The other day while sitting on the deck I had a visitor. A sweet baby bunny intent on munching on a leafy hunk of geranium, juicy and wet, freshly fallen from the large stone planter thanks to an overnight thunderstorm.
She glanced at me, just a few feet away and must’ve concluded I looked harmless, despite my wild morning hair and mismatched jammies. I sipped my tea, she frolicked and nibbled, only giving me a passing glance before she hopped off the deck.
Her visit reminded me of why I love rabbits, and I figured the story was blog-worthy, especially since my latest book club gathering provided encouragement to tell a few more stories about life with my mom, Sue. This one? It’s all about a favorite book and a version of an apology. Sue-style.
When I was in seventh grade a beloved English teacher gave me a copy of “Watership Down”, Richard Adams’s treasure of a book about anthropomorphized rabbits. Life. Culture. Civility. Hardship. It was unlike anything I’d ever read, and I suspected my teacher, sensing the trouble I dealt with at home, tried to highlight skills she saw in me, encouraging my love of reading and writing.
“Watership Down” was suspenseful and unique, a story about conflict and community and I devoured it. I think my teacher thought the detour into rabbit warrens and a life of complexity in the animal world might be a relief. Or a release. She wasn’t wrong. I read and re-read the volume she gave me. A hardback copy in which she wrote a simple message,
“For Vicki – find the ones who will run with you.”
It was her way of saying find your people, trust wisely. One of her take-away lessons from “Watership Down“.
Not long after she gifted me the book, our family was on the move again. We stayed in touch for a year or so but after she retired, I lost track of her, but I had the book, reminding me of her kindness and the message that it was okay to be discerning about who I let into my life.
Sue knew the book mattered to me and saw the care I took to keep it in pristine condition, book jacket carefully positioned, sitting on the top shelf of my bookcase but away from direct sunlight.
Sue noticed the inscription once and asked what it meant. I lied, telling her it was a reminder that joining the track team was a good way to get to know people when we moved. (For those who haven’t read “Surviving Sue”, moving was a frequent thing in my childhood. We were never in one place very long due to my dad’s job transfers.)
My explanation to Sue was plausible for two reasons:
1. We did move a lot.
2. Because of my height, every time we moved, I was expected to be run track, long jump or play volleyball. Sometimes basketball. The joke was on everyone who linked height with skill. I had…and have…no coordination whatsoever for sports.
Other than her curiosity about the inscription, Sue was disinterested in “Watership Down“. “It’s about a bunch of rabbits? That’s a child’s story.” Disdain was expected from Sue, especially when another adult showed kindness toward me.
Imagine my surprise, years later, when Sue plucked that book to read on a sunny summer day. My beloved “Watership Down” found its way into a chlorinated pool, toppled over when Sue tried to juggle a beer and a book while on a floaty. No surprise…she saved the beer, but my book was ruined. It came home, rippled and wet and her remedy was to pop it into the oven to “crisp it up” – dry out the waterlogged pages.
My sweet, disabled sister Lisa was home with Sue when the book ignited in the oven, setting off the smoke detector. No damage was done to the house or humans, but my book was beyond salvageable. With sobriety on her side the next day, Sue apologized and offered to buy me a new copy, but I shook my head, no. The message that mattered would stick with me forever, “Find the ones who will run with you”. With or without the book.
Decades later I saw Sue struggle to connect with me as dementia took hold. Once when we were picking out books for her to read from the little library in her first retirement community she asked if I ever tired of being such an avid reader. Although she couldn’t say so, I knew she was proud of me. “You’ve always loved books,” she said, “And I’m sorry about the rabbit book. I remember.”
I knew what was in her heart that day and her effort reminded me then – and now – of a quote from Rumi. Two words from Sue carried so much meaning, far beyond a memory about a book. “I remember,” she said. And I understood.
“There is a voice that doesn’t use words. Listen.”
-Rumi
-Vicki
Check out this link to learn more about my book, “Surviving Sue”.
Victoria Ponders 
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