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Christmas tales to warm the heart

Pique writers offer up a selection of stories to enjoy over the holidays.
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A very Creekside Christmas

by Leslie Anthony

Steve couldn't remember when the routine started, but he knew it by heart: check online weather forecast, look out the window, go to bed twitching, sleep fitfully, wake to cold blackness reminiscent of his January 1975 morning paper route in Regina, look outside again, check wind direction to see whether you would multiply the resort's chronic snowfall underestimate by a factor of two or three, call friends, inhale yogurt, fruit and coffee, assemble clothing and gear, step out into the funereal grey of dawn, ski along the roadside in the muffled silence of drifting flakes down to the Creekside gondola and into... quiet war.

That's the way it was with the Crack-of-Dawn Patrol, a frontline phalanx of powder mavens that guarded the gates to the kingdom for a full hour before the lift opened whenever there was even a whiff of snow. Some had done so for over twenty years. And with 40 cm on the board this Christmas Eve morning, Steve noted, all were in attendance. There was Chatty Charlie, talking up a storm behind the skis he leaned across the corral in such a way that no one dared challenge his spot. In front of him, of course, was Craig the snowboarder, who somehow always beat Charlie out for pole position. And then the rest of the usual suspects, straight out of Central Ski Casting: out-of-place racer boy with his teardrop helmet and absurdly side-cut boards; a handful of Craig's laggard bar buddies; anonymous tall dude with no friends and a beat-up pair of K2 AK Launchers peering conspiratorially over the steaming rim of a coffee he'd stretch until opening bell; a skein of sleepy, dreadlocked dirt-bags dragged from hippie hovels after a long night of drumming and "incense."

A diverse group for sure, and one unlikely to assemble for any other reason. Which is why the ensuing hour of chatter was so wide-ranging — politics, food, money, weed, squats, hotels. Predictably, no one talked about where they'd go on the mountain once they got up there. This was the unspoken basis of battle on a powder day — you were in it for yourself. Despite all their personal agendas, however, the regulars here had formed a certain bond. A camaraderie of shared anticipation and a need to fight the forces of evil: 600 Fresh Tracks Breakfasters loosed on the upper mountain before any of the Creeksiders had debarked from the top of Red Chair; Bonehead Lifties who didn't think to pre-scan riders then get the hell out of the way when the rope dropped; and Singles Line Luddites, gorbies and latecomers who didn't understand the ethic of first-come, first-serve — morons on first-track crack who'd step on your feet and disrespect the hour-long jump you had on them. These last were the true enemy, and the enemy was always a topic of conversation: today Charlie chuckled over the old battleaxe who'd once pushed him aside to elbow her way into our gondola while Craig shook his head over the Idaho tweaker that jumped in with him then started a fist fight. As usual, Steve grouched about Hans — his imagined name for the 70ish Austrian curmudgeon that always fronted the enemy singles line, staring straight ahead and saying nothing.

Hans, whose eyes were those of a hungry hawk, bereft of humanity or curiosity, was a fixture in every stage of the powder-day scramble. Later, for instance, he would be found poling relentlessly up the cat road above Emerald Chair, herring-boning into the teeth of a locomotive wind and driving flakes, heading for a first run in Rabbit Tracks. Hans always skated up the road while the rest shipped their skis over shoulders and boot-hiked, his powerful strides, Steve imagined, a by-product of younger days in the Alps. Hans had to get first tracks down his favourite line; he, and only he, should savour those 20-something turns to the flats before religiously traversing high left to milk whatever he could off the wall to skier's right of Chunky's Choice. By the time anyone caught up to him it was for the load up Emerald, where, while everyone bubbled over various descents, Hans remained expressionless, apparently intent only on working his way forward. This despite the orderly, alternating shuffle of North American liftlines where entry lanes funnel skiers into self-regulating mazes. Clearly he hadn't shed the Darwinian instincts honed in the slaughterhouse squeeze of European resorts, featuring wedge-shaped corrals in which the strong moved quickly to the front at the expense of the weak.

