The Holly Story and Nothing But the Holly Story

It came in an oversized white rectangular box.  I was ten, maybe twelve, and beyond the tradition of hunting for Easter eggs.  And I was certainly “over” my belief in the Easter Bunny.  But my grandparents, who held the secular rituals of Easter dear, still gave gifts.  Thus the rather simple box laying in my lap that morning several decades ago.

I was startled to find what was inside; it appeared to be a dismembered stuffed animal.  I was startled, and am afraid I let out an “Oh!” or some similar exclamation because the sight was a bit disturbing:  long, velvety tan ears in direct juxtaposition with equally soft stuffed feet.  But upon further inspection, I found a sweet-expressioned, large-eyed rabbit with disproportionately long legs.  It had been arranged into an enviable forward fold in the tissue paper, thus the distorted appearance.  It wasn’t cute, in my opinion.  In fact, I thought it a weird gift.  But of course I didn’t say anything but a sincere and grateful thank-you to my beloved grandparents who doted on their only grandchild.

In the years to come the rabbit sat on my bed, sometimes on a shelf.  But most often it was relegated to the darkened abyss of a box, in an equally darkened closet corner.  It was rarely played with, as is typical of stuffed animals when a child reaches adolescence.  But the rabbit moved with me, in its pristine condition, from Iowa to Michigan to Wisconsin, along with a few other stuffed animals that survived the material purging a relocation requires.  Why?  This rabbit was an odd, gangly animal, much like me when I received it.  And it was from my then-deceased grandparents.  Despite its perceived flaws, sentimentality reigned.

Then our boys came along.  And when they reached the magic age of three, the threshold when amusements with small parts could be carefully introduced, I opened the window seat in their nursery and produced my select childhood menagerie:  a stingray purchased in Grand Cayman.  a large cuddly Teddy from a department store, a tortoise.

And the rabbit.

Under my careful watch (all the stuffed animals had small plastic eyes), my older son took a cursory glance at most of the plush creatures.  I worried the crazy-looking rabbit would scare him, being a child with a vivid imagination.  But when he thoughtfully took in its odd shape he picked it up, examined it, and carried it to a corner of the room.

I remember my first stuffed animal.  In fact, he occupies a chair in our house.  Snoopy, the dog of Peanuts fame, was given to me on my first Christmas by the same grandparents who gifted me the rabbit.  Snoopy has persevered when other cuddly prospects have come and gone and has remained a presence in every home I have lived, even in my college dorm.  These days he is more dingy than snowy white, has an ear hanging by mere threads, and a collar that no longer fits…his neck gradually stretched from being swung around by the head.  Despite his bedraggled state, Snoopy is the one.  He’s always been there, through it all.

Now, the rabbit with whom I never made a connection has become my son’s prized companion.  No long androgynous, “it” became a “she” when my mother-in-law suggested “Holly” as a name.  Holly, sometimes known as “Miss Holly,” and occasionally “Hollister,” has been with my son for almost seven years.  Longer than many marriages.  Her decades-long sedentary status ended when my three-year-old saw something special in her doleful, longing eyes.  One of her first adventures was accompanying my son to the pediatric cardiologist for a checkup.  My son held her close as we traversed the crowded halls of the hospital and sat in waiting rooms.  She lay next to him as he had his echocardiogram.  “Cool rabbit you have there!” one nurse after another observed cheerfully.  My shy son smiled proudly in return.  And when we received the news my son’s heart murmur had resolved, Holly was right there.  A pretty big beginning for a boy and his bunny.

Of course there have been many more adventures.  Holly came when we took my son to see Wicked on stage.  She sat on his lap, as content and intent as he.  Her birthday is celebrated every Easter…sometimes with a gloriously lopsided, homemade carrot cake and once, she was serenaded with “Happy Birthday” by the patrons at of a Texas Roadhouse.  She dresses up as a witch for Halloween.  And she goes on every family trip.  All trips, except for one, when she was accidentally left behind at school.   It was a long ten days hoping beyond hope that dear Miss Holly was not lost forever.  And when she and my son were reunited?  There was never a boy more ecstatic than at that moment.

My son used to ask, “Tell me the story of Holly.”  But he would stop me short when I started to tell him about the Easter I received the rabbit I thought I was “assembly required.”  He would correct me and say, “No, the story of when I got her.”  Of course that makes more sense.  Holly the Rabbit’s rebirth is her true beginning.  When she became truly wanted and started to receive an enviable love.  A love so amazing that her eyes are scratched, some of her fur is missing and she has had multiple “surgeries” to repair stretched seams. And become the object of such loyalty that carrot cakes are baked from scratch and phone calls are made to school and bus barn receptionists when she goes MIA.  She’s my son’s Snoopy but on a much, much higher plane.

She’s a member of our family.

Miss Holly, grande dame of the playroom, has life experience to impart to ingenue Sofia.