Linus

Linus

I’m not a conscript of nostalgia, but sometimes when you are cleaning out the closet, you find something that causes you to remember something you’ve forgotten about. It happens to me, most often during the holiday season. Why, I am not sure. Perhaps, it maybe that I’m at my most vulnerable, during that time.

I was unpacking Christmas ornaments, when I realized that I had wrapped each memorable glistening globe, complete with its silvery bent hook, in newspaper; the funny papers to be exact. I like to use the comic strip pages because they are the most colorful, and I would appreciate, if I was an ornament, being surrounded by newspaper, not just for safety reasons, but also for the esthetic joviality of color it provides.

I know ornaments can’t read, or at least I don’t think they can, but I do believe, that because of the delight they provide, they deserve some joy of their own. I think we tend to forget they are placed in a box and hidden away for a good eleven months. How would that make us feel?  We not only don’t think about them, but often find ourselves designing ways of doing away with all Christmas tradition in an attempt to unclutter our lives, but mostly our closets and attics.

One series of printed drawings on the wrinkled paper, grabbed my attention. I remembered the comedic introspection from the previous year. Snoopy was as usual, lamenting his position of being under appreciated, knowing he was not only more intelligent than his cohorts, but more cognizant of their individual hierarchy in the gang than the others.

My close affinity though was with Pig Pen; Beethoven being a close second. I had attempted over the years to master a musical instrument and found my aptitude limited to little more than a beat, and that was jeopardized by the cast installed on my tapping foot. Ice, although a welcome addition to roasting chestnuts on an open fire, is less welcome when attempting to traverse a concrete stairwell in zero-degree temperatures.

I could empathize with Pig Pen because he is someone I know, have known, will know. He is to me, all those people, who are distracted. While many people become engrossed in everything that happens, there are others who are also engrossed, but to a lesser degree. Their ability to absorb the information that flows to them is not possible, because they have the attention span of a snow ball. 

Paying attention to life takes patience and fortitude because we rarely comprehend what we see. And often what we see and come to believe, has little to do with reality.  Because once again, we are intimidated by information.  It confuses our ability to accept what is useful to us, and that what we believe is useful to us. Accepting the truth, when it is not in our best interest is impossible, because it is easier to convince ourselves that others are more wrong about something, than we are.

Lucy uses her ability to psychoanalyze her companions and employ their idiosyncrasies against them, to gain an advantage in reaching a goal she wishes to achieve. I am not sure she does so purposefully, but her ability to recognize a weakness in ones ethics, morality, or common sense, is uncanny. Her sense of humor is also, although a bit dark, very direct in pointing out to others, personality defects that mimic their own. I have come to see her insight, as the cheapest form of introspective therapy on the planet.

One of Lucy’s classic moves has been documented and showcased during decades of holiday seasons. Charlie Brown, in his attempt to kick a sixty-yard field goal, relaxes his wariness, suspicions, and pays the price for believing he has the same ability to read another’s temperament as readily as Lucy, but fails to accept the reality of being duped by his own sense of trust.

When Lucy removed the football for the second time, and Charlie found himself prone of the ground, a look of disappointment sprawled across his face, I found myself empathizing with his delusion that people can change. His acceptance of that fact would be wasted on Pig Pen, or even Beethoven, as they both have accepted who they are, and in having done so, have entrusted the notion of change to those who contemplate the necessity of a stop light.

They do not have the need to prognosticate about the hole in the bottom of the boat they are attempting to row across the lake, as they know the predictable outcome, and have accepted it, while Master Brown continues, even after having been deceived, to harbor a hope of change.

While visons of jubilant dancing, race through the muddled realities of the gang, Linus remains on the edge of the confusion sucking his thumb in contemplation, and holding on to his assurance that all is right with the world, even when no one else recognizes it.

When I look at the little red headed girl, I can’t help but remember Rita, the neighbor girl, who lived next door to my childhood home. She was, and probably remains the epitome of the two headed Sphinx. One day she asked if I would be so kind as to look at something and provide my evaluation of its worth.  When I attempted to acquiesce, she hit me with her unicorn lunch box. My eye became inflamed, turning purple while she berated me for something, I had not said, but could never have imagined saying. Thinking back on it, I expect a Snoopy-esque figure had transformed the notion of truth, into something far less pristine.

I have come to fully appreciate wrapping materials, namely newspapers comic sections, for not only their utility, but their ability to transform the most mundane of events, into a time of childhood remembrances. 

It has been too long since I slept in the knowledge that I’ve been a good boy and deserve whatever I placed for myself under the Christmas tree, that I rescued from the vacant lot on the corner. Charlie Brown’s tree, although a sculptured empirical suggestion of what is a tree, is not necessarily, what we perceive. It is a lesson we should all embrace in a time when need has been dwarfed by want, and our ability to understand has been tempered by distrust, and lost in the bright light of apathy.

When I hear the pitter-patter of little hooves on the roof, I no longer rush to the window. I know it is only my imagination calling me back to a time when hope did not need a spoonful of sugar, to make life’s medicine go down. It not only is our illusion of sweetness but is claimed to be responsible for obesity. No need to remind our portly benefactor of that fact, especially during this time of peace, goodwill, and caloriated cookies.