As usual, today Hans' eyes remained fixed on the bull wheel as it spun snow-covered cabins through the station. Steve glanced Hans' way a couple times but was preoccupied with something else when the rope suddenly dropped. The line behind him surged into the first gondola on offer, pushing Steve left toward the one in front of it, an empty cabin about to pass the door-closure cones. He made a quick decision, racking his skis and jumping in just as another body did the same to pile in behind him as the door closed. It was Hans.

Having scored first gondie, Steve was unconsciously smiling. Likewise Hans, who, as a result, now looked like he was going to talk. Hyped on the tension of the moment and locked in claustrophobic solitude with a sworn enemy, Steve was paralyzed at the thought of having to communicate. Hans said something in Austrian and nicht sprichst Deutsch Steve told him flatly. Parlez-vous Français, Hans added? No. Did Steve speak Italian, Hans persisted? No. After a short silence Steve asked Hans if he spoke Spanish. No. That's when he realized what Hans' isolation was really all about: he didn't speak English.

Having skied in many countries where he didn't speak the language, Steve empathized, which somehow instantly relaxed him. It was a Berlitz impasse, and yet somehow over the next 10 minutes, with mots from several languages, Hans found out that Steve had traveled the alpine intersection of Switzerland, Lichtenstein and Austria. Hans thought it loco that a Canadian would go there when everyone there wants to come to here, ja? He thought Steve's grossen skis were better-suited to Canadian poudre because Austrian pulver schnee was maybe not so bellissimo. Hans was 6 and 7 fingers old. He had two grown children who still lived in Austria. He'd been to Montreal. He had a nouveau titanium knee (the old one was finito), was pretty happy with his wenden (turns) these days, and his name actually was Hans. Steve's whole internal battlefield had changed in an instant

Getting out at the top, they both paused while others rushed past them in waves toward Red Chair. They tried wishing each other a nice day in the same Tower of Babel mash-up. It wasn't quite working. There was a pause while Hans summoned one last attempt.

"Merrychristmas," he said finally in a thick accent, characteristically merging all the syllables.

"Well... Fröhliche Weihnachten, to you," Steve said, thoroughly butchering each and every vowel.

They both laughed. Then Hans' face went blank again, and like a hawk he was off.

A letter to all the Christmas orphans in Whistler

By Alison Taylor

Dear Whistler orphans,

What I want for Christmas Santa just can't give me, not unless he can make a 24 hour day into a 30 hour day, so I've decided to write a letter to all of you instead of writing to Santa.

This is to you — all you Whistler orphans who will be spending Christmas without your families in Ontario, in Australia, in England.

If you're anything like me, I start to get a little agitated this time of year, knowing I won't be with the extended family.

My own little family of four is spending Christmas in Whistler this year with friends, and while I know it's going to be great, it won't be Christmas at "home" with mum and dad, cousins, aunts, and... let's face it... the general chaos that ensues.

If this is your first Christmas away from home you may be wondering what your Christmas Day is going to look like.

Who's going to fill your stocking? Who's going to cook your dinner? Who's going to do all those little things that make Christmas special for you?

Fret not.

As one who has a couple of Whistler Christmases under my belt, there's nothing to worry about.

Christmas in Whistler is awesome.

First of all, you're in a place that people have travelled thousands of miles to get to for Christmas. It's the Mecca for skiers and snowboarders around the world, and you're already here in this winter wonderland, complete with its magical fairy lights brightening up the village trees whose boughs are laden with snow.

Hard not to get in the holiday spirit with this as your backdrop.

And then there's the tantalizing bonus of being able to ski on Christmas morning as opposed to sitting around in your PJ's, ooohhhing and aahhhing over presents that generally don't come as any surprise to anyone.

Let's face it, skiing within half an hour of waking up on Dec. 25 is not all that reasonable to do if you're waking up in Toronto, or Melbourne or London with the pressure to open gifts high on the agenda.

