensitive to noises, this was catastrophic. We were o-u-t  OUT of there.

"That was very scary," Tripp shuddered.

"It sure was," I said.

We wound down a suspended bridge and jumped into a pile of sand. There were sand dunes and beach grass and a table ringed in sand that could be covered and then scrupulously raked off with a small rake. Gentle lights pulsed. Tripp wore his shades.

"A few more minutes and then it will be time to go," I said.

"I'm cleaning," Tripp said. He stood between two girls who poured sand onto the table's smooth plastic surface as Tripp raked crisscrossing patterns. Crowds of children whooped and shouted around him, but my damp, sandy grandson was blissfully oblivious.

*

The Park and Other Things

"Why don't you take Tripp to the park?" Katherine suggested after breakfast. He had picked delicately at some scrambled eggs and managed a few hesitant bites of sausage.

"Is it spicy?" he had asked, his blue eyes narrowed.

"No, it's not spicy at all," his mother said reassuringly.

"It's not spicy?"

"No, in fact it's sweet," Katherine said.

"It's sweet, not spicy?"

"That's right," I echoed. "Not spicy, sweet."

"Oh!" said Tripp, stiffening in his seat.

"What?" I asked.

"An ant! Get it!" A speck the size of a freckle was scurrying along the perimeter of Tripp's Color-a-Mat fire engine placemat.

I put my finger down to the ant, which crawled on board as Tripp shrank back quivering.

"It's just a little creature," I explained.

"Oh, boy, here we go," Katherine said, feeding Ollie a peach, some egg, sausage and granola.

"...And I'm just going to put him outside so he can find his little ant friends."

"Why?"

"Because an ant has just as much right to exist as we do."

Tripp followed me outside where, after releasing the ant onto the deck I pointed out the small stone Buddha that Tripp's Uncle Will had given me.

"The Buddha taught that all beings should be honored and protected, even ants."

"But why?" Tripp asked. He placed his hands on the stone statue, as if to lift it.

"Careful, Kiddo," I said. "It's heavy."

"I think it is not," declared Tripp.

*

After turning the handle to raise and lower the large green umbreya a few times, after sitting in each of the four wrought iron chairs, having artfully avoided anything moving, be it ant or infinitesimal fly (or anything wet) that might potentially threaten bodily harm, we were ready for a jaunt to the park.

Tripp wore his khaki shorts, red, white and blue sneakers, his blue polo shirt with the color turned up just so, and his purple shades.

"What are you doing to yourself?" Tripp inquired, as I hopped on one foot around the mudroom trying to pull on a tennis sock.

"It's a tennis sock," I explained.

"Why?"

*

"What shall we do first?" I questioned when we had reached the green expanse of the park. "The slide? The tire swing? The sand box?"

"I think the tire swing."

I lifted my grandson onto the large black rubber tire, reminding him to hold on tight and began to push.

"Spin me, Beauma!"

"Okay! How's this?" I asked, rotating the swing first in one direction, then the other. I pointed out the skate park, the pool and the young female lifeguard who was readying the pool vacuum.

A look of consternation crossed Tripp's face as he swiveled his head toward the menacing red plastic coil.

"She's not going to vacuum near us," I said hastily.

"I don't want it," Tripp said. 

"No problem," I said.

"Faster, Beauma!"

"You got it."

"No, slow down, Beauma!" 

"Okay!"

"I want to go on the slide!"

"Great!"

"The water spout!" Tripp bellowed, having dismounted and zipped full speed, blue sneakers flashing toward a curved grey plastic slide attached to a wooden platform with tunnels, and a shaky bridge, ladders, rings and several types and heights of blue plastic slides.

He approached the partially covered grey slide from the bottom, which did indeed resemble a water spout, and began to crawl inside. From above came the muffled order, "Sing, Beauma! Sing the Itsy Bitsy Spider!"

"What, now?" I called, glancing around.

"Yes! Sing Itsy Bitsy Spider right now!"

"Can you ask nicely?"

"May you pease sing Itsy Bitsy Spider right now!"

I bent down and began to sing, "The itsy bitsy spider went up the water spout," as the spider unexpectedly emerged at the bottom of the spout, turned and began to inch its way up again.

"Again, Beauma!"

"The itsy bitsy spider..."

"If you stick your head inside, it will really be loud," a nearby mother volunteered.

We played this game until other children began to want their turns, and the spider became agitated, waving its arms and declaring it was HIS slide, and had to be carried off to a quiet place to discuss sharing.

Ollie and I are ready to join you! Katherine texted.

"Okay, how about a few minutes in the sand box, and then we can go and get Mommy and Ollie?"

"No!"

