Corduroy
Corduroy is one of the few books I remember reading in my own early childhood, though the first time I read it to Philip, in the early early days, I approached it gingerly. It had the miasma of sadness for me, of loss or of childhood lost, of Paul not seeing the Rock People anymore, or simply of guilt. Maybe I confused it with The Velveteen Rabbit ; maybe it is just the grey wrapping of most of my childhood memories. Corduroy , it turns out, is a happy story. (Though I can guess where my twinge of guilt originated: Lisa does not bring Corduroy home right away, in part because his button is broken, and I always felt a great deal of guilt about neglecting any of my stuffed animals and toys.) Philip has been play-acting as Corduroy. He piles up the blankets and, like Corduroy ascending the escalator, annournces "I've always wanted to climb a mountain!" Curiously, I am still Lisa, and he runs circles around me and demands: "Pick me up! Take me home! Fix my button!"