But with the best mountains in North America not a stone's throw from your bedroom window, you'll be on the slopes by eight.

On my first orphan Christmas the area under my tree was fairly bleak, but Santa delivered in spades when it came to fresh powder. I can't remember how much snow fell on Christmas Eve — though when I fell, there were moments when I thought perhaps it was too much snow. Blasphemy, to be sure, but it was my first season snowboarding after all.

And then of course there's the chance to spice up the festive meal with something other than your traditional fare.

When I'm in Toronto I know exactly what to expect on Christmas Day — melon to start, followed with soup, followed by turkey dinner with awesome roast potatoes, followed by the not-so-delicious stodgy Christmas fruitcake.

There will always be cauliflower, covered for the occasion in cheese sauce. And the inevitable Brussels sprouts. I detest Brussels sprouts.

But raised under the mantra that you never leave anything on your plate, something I'm trying to impart to my three-year-old with great difficulty, I choke them down on Christmas to keep the peace. Even the leftover cheese sauce cannot mask that pungent vegetable. I'm lobbying to remove it from the Christmas menu, so far to no avail.

That same Christmas of the never-ending powder, the turkey we ate was a Cajun beast. Yes, Cajun.

In Toronto putting a Cajun spice on a Christmas bird would as sacrilegious as say skipping Midnight Mass to stay home and drink rum and eggnog — you just don't do it.

Turns out that Cajun turkey is delicious. I'm not used to having a mild sweat appear on my brow as I fan the flames of spice in my mouth at Christmas dinner, but it was good.

So here's the thing. You can lament about all the things you're going to miss or embrace all that there is to offer about a Christmas in Whistler though it may be a little different from Christmases of yore.

As for me, the only thing I'm going to lament is the much-needed extra six hours a day, something even Santa can't deliver.

Sincerely,

Alison

I'll be Home for Christmas

By GD Maxwell

'So this is Christmas, and what have you done...."

"Nice song," mumbled the sleepy voice in the back seat.

"I thought so too... the first 30 times I heard it during this trip," said the bleary-eyed, perpetually hungover driver. Me.

We were 36 hours into a roadtrip that, under excellent conditions, would normally take 24. We weren't moving.

It's about 1,400 hundred miles from Albuquerque, New Mexico to a little bedroom community just north of Milwaukee, Wisconsin. I'd made the trek once in late spring but never post winter solstice. What an idiot.

"Sure, mom, I'll be home for Christmas," I'd promised days earlier. There were at least two problems with that vow. For starters, the place my parents were living had never been my home and was barely theirs, it being more in the nature of a temporary bivouac. And as little affinity as I had for the place, I was certain it was absolutely dreadful in winter, not to mention you had to be completely senseless to travel 1,400 miles in a Gremlin at any time of the year, but especially at Christmas.

The Gremlin — one of the worst cars ever produced in the USA, which puts it at the top of a very long list — wasn't mine. It was my girlfriend's. Travelling half way across the country on the eve of Christmas Eve was her idea too.

The somnambulant passenger in the crowded backseat was her girlfriend, a woman for whom the word ditzy was coined. She'd brought a suitcase that wouldn't fit in what passed for a trunk in a Gremlin — really just the space behind the backseat — and, oh joy, her cat. The cat, a mutant, wall-eyed calico with a bobbed tail and, as we discovered, perpetual gastric distress, turned out to be a better conversationalist than the girl. Made more sense; howled louder. Slept not at all.

The empty footwell in back was loaded with four cases of Coors beer. It was a present for my brother who, much to his dismay, discovered they didn't ship Coors as far east as Milwaukee. Why would they? Milwaukee had more breweries than all the western states combined and some of them made good beer, which was more than could be said for Coors but there's no accounting for taste.

The cat's litter box perched atop the uppermost case of beer. That's all you really need to know about this story's setup.

