Yesterday the Peanuts Movie came to the dollar movie theater in Carrollton. And my two kids at home and me went to it. I invited my wife, but with the righteous indignation of a Jehovah’s Witness unshakable in her beliefs, she said, “Why would I want to go to a Christmas movie?” She associated it not with the beloved comic strip in the newspapers, but with the old Christmas special. And she would not be talked into it. It is a matter of faith, after all. Celebrating Christmas, naturally, loses you the chance to live happily ever after on a paradise Earth… after Jehovah God smites all the wicked people and all the deluded people who never worshiped him properly using his proper name, and also that rude postman my wife doesn’t particularly like. Of course, it is not a Christmas movie. The only Christmas part it has in it is a brief Christmas carol from the old TV special that Snoopy ruins. So God didn’t punish us for enjoying this movie… at least, not yet.
We unrepentantly enjoyed the movie. I enjoyed it as a culmination of more than 50 years of reading and laughing at Charles
Schulz’s satire of the uncertainties of childhood as they affect the whole of our adult lives. My kids loved it because it is an excellent cartoon that is filled with hilarious moments that trace directly back to the comic strip.
The central story is about Charlie Brown’s self doubts mixed with his never-ending crush on the little red-haired girl. In his own hesitant, hide-behind-the-bushes style, Charlie pursues her and plans how he might win her heart. In the comics, it never worked out. He always failed. He was always the lovable loser, and the red-haired girl never noticed.
I was inspired to write a poem about it because I could so deeply identify with his crisis of confidence. Here is that sappy poem;
Little Red-Haired Girl
You never told her that you loved her, Charlie Brown
That little red-haired girl, so cute, so nice
You only looked and looked from afar
You never told her that you loved her, Charlie Brown
You could’ve held her hand
You could’ve walked her home from school
You never told her that you loved her, Charlie Brown
She never got your Valentine
At least, you forgot to sign your name
You never told her that you loved her, Charlie Brown
No hope of marriage now, nor children
Happily ever after has now long gone
You never told her that you loved her, Charlie Brown
Now every love poem is a sad poem
And the world is blue and down
You never told her that you loved her…
You never told her that you loved her…
You never told her that you loved her, Charlie Brown
The main story is paralleled in Snoopy’s Red Baron fantasies as the movie goes along. The lady-dog-pilot, Fifi, is kidnapped by the Red Baron. Snoopy, the dashing, daring WWI pilot sets out in his Sopwith Camel dog house to rescue her. And after being foiled several times… he succeeds! And not long after, Charlie Brown himself succeeds. The little red-haired girl actually chooses Charlie Brown to be her summer pen pal project buddy. I should probably be outraged because in the comic strip she never knew he was even alive… But I loved the happy ending. Charlie Brown deserves it. I deserve it. I believe even Charles Shulz would be charmed by it if he were still alive to see it.
I apologize if I spoiled the movie for you, but it is something you should already know anyway if you ever read and loved the comic strip. It is not the surprises that make this movie work. It is the being true to a time-honored comic-strip and the bringing of it so completely and so beautifully to life. And my wife looked again at the movie trailers and decided she had been wrong about it being a Christmas movie. Maybe we are not doomed after all.
One must end the year on a note that is either upbeat or regretful. A heartfelt, “Meh,” just won’t cut it.
I have given you a picture Paffooney today of the tapestry created by the town of Rowan, Iowa for its centennial in 2002. I consider Rowan my home town. I was not born there, but it is the scene of most of my childhood. It shaped most of who I am and how I am and what I am. It is the scene of most of my fiction because that’s where the most valuable treasures of Truth are hidden, near the wishing wells of our youth. I keep it on my bedroom wall because, not only do Pooh and Fozzie like it to be there, it is a beautiful thing to look at and reflect upon. It keeps what is most important in my life in focus. I have a lot of physical pain from my six incurable diseases, and pain makes the focus blur at times. But pain is also the source of what wit and wisdom I have to offer. I will continue to contemplate and write and think and create… and draw. I will continue to post at least a portion of the results here. I do desire to make some money with my writing, but that is only a secondary concern. I am not really writing for the people who know me in real life. They already know me and made up their minds about me long ago. They might read this and that and recognize something of themselves, but they are not the ones I am speaking to at this moment. I am talking in prose to those who see my ideas for the very first time with new eyes, no preconceived notions about me. It is for them, the readers I do not personally know, that my magic spells are cast in words.
Catch a Falling Star 