Oh, to love a Plushie.
Posted by Delphinios on Wed 13 Jun 2001 - 17:12
In a particularly Heartwarming story, (Again, from MSNBC (I really do read other news sources, really!)) Author Susan Cheever gives us a personal story of her and her daughter, and a small brown bear. I remember my collection of stuffed animals, and my favorite one, "Scruffy". This'll leave a smile on our face when you're finished.
(As a biased side note, I wonder if we may eventually welcome her into the ranks of the fandom? I hope so. =-} )
Aureth's note: 'Fuzzy Wuzzy', a small, handmade, well-worn and often stitched bear still sits in my top dresser drawer. He's been around since I was a wee little thing.
About the author
Delphinios — read stories — contact (login required)a computer geek from Arkansas, interested in computers, marine biology, radio and pretty much anything.
Comments
I yearn for the day when one can say they love their plushies, and not have it taken to mean that they /love/ their plushies. To no longer be regarded as plush f*ckers just because we have a stuffed animal in our beds.
I personally have a huge collection of plushes, only a few of which have survived from my early childhood [one I remember with most fondness is Peter, a small lion]. Several wolves and a ferret have taken up residence on my bed. I love my plushies, maybe not with the same love as when I was much younger, but I do still love them.
*grin* Lawson, the balding polar bear, was given to me on the day I was born. his tongue is missing, his stuffing is coming out in places. He is in *terrible* condition, but ... man, if anything ever happened to him I would be *crushed*.
Sonny, once a bright blue teddy bear, was given to me the day I was born. He must have been three or four times my size back then.
All the fuzzy is rubbed off his "skin" and he had to have major blue-green-cotton "skin grafts" to hold his legs onto his body. Shortly after my mom did the "surgery" my grand mother stitched him up a little pair of coveralls that covered up most of the sewing scars, but they went missing some years ago.
He's up on one of the bookcases behind me as I type this. He now shares the computer room with a couple dozen plushies (not to mention the many, many more in other parts of the house).
The comments so far bring to mind a scene from the classic children's story The Velveteen Rabbit (whose author escapes me at the moment) in which the rabbit, then all nice and new, has a conversation with the other stuffed animals about being real. One of the others tells him that he'll be real when his eyes are loose, his ears are torn, and all the fur has been loved off of him. Or something like that.
Mwalimu (who never had a plushie become real)
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