We left Albuquerque late in the afternoon of December 23, 1971. Dusk was settling in, what there was of the winter sun was at our backs, the tank was full and, oh yeah, all we had for music was an AM radio. Google it if you don't know what that particular form of torture was.

We also had a bag of weed, a handful of Dexedrine, some black hash and a very large bag of homemade chocolate chip cookies, the recipe for which is my only treasured memory of that particular relationship.

Everything went hummingly until we reached the dead zone, east of Amarillo and west of Oklahoma City. All we could get on the radio was static, fire 'n' brimstone radio preachers, shitkicking cowboy music and, if the skip off the ionosphere was just right, KOMA, 50,000 watts of Top 40 rock 'n' roll.

"Another year over, a new one just begun."

Shortly before dawn, somewhere west of Joplin, Missouri, with heavy snow falling, the pitch of the cat's wail changed from grating to psycho. I don't know if you've ever travelled with a cat, but the best advice I can give you is don't. If you have to, use drugs, if not on the cat, on yourself — it's the only way you'll both survive.

Putting that theory to the test, I pulled the car over — did I mention the girlfriend's girlfriend didn't drive at all and the girlfriend didn't drive in the dark? — and blew a large mouthful of cannabis smoke directly into the cat's nostrils, which I was cupping with one hand while holding the back of its neck with the other. That left no hand to protect against the resulting ninja attack with all four paws, claws at full kill extension. I like to think that was the moment I popularized what would become mainstream a few decades later — pierced lips.

But it did the trick. The cat got quiet, staggered a bit around the backseat, got hungry and — probably shoulda' seen this coming — had a bowel movement that'd put a Doberman to shame.

Had you been following the dirty yellow Gremlin, you'd have thought a canister of sarin gas had gone off inside. It veered insanely off the road and three people literally fell out, rolling on the ground, clutching their faces and gasping for air. One of them appeared to have bleeding lips.

That's when the cat got out of the car.

I was all for leaving it behind to play on the Interstate but the girlfriend's girlfriend was borderline psychotic so we played hide 'n' seek and keep-away with the cat for an hour and a quarter in a blinding snowstorm until it gave up and got back in the car all by itself.

"And so this is Christmas for weak and for strong,The rich and the poor ones, the road is so long..."

"Well, that'll sure be the high point of the trip," said the gf's gf. Told you she was stupid.

The highpoint came a few hours later... when traffic ground to a halt half an hour east of St. Louis. Nothing moved. Nothing moved. An hour later, nothing moved.

The newsflash said there was a traffic jam. Well, duh. It said the traffic jam started in Chicago and nothing was moving for the 250 miles between there and where we were. Visibility was zero, over 500 cars had smashed into each other and no cop in his right mind would speculate as to how long it would take to unravel the mess.

When we got tired of sitting, we wandered outside. So did other drivers. We met, chatted, swapped what we had to eat, drink and smoke and before you knew it, we had a block party going. Car radios blasted, snow angels were made, kids played in the snow and, in those days when drinking and driving was only wrong, not morally bankrupt, we had one of the best Christmas parties I've ever attended. People were almost sad when, six hours later, traffic began crawling again.

It was midnight when I finally dropped my girlfriend, her girlfriend and the cat off in Chicago, quarter to three when I was forced to ring the doorbell and wake my folks.

"Merry Christmas," I said, when my teary-eyed mother opened the door.

"We thought you'd never make it," she said. "We heard there was the biggest traffic jam ever south of Chicago. We're you in it?"

"Naw, we just stopped for a party and lost track of time."

The story about how the Gremlin blew its engine in the middle of the night on the way back to Albuquerque is, of course, another story.

"A very merry Christmas and a happy New YearLet's hope it's a good one without any fear."

Mortal beloved — happy holidays

By Stephen Smysnuik

y grandma had unlimited long distance calling so I spent most of my Christmas vacation talking to my girlfriend. She was the first girlfriend I'd ever had. We'd been dating for all of two months and we'd kissed maybe three times by that point. I was profoundly, hopelessly in love.

