Charles M. Schulz Museum

I remember it like it was yesterday . . . a biting cold snowy winters’ eve. The wind howled through the trees, a grey landscape blanketed with a new-fallen snow, reflecting the dim glow of streetlights. Like fluffy white sand the snow drifted across the streets and yards. Trudging through the snow that night burned this scene into my memory for one reason, A Charlie Brown Christmas.

Delivering the Canton Daily Ledger in 1968, my first job. Bundled up, running from house-to-house, invited in to get warm, provided me glimpses of the television special destined to become a classic.

That memory was triggered by a mid-summer visit to the Charles M. Schulz Museum and Research Center in Santa Rosa, CA. A long way from blistering cold wind and deep snow drifts. However, as we strolled the galleries vivid impressions of how Peanuts shaped my life as a small boy flooded my thoughts.

The Peanuts Cartoon Strip is the heart and soul of the collection. The Museum’s collection represents a wide breadth of Schulz’s thematic work from 1950 to 2000. Numbering nearly 6,000 drawings for daily and Sunday newspaper pages.

Remember Charlie Brown’s legendary kick? Inevitability Lucy merrily snatches victory from Chuck. That image, a 17 x 22 foot tile mural, adorns the south wall of the Great Hall. It is composed of 3,588 Peanuts comic strip images printed on individual 2- by 8-inch ceramic tiles.

How about the kite eating tree? Stroll to the courtyard, there you will see the infamous tree that always frustrated poor Charlie Brown.

My personal favorite, the exhibit titled Leveling the Playing Field. On display was original artwork of Charlie Brown baseball cap atop his head, poised with right index finger raised, lecturing his team; “Today team we face the beginning of a new season.” Always positive he continues . . . “The success of the team depends a lot upon its attitude. We can look forward to this season with real anticipation.” The final frame, the team with the caption, “No we’re looking forward to it with real horror!”

With my thoughts dancing between the memory of that cold windy night and the sheer joy of life's rich experiences triggered by a comic strip, I pensively smile and once again experience the delight of re-discovery . . . maybe it was just yesterday.

Comments

On Becoming Real

Some things get better with wear: old shoes, old friendships, and old books. Especially old books. A new volume arrives with crisp corners and a spine that hasn’t yet learned to bend. An old one has been somewhere. It has traveled through time in the hands of people who may no longer be around to tell us what they found inside. The copy of The Velveteen Rabbit (first published in 1922) on my desk is one of those books. My friend Don Hanley gave it to me. This late-1950s Doubleday edition features William Nicholson’s original illustrations and cream paper boards softened by age. Worn corners, a split spine, and colored tabs mark passages worth revisiting. Don didn’t hand me a keepsake. He gave me homework. When we talked about the book recently, he pointed me straight to the nursery conversation between a young rabbit and an old Skin Horse. The rabbit had noticed the mechanical toys around him—the ones with internal gears, bright paint, and stick-out handles that seem terribly impressiv...

Engineering Beef Stew

On July 2nd—Day Two of what I call The Great Un-Working —I sat down with my morning notebook to map out this new chapter of my life. One goal made the list in bold ink: Learn to Cook. At seventy, I was adding a skill most people master before they’re old enough to drive. Before you judge me, understand our household ecosystem. Lori is a phenomenal cook. For decades, she’s made meals so effortless and delicious that restaurants seem unsatisfying . My contribution to the culinary arts during my bachelor years–tuna mixed into Kraft Mac & Cheese. Let’s just say I wasn’t threatening her spot on the Food Network. But retirement changed the equation. I’m officially off the clock while Lori is still working. And I had a lovely thought: Wouldn’t it be wonderful if she came home after a long day to find dinner waiting? She loved the idea. Then came the question that haunted me for weeks: “What do you want to make?” I had no idea. Apparently, the first step in learning to cook is deciding wh...

The Gopher Problem and the High Powered Solution

Vacationing in Maine this week, just a short drive down the coast from Freeport, it is hard not to think about the outsized impact one frustrated outdoorsman had on the gear we all use today. Bad equipment can ruin a perfectly good day on the water or the trail, but it takes a special kind of vision to turn cold feet into a century-old empire. This is the story of the company we now know as L.L.Bean, but more importantly, it is a masterclass in integrity, learning from failure, and standing behind your work. In 1912, Leon Leonwood Bean faced a persistent problem: returning from expeditions in the Maine woods with cold, wet feet. Instead of complaining, he got creative. He had a local shoemaker stitch waterproof rubber soles onto the flexible leather uppers of a hunting boot. He called it the Maine Hunting Shoe and mailed a flyer promising perfect satisfaction. Then reality arrived. Ninety of his first 100 pairs failed when the rubber separated from the leather. Not an effective product...

When the Universe Calls in Sick

Take Thoreau’s Advice . . . Four weeks ago, we stood on the shore of Walden Pond in Concord, Massachusetts, trying to channel Henry David Thoreau. Before leaving, I bought a pocket-sized copy of his essay, Walking . It’s slim because nineteenth-century transcendentalists didn’t have notifications interrupting their urge to wander. Thoreau’s counsel is disarmingly simple: step away from modern life's machinery and let the landscape recalibrate your perspective. Back home in Vista, I took that philosophy straight into the backyard. Thursday morning, ink-black, pristine skies arrived. I aimed my refractor at Jupiter, whose light has bathed Earth since mastodons roamed the plains. It felt cosmic. Profound . I left the telescope mounted overnight, convinced the heavens were on retainer for an encore at daybreak. Naturally, the universe called in sick. By sunrise, a wall of coastal fog had rolled in off the Pacific, sealing the valleys beneath a damp, gray Tupperware lid. After about th...

On The Fly

Search This Blog