Oliver

"Someday, when we owe no more to the future, we will meet again."
Quote from a letter written by Jean Russell Larson, Muffs mother and famed childrens book author


Muff had a tenderly loved teddy bear named Oliver. She told me she'd had Oliver since she was a little girl, and she often called him "Odd Liver" and would position him with a good book on her bed, as if he could read it during the day while she was in class.
When something would go horribly wrong in our dorm room, Muff would sternly reprimand Oliver, telling him that, unlike Pooh, he was not a silly old bear, and he was expected to be a discerning gentleman bear. Oliver always looked suitably chastened. Muff once showed me how dancers never get dizzy by keeping their eyes on a spot on the wall while she demonstrated by twirling in a pirouette with Oliver, who cut quite a rug.

It was that sense of whimsy that endeared Muff to my heart so quickly, along with her sly wit and love of literature. She often told me that she felt like Rabbit from Winnie the Pooh tales, but she wanted to bounce like Tigger, yet she didn't want to be so irresponsible and undignified as the head-of-rubber and tail-of-spring critter. I was always a Winnie the Pooh type, in body shape if nothing else, and I used to be such a fluff head in the mornings that Muff would marvel at how long it would take me to put on my socks. She could go to several classes in the morning, come back and still find me with a sock in my hand, half asleep.

Muff had a strong sense of practicality and responsibility because she'd help raise her brothers, and she felt responsible for the well being of her whole family. She also had a sense of dignity and honor, and was steadfast in her morals. I learned a great deal from her on how to be more reserved and less wild and "out there" as a theater major can be...I also tended to say whatever was on my mind out loud, a bad habit that always got me into trouble. Muff once told me that tact was the ability to make a point without making an enemy, and I realized that, through my need to be honest, I often hurt peoples feelings. She taught me that sometimes silence is the best answer, and sometimes its better to err on the side of kindness rather than brutal truth. I miss having that moral compass so close at hand, when I could call her and sound out my ethical dilemmas.

She told me before I got married that she'd checked Jim out, and that he seemed like a good guy, but she had explained to him that if he hurt me, she'd find a way to make his life miserable. In that way, she made him realize that to her, I was part of her family, a person to be treasured and not forsworn. I remember joking to her years later that I was musing about having an affair, and she was vehement in telling me that I should do no such thing, because it would only cause pain to everyone involved, and that as long as I had someone to care for me through sickness and financial troubles and other difficulties, I should consider myself fortunate. She yearned to share her self with someone worthy, and was taken before she found him, but I know that she helped me rethink my priorities and my approach to ethical and spiritual problems many times. I will always be grateful to her for that.