It wasn't much of the "get away and relax" sort of vacation. My family had flown to Saskatchewan to visit the Smysnuik clan over the Christmas holidays and these are not a "relaxing" group of people. There would have been more cursing, arguments and booze-fuelled merriment than a trucker's wedding, but to be frank, I don't remember that week at all. I was too busy either speaking for hours on the phone to my dearly beloved or staring out of windows at the great white expanse of the prairie, wondering what my most darling-of-darlings could possibly have been up to.

The day before I left, we had exchanged gifts: she bought me Dr. Dre's The Chronic 2001 and I bought her a purple teddy bear with the word "Love" (very appropriately) embroidered on its right paw. Then her father chaperoned us on a date to the local mall where we drank Orange Julius and snuck a very brief kiss in the car on the way when he left to use the ATM.

The moment I left with my family for the airport, I was wracked by a separation anxiety that could not have been paralleled by any man, ever. It made for a, well, less than pleasant holiday away.

The rest of my family remembers this time as a momentous Christmas and it was the last time the whole Smysnuik clan family all celebrated together. If I had known at the time that it might remain the last time, I would have forced my wanky, 16-year-old self to cherish what had been afforded me at the time: a big family, full of love and tasteless jokes. But very little of that time has stuck with me, having all but ignored the familial celebrations to dwell in the dank cellars of my leaky, trembling heart. Oh, my dearly devoted, how I missed thee.

Of course, I alienated most of my family by being such a hapless mope. Halfway through the trip, it was clear I wasn't open to familial connections of any kind and everyone mostly left me alone. My cousin Kristin, with whom I've always been close despite her geographical handicap, was naturally excited to have me around. But all conversation would naturally revert to some dark romantic lyric penned by Korn and she eventually sought the refuge of my more entertaining, and well adjusted, brother and sister. I would then retreat to my favourite window, stare out at the snow, and listen to Korn.

Come New Years Eve, I was sick in bed with flu, (probably) caused by an aching heart and the unforgiveable winter prairie weather. My family had all but given up on me and with a heart that would not stop beating for my one true love, I felt loneliness that no 16 year old could possibly have ever felt before. I rang in the new millennium wondering how (and coming to no solid conclusion why) my week could have turned out so very, very wrong.

It took several years for me to recognize my grievous, angsty errors. I carry very few regrets but pining away like a miserable loser on Christmas, while surrounded by my entire family, is certainly one of them. It's possible that the Smysnuik clan might never band together under such celebratory circumstances again. Everyone has maintained good health, thank the heavens, but Lord knows that never lasts.

I pleaded with my parents to make another Christmas trip out east so we can all be together while its still possible but even my dad, who spent his entire childhood on a farm without electricity or central heating, says, "To hell with those winters."

It's a kicker, you know. My dearly beloved dumped me about a week after I returned home. She left me for a Filipino with the makings of an epic moustache and a fondness for excessive hair gel. I felt that I'd been swindled and declared my undying hate for the poor girl, and then got over it about a month later when something else consumed my adolescent passions in that specific point in time.

Seize the day, Charlie Brown

By Andrew Mitchell

Author's Note: This story is filled with Peanuts references, some of which you might go over your head. The most important is that Charlie Brown originally purchased Snoopy from the Daisy Hill Puppy Farm.

harlie Brown buttoned up his coat, said goodnight to his friends, and headed out into the cool of the night.

"Merry Christmas, Charlie Brown!"

"Merry Christmas everyone!"

They offered to call him a cab as he had a few glasses of wine with dinner that evening and wasn't known as much of a drinker. He politely refused, preferring the long walk home and a chance to be alone with his thoughts. He knew he wouldn't be able to sleep anyway.

It was two days before Christmas, his favourite time of the year. He relished the smell of wood burning in fireplaces and the swish of snow around his feet. The baseball-round moon waxed a pale harvest yellow behind a veil clouds, giving each on a silver lining. The topmost branches of the maples, oaks and elms that lined the street were shot through with snow, and cast crooked white silhouettes against the glowing night sky.

