10/02/2025
[This is a parody of/homage to some old friends of childhood. The initial draft was written December, 1997. It’s changed in the interim: some tightening and updating for the times, a word here, a turn of phrase there. At least one entire letter vanished between two drafts. While I’ve always loved the finished product, I’d also had a certain trepidation about how it would be perceived. It wasn’t a graphical co-opt of someone else’s copyrighted visual characters, but it also treads the line between respectful homage and curious fan-fic. I fretted about collecting it until the afternoon in 2017 when I learned about Jason Yungbluth and WEAPON BROWN. (When you Google it, I think you’ll understand where my trepidation went.) It debuted in the limited edition of SHADY ACRES AND DARKER PLACES; it now returns here for the 75th anniversary of the debut of PEANUTS, restored to its original form with proper character names, save for Charlie Brown, because I can believe he’d become CB, but no way do I buy that anyone would still be calling him by his full name years later.
In May 2017, not long before I decided to publish it, I had a chance to write a very brief prologue to the story on a typewriter that was part of an exhibit at the Charles Schulz museum in Santa Rosa, CA. Said exhibit was designed around Snoopy writing “It Was A Dark and Stormy Night”. Opportunity knocks but once. If there hadn’t been kids waiting in line, I’d have gone longer. Said prologue exists in a single copy, hidden in my office. Ask the cat next door for details. IYKYK.]
15 April
“And others had trial of cruel mockings and scourgings,
moreover of bonds and imprisonment; they wandered
in deserts and mountains, in dens and caves.”
Hebrews 11:36, 38
Dear Lucy,
As if there wasn’t enough to concern me here in the wild, I opened your most recent letter with trepidation. The infrequency of your correspondence has in the past lent great credence to my belief that you only contact me when you have news of a tragic nature. Imagine my delight to find that you may in fact be growing less crabby with age.
I shared your missive with the natives here and in Gwanchye, a village twenty-four kilometers from here, across the swamp. Though their fluency is in a specialized dialect of the Akon language, your use of simple English proved non-taxing for the natives, although your penmanship made passing the letter and reading aloud in cycles unwieldy. If possible, would you please type your next? Since our group reading of Lord Jim, the tribe been restless to practice their phonics, but I suspect Othello (the only other text I still have since the floods) is above their current level.
Once I filled in the cultural gaps, the chief—a strapping man named Tebogo—and his sons found great amusement in your latest encounter with Schroeder. I will cop to a certain level of pity for you. We’ve had this conversation before, so I find your disruption of his piano concerto at the Met by shouting, “Play something romantic, you blockhead!” an unhealthy step in the wrong direction. You wonder why the elite of the Manhattan social scene haven’t rushed to embrace you as a débutante. Do you even own a dress that isn’t blue?
Thank you for news of Rerun—he writes to me less often than you. Tell him that where CB’s sister is concerned, he should run to the nearest exit. Her interest is solely based on his resemblance to me. That may sound like ego, but we both know I seldom succumb to petty displays of self-centricity. I still receive the occasional note from her, enclosed with letters from her brother and inscribed in red marker with those words I have come to loathe, “Dear Sweet Babboo.” Even the massive geographical space afforded me by the Peace Corps has no power to diminish her hopes. Don’t let him make a tragic mistake!
Speaking of CB, he recently told me he’s been called up by the Twins. If you would, please find and send me a newspaper clipping to confirm this is an actual event, as opposed to another pipe dream (like that Olympics fiasco—do you remember?) Don’t misunderstand, CB remains one of my closest friends, but I suspect he’s spinning yarns, trying to bring some cheer to my days here in Africa. I don’t want to become enthusiastic only to discover he’s throwing softballs to aspiring power hitters in a third-rate stadium in Toledo.
I must finish this in time for the mail, or it will be a week before I can send it. Please send books. My intellect is withering in the heat. If Hemingway had forcefully reiterated how oppressive this place can be, I would have opted for the Australian Outback. Until then, I remain...
Your brother,
Linus
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3 June
“But Jesus said, Suffer little children, and forbid them not to
come unto me; for of such is the kingdom of heaven.”
Matthew 19:14
Dear Lucy,
What is our brother thinking? How could he be dating her? Did you not speak to him? I wonder, despite appearances, if we were spawned by the same genetic pool. My biggest fear is Sally will leave him a broken, huddling mass of neuroses. Tell him I said to find himself a law student roaming the Princeton campus who will allow him to express his soul upon the canvas, as opposed to that barber’s daughter, who will send him off to drone for a soulless multinational like an organ grinder’s monkey, while she grows fat eating premium ice cream, sitting on the couch and watching her ‘stories’. In other words (in the coarse tongue I reserve for our brother), lose the wench.