"You can play with the trucks for a little bit, and then we'll go get Ollie and Mommy and come back."

"Right now?"

"Well, sort of, but we might want to get a picnic first."

"No, but I mean can we come back to the park right now?

*

Are We There Yet?

"I need my umbreya!" Tripp says.

Raindrops have started to spatter just as we have pulled into a rest stop off the Taconic Parkway en route to Vermont for the 4th of July weekend. While my daughter changes Ollie in the back of the car, Tripp and I skip inside to choose snacks. Tripp holds two fingers of my right hand and has his tiny blue flashlight to light the way. It's 7:30am.

"Oh!" he says. "Don't go in the wet," he warns me, stepping carefully around a smallish puddle. His choices, after a painfully slow circuit of primarily expensive junk food are a bottle of pink "yemonade," a bag of maple flavored pretzels and M&Ms.

"Are you sure your mother lets you have that pink juice? It looks like it's full of sugar."

"Oh, yes," says Tripp.

"What is taking you two so long?" his mother asks, Ollie riding on her hip. "All of that can go back," she directs us.

"No-o!" Tripp says.

Deftly, Katherine substitutes a Cliff Bar for the pretzels and water for the sickly pink juice. I hide the M&Ms.

"I told you," I whisper to Tripp, "that your mother probably wouldn't approve."

"She was not entirely pleased," he murmurs thoughtfully.

"It's from a book," Katherine explains over her shoulder.

"Whydough?" He asks as we run, run, run back to the car.

"Because it's not healthy."

"Why?"

"Because it's full of sugar."

"But why?"

"Because..."

"How about a movie?" Katherine interrupts, once everyone is buckled back into car seats.

"I want 5 Little Monkeys!" Tripp shouts.

"How about asking nicely?"

"Pease may I have 5 Little Monkeys?"

"Yes," we agree.

"5 Little Monkeys right now?"

"As soon as it is humanly possible."

My job as navigator is to press the repeat button on the DVD player several hundred times, so 5 Little Monkeys can play indefinitely - or for the next 2 hours. I am to adjust Tripp's headphones, which keep slipping, locate his flashlight, offer choice morsels of Cliff Bar and Pirate Booty (not the green kind), feed Ollie organic Os, hand Ollie various toys, but not the Incy Wincy Spider book, because Tripp wants it, make noises and faces, uncap water bottles and offer condolences when the water bottle cap sails out the window.

"Oh, my cap!"

"It's okay, we can substitute another one for that one when we get to Vermont."

"Why?"

"Because the original one flew out the window."

"Why?"

"We're nearly to Beauma's," Katherine interrupts.

"In Vermont?" Tripp asks.

"Yes," we answer.

"Is this Vermont?" says Tripp, surveying his surroundings.

"As soon as we see the green sign welcoming us to Vermont," I explain, "We'll be in Vermont."

"Why?"

"Why is there a sign? Why is there a place called Vermont? Is Vermont simply a state of mind? Why are there clouds? Why do little boys ask so many questions?"  Katherine and I joke.

"Is this Vermont?" Tripp demands, pointing to a field.

"Almost, buddy!"

"Is this Vermont?" Tripp asks pointing to a man on a bicycle.

"Just about!"

"I want to go to Beauma's!"

"We're nearly there!"

"In Vermont?"

"Yes!" we say.

"Why?"

Soon after, we arrive in Manchester, spent.

"Is this Vermont?" Tripp wants to know.

"Yes! Yes! Yes! This is Vermont!"

Tripp indicates a traffic circle, the bookstore, pedestrians, small, possibly quiet children in strollers, and parked cars. All of it is Vermont.

"But, where is Beauma's house?"

"We just have to go through town, make a left, go down a big hill, make another left, go up a big hill, bear left and we will be at Beauma's," I say in an effort to be specific.

We glide into the driveway, Katherine backing up a bit because she has run onto the grass, while Tripp sighs happily, "I just yove Vermont."

*

Only Travelers Here

I am perched on a tall green sponge-painted kitchen chair eating plain yogurt with fruit, telling my mother a bit about my Tibetan Buddhist teacher Dzigar Kongtrul Rinpoche, who as luck would have it is to speak tonight in Long Island City.

"Who is this person?" Mom asks haltingly between bites of lunch. She lifts the fork in a slow trajectory toward her mouth: a swipe at the cheek, a shaky rotation to the chin, then a hesitant slide into her mouth. I resist the urge to applaud, or to say, "Good job!" as if she were 10-month-old Oliver.

"He is a kind and compassionate man, who believes that all sentient beings -- " I begin.