Houses in this part of town were all post-war redbricks, and once-upon-a-time they all looked the same. Now they were as varied as the saplings planted out front.

They all looked warm and homely, and Charlie wondered in passing, as he always did, who lived behind those frosted windowpanes.

Charlie wasn't dressed for the snow and the icy northern wind tickled his almost bare scalp. He plucked up his collar, fastened the top button of his jacket, and made a mental note to dig his old checkered, wool hunting cap out of storage.

The cap was hopelessly out of place and time, but he was still very attached to it, as he was to all the trappings of his childhood.

In fact, he still very much resembled the boy he once was, only on a slightly larger scale. He was a round head on a stout body that bobbed up and down as he passed from streetlight to streetlight. Each step fell in rhythm, a soft shoe accompaniment to the little jazz melodies that often ran through his head.

His face was plain but youthful, his eyes young but sad. He dressed as well as he could afford, but plainly valued comfort over style.

At last he reached a familiar stone bridge over a little creek that ran through town.

When he was younger, he would often prop his elbows on the edge of that bridge, bury his chin in his hands, and contemplate the world and the meaning of his life. He spent hours there thinking, wondering, marvelling, and yet so much of the world was still a mystery.

And time, the biggest mystery of them all, didn't bring the answers he hoped for—just harder questions.

The others made it look so easy.

Charlie stood there for a moment, listening to the creek, absently fingering a scrap of paper in his jacket pocket. It had been a business card once, but he had rounded off the sharp corners and broken its stiff back as he nervously fingered and fiddled with it over the last few months. By now he could barely even read the phone number.

Almost unconsciously, he lowered himself to his knees and propped his elbows on the bridge. Settling in, he let out the sigh that had been building in his chest since he arrived at the party that evening.

Tonight's Christmas party was also the engagement party for his younger sister Sally and his best friend Linus.

It should been one of his all-time happiest moments, but for some reason Charlie couldn't quite put his finger on he felt lonely and out of place.

A feeling that had been growing inside of him for the past few years like the way a fat grey rain cloud felt like it was finally about to burst.

It seemed like only yesterday that Sally was pestering him to help her with homework, teasing him, scheming to move into his slightly larger bedroom. She called him "Big Brother" in those days, and although she was frequently disappointed that that he was not the kind of big brother that beat up her school bullies, she had always respected his wisdom and goodness.

Now she was a young woman, still playful and full of mischief, but she had changed in so many ways.

She was still not particularly good in school, but she was witty and could think fast on her feet. Next year she would be going to law school at a big University upstate after squeaking through the entrance exams. For the next four years, Charlie would only see her on long weekends and holidays. After that, who knew?

Linus was already in his second year of medical school at the same big University, and to no one's surprise he was at the top of his class. He still disliked school and irritated his teachers with endless questions, but as always he proved to be a natural.

It was a huge surprise for everyone when the two first got together.

Sally used to chase Linus around a little bit in the old days, telling everyone that he was her "Sweet Baboo." The years went by and everyone thought the childhood crush was forgotten.

Then on Christmas Eve a year ago, Linus came by the Brown's to catch up with the family and drink some egg nogg. He had just finished his first semester at medical school.

Charlie left the room to check on a pie that was in the oven, and when he returned Sally and Linus were kissing under the mistletoe.

A car drove by Charlie kneeling on the bridge. The driver slowed down and hollered at Charlie to get back on his horse—apparently the driver thought he was throwing up.

Still lost in thought, Charlie slowly pushed himself back to his feet and continued his long walk home.

He walked past the old school, where he spent his lunches sitting alone on a bench in the schoolyard, fantasizing about a little red-haired girl.

He walked past the park and a tangled old elm tree that probably still had a few miles of kite string wrapped around its branches.