Things here are routine: farming, trips to the well, and my personal hunt for a boar to dress and cure (the tribe, a long-ago split from the Kualngo, is herbivorous.) I had some help—his week the trophy hunter, Parker, made his biannual sweep through the village on his way out from civilization. His Range Rover is pedestrian, but gets him between points A and B. He was gracious enough to share a variety of television programs with me (don’t laugh; even Saint Augustine enjoyed a secret vice or two), and I was unprepared to see that stupid beagle on a competitive dance show. What’s next—a balloon in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade? Also, his cha-cha? Only so-so.
Thank you for the reading material, though I think you misunderstood my needs. A withering intellect doesn’t spring back to life when fed tomes by Jackie Collins and Danielle Steele. I thought maybe you’d grace me with Stephen Crane, Henry David Thoreau, William Faulkner, even Herman Melville—not V. C. Andrews. Though the tribe seemed to get behind Flowers In The Attic. Who knew?
So it’s true. CB is a big league pitcher and managed to strike out the side in Boston. If I didn’t before, I now believe in miracles.
Do you really think it prudent to be skulking around the shadows of Schroeder’s apartment building, waiting for his limousine to pick him up? Aren’t there anti-stalking laws in New York? The last thing I need is the Red Cross sending news you’ve been convicted of some kind of infatuation slaying. Let’s be honest: being a classical music groupie isn’t normal.
Franklin has become a missionary in Kenya. He joined a caravan this way about a month ago, and stayed with us in the village for a few days. It was invigorating having someone with whom to discuss theology. He also regaled us with stories of his grandfather. An interesting man, but I’m convinced he was quite senile by the time Franklin got to know him.
We’re digging irrigation trenches and planting tomorrow, and I need a full night’s sleep if I’m going to be useful. Take care, and please write soon to tell me Rerun has paddled back to the senses he’s clearly thrown overboard.
Your brother,
Linus
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22 July
“For this time I will send all my plagues upon your heart,
your servants and people, that you may know
that there is none like me in all the earth.”
Exodus 9:14
Dear Lucy,
I have been heartsick since word that Rerun has hung up his brushes for her. I have engaged Tebogo’s son, Azikiwe, in creating a countermeasure. He is the strongest of the tribe’s practitioners of magic, and while you may consider it “mumbo-jumbo”, I feel this is the only recourse. The blonde interloper has bewitched him. Fire must be fought with fire! I will attempt to keep her misery localized, but if you hear of a plague of frogs falling from the sky, a newspaper clipping for my scrapbook would do wonders for my morale.
Speaking of misery, CB’s devastation at his trade to the Rangers permeates his soul. I received three letters in the last mail pouch, written in rapid succession on his first road trip with his new club. He blames himself, even though the media made it clear he had no role in the brawl with the Yankees. I think his concern he is the “baseball goat of the universe in perpetuity” was melodramatic, but I choose to cut him slack, as his wistful dreams of obtaining a World Series ring have been severely dashed now that his mail goes to Arlington, TX.
I’ve heard through the grapevine that our favorite walking dust-storm has passed the bar in Iowa, and is now going by his given name. First, I can’t believe the kid’s name was Burbank and we never knew. And second, there’s a dry cleaner somewhere who is going to become filthy stinking rich, no pun intended.
I am uncertain of your motives in telling me that Miss Othmar, God’s gift to education, has separated from that miscreant, the Hagemeister. Granted, I never thought he was good enough for her, but she is surely too old for me. I doubt she even remembers my lovelorn attention and inquisitive nature. It has been years since I was precocious, and I no longer feel “that way” about her in any event.
Instead, I suspect you’re using my former teacher and crush-object to deflect attention from your pursuit of everyone’s favorite pianist. Your latest escapade makes me long for a nickel to send, in hopes you’ll pull up a stool at your old psychiatric help booth and treat yourself. In all seriousness, did you think you could make him jealous by dating a trombone player? I cannot speak for him, but if Schroeder is anything like me, he associates trombones with the voice of authority. Is it any wonder he saw through your ploy? You’d never date an authoritarian.
Please, PLEASE find yourself a hobby, dear sister. Renounce the musician before I have a potion made up to save you, too.
I’m not kidding.
Your Brother,
Linus
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2 September
“Rejoice with me; for I have found
my sheep which was lost.”