"Scented beans?" Mom demands. Simultaneously we burst out laughing. A piece of cantaloup shoots from my mouth. We howl so loudly that Liz, the day shift nurse, comes inside to see what's happening. Lynn emerges from the den.

"What's going on here?" Neither Mom nor I can speak.

"Oh, dear, you've made me wet my pants again," Mom gasps.

"That's okay," Lynn says. "You're the only one who can."

"What else?" Mom asks, when we have recovered.

"Well, a few times a year he and his students go to Maine for a ceremony to release lobsters, and sometimes clams and mussels as well. It's called a Tsetar Ceremony, the practice of Life Release."

Mom chews thoughtfully.

"If he releases them, doesn't he have to catch them first?"

I have no answer to this. I am imagining a happy troupe of Buddhists manning a fleet of dinghies on choppy seas, reeling in lobster traps and flinging wide the doors. "You are free, crustaceans, free!" 

"I have a new beau for..." Mom says suddenly, popping my fantasy.

"Tina?" I know where this is going.

"Yes! I forget his name. He's a sort of a...?"

"Neighbor."

"Bill something or other..."

I mention the name of a man 30 years older than my sister; in fact, he is a contemporary of my mother's.

"Yes! They have so much in common. They both go around sniffing for worms," Mom says.

"They what?" Lynne, Liz and I demand. We cannot speak as waves of laughter roll through us.

Mom wiggles her fingers. "You know!" she says.

"She means dowse," Lynn guffaws, having heard this many, many times before.

"Yes!" Mom agrees. "That thing to find water."

*

I find E-Vam Center in Long Island City and a place to park on the street, a mere block away. At 6:30, the door opens, and we descend past prayer flags and a stone buddha down a few stone steps into a small, bright room. Rows of cushions have been placed upon the floor before an altar of artifacts, small bowls, relics. There is a colorful teacher's chair. There is a row of chairs and a small couch at the back, but ignoring the fact that I cannot sit comfortably with legs crossed for more than 20 minutes, I eschew the more comfortable seats to be closer. I will spend much of the next 2 hours squirming painfully, legs and hamstrings numb. I will take careful notes. I will make a mental note to get a pedicure. I will be reminded how in moments of discouragement or loneliness, I can always return to the cushion, always to the breath. I will gaze at Dzigar Kongtrul Rinpoche, at his calm and beautiful face, moved by his kind attention, wisdom and open-hearted presence. 

"We do not know who our parents will be when we are born," Rinpoche says. "Karma brings us to connection with dharma, to a particular lineage; a particular teacher sparks our interest to study and practice. It could have taken lifetimes to get here, to be on the path, yet even with obstacles, there is an ongoing experience of growth."

For me there is also a sense of an internal life, of being someone who finds joy in meditation. I have no real understanding of how I got here, nor how many lifetimes it's taken me. What I know absolutely is that one of my root teachers is 95, and her sense of humor is irresistible.

*

Word Salad

Tripp sings "Itsy Bitsy Pider" 500 times a day. If you hide in the next room, he will obligingly sing it en espanol. He is enthralled by language. Our new game is for me to read aloud from cards depicting heavy equipment vehicles that each begin with a letter of the alphabet: A is for Articulated Hauler, B is for Boom Truck, V is for Vibratory Compactor. I read a bit about each machine while Tripp studies the picture, pronounces, "I don't have one of those," then places them all in a neat stack.

On a recent Sunday, Tripp was bouncing on his new bed. His mother and I were folding laundry. Correction: I was only allowed to fold the sheets and towels, and to match pairs of tiny socks. My daughter imagines me to be geometrically impaired laundry-wise.

"Where did Mommy go on business?" Katherine questioned her son.

"Um, California!"  He pointed to me. "You say," he instructed. "Ca-li-forn-ya."

"Ca-li-forn-ya," I repeated dutifully. He launched from bed to pillow to stool to ottoman. He covered himself with his quilt.

"What are you doing, silly?" asked his mother.

"He's pretending," I told her.

"I pretending I'm a dog. Woof." The dog emitted a tiny whimper.

"What's wrong, Dog?" I asked.

"I'm hungry. I need a bone."

"Here's one," I said, scratching a place on the off white rug with my fingers. "You must have forgotten where you buried it."

"Yes," the dog replied. "Put it over dere."

"Here you go."

Another small whine escaped the bundle of quilt.

"What is it now?" asked his mother.

"I need another bone." This was followed by something muffled.

"What did he say?"

His mother's shoulders shook with mirth and she had to lean against the changing table for support.

"He says he needs another bone to take to sleep. Oh, boy, between the two of you I feel like I'm in a crazy house."

"Did I tell you?" she said to me, "Tripp has named his stuffed butterflies Bucky and Salmon? I have no idea why."