Luke 15:6
Dear Lucy,
Your question regarding my blanket had a curious alignment with my discovery of its fate. I recall mentioning months ago the panic attack I had when I realized it was missing. (Aside: this is not the place to run out of Xanax.) This week, a woman from a nearby Berber tribe arrived with her family to do some trading. Her baby was wrapped in the softest, bluest piece of outing flannel you’ve ever seen: MY soft, blue outing flannel. I was prepared to engage in tribal combat (a fearful affair involving spears, fire, and ritual body-scarring, but it was my blanket, dammit) when I saw how secure the child appeared. I negotiated instead for a small square to wear on the back of my watch against my wrist, like a flannel nicotine patch. Laugh if you must, but the days are somehow more bearable. Plus, a child needs every possible chance out here. Even a grown one.
If you speak to CB (I know you two talk on the phone at least every other week; he confessed, so don’t try to deny it), please give him my utmost condolences. Peppermint Patty sent me a newspaper article about the death of his old baseball hero, Joe Shlabotnik, and I saw CB was one of the pallbearers. Not everyone is allowed the opportunity to shepherd a hero into the next life; but I wonder where they found five other people who’d even heard of the guy. I confess the image of CB lugging the casket alone, across his back, is eerily amusing. PP says CB struck out eighteen in his start that night. The fact this guy wore number 18 his entire career is no small coincidence.
Huzzah for Rerun! His senses return to him with a Cagney-esque melon to the snoot of the blonde interloper! It even fits his artistic temperament. I can now call off Azikiwe. I expect I will start receiving Sweet Babboo mail once more. It had vanished with little fanfare from my world, but such are the slings and arrows I can bear for the sake of my little brother.
And bless you, by the way, for the new Bible. Your kindness continues to confound my memories of childhood.
I’m sorry you keep running aground on the Isle of Steinway. Musicians are a difficult lot. Has it ever occurred maybe you can’t win Schroeder’s heart for the space music occupies within it? Have you considered brute force of will may not be enough to turn his head? DID YOU EVER CONSIDER SOMEONE ELSE? It’s just a question, mind you.
Chiding politely,
Linus
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3 November
“When he had opened the sixth seal, there was a great earthquake; and the sun
became black as sackcloth, and the moon became as blood”
Revelations 6:12
Dear Lucy,
Given the season, I’ve been availing myself of the opportunity to tell the tribe about the Great Pumpkin, although none of them has ever seen a pumpkin patch and are thus unaware of the joy to be realized by maintaining a sincere one. I thought I was working a single until Tebogo surprised me with a musical composition he called “The Great Pumpkin Waltz”. He claims it is not a tribal work, but was instead written years ago by a San Francisco area pianist he called “Dr. Funk.” Do you know about this? With whom has Schroeder been sharing drunken stories of my childhood?
Your concern about Rerun’s new belle, Iris, is completely unfounded. She a food-throwing performance artist. So? They share a certain sensibility, if not an aesthetic. As long as he continues to create (and his belle is not She-Who-I-Will-Not-Name), I sleep the sleep of angels. You’ll see all is well when his first show opens. If it’s a joint show with Iris, all I can offer is this: wear a raincoat.
I cry out with elation at CB’s World Series game four no-hitter for the Rangers—and thus write the most improbable sentence in the history of mankind. And he kept all but one Los Angeles Dodger from reaching base. I’m sure he beat himself up afterwards for that one, even though they scored it an error. And two triples to help his own cause; whatever became of the wishy-washy icon of our youth? I try to imagine the words “World Series MVP” after his name, and fall into hysterical laughter.
He told me that after the victory parade in Arlington, he was approached by that little red-haired girl (whose name, for the life of me, I cannot remember). She’s been trying to find him since they went away to college, having realized in retrospect that his heart was always and only for her. Apparently, they’re dating. I’ve advised Tebogo to don sackcloth and ashes and pray the end comes swiftly for all of us.
I also stand in awe of you, dear sister, both at the audacity of your proposal to Beethoven Boy and the manner in which it was undertaken. I know not when you had the time (or how you kept it a secret, given your penchant for speaking everything on your mind), but piano lessons were an inspired approach for which I must give you ample credit. That he ponied up a diamond staggers me. How many busts of Ludwig did you need to destroy to reach this point? I had ‘312’ in the pool.
Taken in tandem with other recent news, I find myself at a loss. My decision to stay in the Corps or part company must be made next month. This is a wonderful place for soul-searching and contemplation, but I feel I’ve reached my limits here.
But if I return home, I’m not sure I could live with the shock of how drastically my once-predictable world has altered. Back there, I would be brother-in-law to a world-famous concert pianist, welcome by dint of blood in swanky galleries from Soho to Washington DC, and the best friend of someone on a Wheaties box. While it boggles the mind, it would make reentering the dating pool easier than it might otherwise be. Unless Miss Othmar is on the prowl, at which point all bets are off.
Of course, I could also consign myself to the way of the Jesuit, at which point I would begin signing my letters
Yours in Christ,
Brother Linus
(c)2018 by Doug Lane; all rights reserved