At this, the grandmother was overtaken with giggles and needed to excuse herself before she peed on the off white rug like a dog.

*

Mom was sitting in the sun wrapped in a green shawl. I was eavesdropping from an upstairs window as she and Jeanne played the alphabet game. 

"Okay, Mrs. V,  give me a word that begins with the letter O."

C'mon, Mom, I cheered her silently. 

"I can't seem to - oh, dear -"

"I'll start," Jeanne interrupted promptly. "Onion."

"Oxymoron!" I bellowed.

"The heavens have spoken," Jeanne laughed. "The smarty pants heavens."

"Oscillate," said Mom. 

"Obsidian!" I yelled. 

"What's that?" Mom frowned. "Anyway, down here we're winning."

*

Later, Mom roused from a stuporous nap to glance at her watch. An ingrained movement, requiring little thought, mere habit.

"Where's my watch?" she cried.

"Right here. See, it's right here." I touched her wrist, tapped the face of her watch.

"No, it's gone!" 

"Here it is, Mom."

"Oh... I really think I must be going. It's been lovely, but, if we want to change before the party..."

"Whose party?' 

"Well, you know..."

"Is it at Dimmy's?" I queried, referring to her grandmother, whose kindly presence frequents conversation these days.

"Yes. We'll be 16, I think." She peered ahead, as if picturing an engagement book. "You and me and of course..."

"Dimmy."

"Yes. I think I really should be getting back."

"Okay, Mom. I'll drive you home. Not to worry, there's still plenty of time to change."

Oh, good. Thank you, Sweetie. You played well today, I'm sorry I was so lousy."

"Mom, you weren't - " But, she'd fallen back to sleep. She nodded, smiled, dozed. I hoped that to whatever soiree her mind had taken her, her dinner partners were handsome, athletic and sublime, her dance card full.

*

Birthday Pesints

Tripp is "free!" Three years old.

His mother told me that when he woke up on his birthday morning and asked his customary morning question, "Mommy, are you upstairs or downstairs?" She called up to him,"Down here, Birthday Boy, and you are three years old today!" I imagine she swung her arms wide to embrace her son.

"No, I not!" Tripp wailed, rubbing his eyes. "I still two."

"Oh, okay," his mother said.

Then he noticed that a new toy had been added to his collection of Toy Story characters: the much coveted Zurg, Disney's version of Darth Vader. After some playing with Zurg and Jessie the Cowgirl and someone named Stinky Pete, "the pwospectuh," he said, "Okay, I free now."

A boy needs time.

Tripp, unlike his grandmother (in this case me) did not rip through his presents with an air of dissatisfaction and incipient sadness. He carefully explained that Zurg fights Buzz Lightyear with laser cookies. To demonstrate, he performed a series of vigorous flinging motions. I learned about Jessie and a Slinky dog and a truly frightening character named Big Baby, whose purpose seems to be to loom over the other toys in a menacing way, a death grip on its bottle.

During discussion time it is vital for me to express my comprehension of different elements in the story by repeating them, verbatim.

"And this is Bullseye, Jessie's horse," Tripp explained.

"I see," I said.

"Bullseye," he repeated. "Jessie's horse."

"Got it," I said.

He waited.

I waited.

"Oh! This is Bullseye, Jessie's horse!"

"Yes," breathed Tripp.

I brought BOOKS, some more appropriate than others. A story about a young raven named Edgar who replies Nevermore to each request made by his mother was a good choice.

"Can you read it again? Again? Again?" And, holding up his forefinger, "Okay, just one yast time."

A board book based on Moby Dick was not. Each page contained a single illustration. First was the Pequod, labeled "ship."

"Ship," repeated Tripp with great seriousness.

There was a cotton tufted Moby Dick, labeled "whale."

"Whale," said Tripp.

But, then came Captain Ahab's peg leg labeled, as one might expect, "leg."

"That's just great, Mom," my daughter said, closing the book before Tripp could see it or the next page beside which was the caption mad.

"You can just take that one right back to Vermont."

We could, however, all agree on a collection of books about Winnie-ther-Pooh. My mother had read them to me, and I had adored them. When I read them to Katherine, Milne's wordplay and humor was as evident to her as it had been to me. As a little girl she had quickly gotten the gentle joke of Pooh living under the name of Saunders. Tripp in his turn giggled in the first chapter when Pooh slithers down through the branches of the bee tree, foiled in his attempt to garner honey, exclaiming ow and bother as he falls.

I suspected he might, he being that sort of boy.

He will outgrow Zurg. Eventually he will discover Melville. Winnie-the-Pooh is forever - or at least until next Tuesday.

*