Time went so fast. One moment it was Halloween — Linus didn't stay up to await The Great Pumpkin any longer, and Charlie didn't stumble around the neighbourhood as a ghost in a contour sheet, but it was still something he looked forward to with a bowl full of candy. The next it was Thanksgiving, and the first snowfall of winter — something else Charlie loved, though it wasn't nearly as fun as it used to be. Nobody was up for pickup games of hockey on the frozen pond or for making snowmen.

Charlie was glad to have a younger sister because it meant he could do all of those kid things a little bit longer with her. Then Linus and Lucy had a younger brother, and for a little while Charlie was doing all those things with Rerun. Now Rerun was in high school, and had other things to occupy his time.

Both Lucy and Rerun were at the engagement party, and Charlie spent most of the night listening to them argue good-naturedly about the wedding. Friends that Charlie hadn't seen in years were in and out of the house all night, but Charlie couldn't seem to get past exchanging pleasantries with anybody. He wasn't much good at social functions.

Lucy had flowered into a beautiful young woman, but remained as hard-headed as ever. She, like Linus, was also becoming a doctor, and next year planned to branch off into psychiatry. While she was always more than willing to share advice and constructive criticism, soon her professional services would cost considerably more than a nickel.

Charlie loved her, and for a while he thought he was in love with her. At the same time, she was in love with Schroeder, but Schroeder loved music and the road too much to be tied down. He led a jazz band in New York these days, and had shows booked through the New Year.

Lucy was currently dating another medical student, a practical choice, and Charlie knew the first time he saw them together that it was probably forever.

Also at the party was Franklin, someone Charlie had become very close to over the years. Franklin was a gym teacher at the high school, and came into the Brown's barbershop every few weeks for a trim and a chat with Charlie. He would come at the end of the day, and they would go out afterwards for dinner and a beer or two in front of the baseball game.

Franklin was married to a veterinarian he met at Teacher's College, and when she was on the night shift Franklin and Charlie sometimes hung out.

A few years before, Charlie and Franklin were in the same teaching program at the same local college, but Charlie dropped out after the second semester when his father got sick. He died shortly afterwards, and Charlie came home for good to be with his family and take care of his mother.

He didn't return to school the next semester after deciding to keep the family barbershop going a little while longer. There were two other barbers at the shop who weren't ready to leave just yet, and his mother needed his help around the house. Sally also needed money for school, and without the income from the barbershop she would have been forced to take loans or give it up.

Charlie realized early on that he wasn't much of a barber. He mostly cut hair for the kids that came into the shop and relied heavily on the shears.

He liked to talk to them about baseball and school, and the kids liked him well enough — despite the fact that no matter what they asked for the haircuts always turned out the same. Kind of square, with a part down the middle. You could spot a Charlie Brown cut from across town.

Charlie even moved back into his old room, where he was surrounded by all the things that he could never quite bring himself to throw away. In the closet he found his pitcher's glove scented with Neat's Foot Oil, his lucky striped shirt, a collection of books and an out-of-tune banjo. A red dog collar hung on a peg, still covered with fine white hairs.

Snoopy had died six years ago at the ripe old age of 18. His doghouse was still outside, and his engraved dog dish marked the place in the yard where he was buried.

All of the neighbourhood kids had come for the funeral, laying flowers on the site and telling their Snoopy stories. He really was everyone's dog, although no one's more than Charlie's. Even the little yellow birds that were always hanging around Snoopy's doghouse seemed to be in mourning that day.

He cried when it was over and when he woke up the next morning everyt hing felt different. His friends seemed older, time moved faster, and the world seemed harder and colder than before.

Every time he thought about Snoopy, and that was often, Charlie still tightened up inside.

All these thoughts ran through Charlie's head as he walked through the snow past the old ball diamond, and marvelled at how small the pitcher's mound looked. He passed the football field, and smiled a little as he remembered Lucy's favourite trick — there was probably a Charlie Brown-shaped indention in the grass from all the times she pulled the ball away.

Pig Pen was at the engagement party as well, looking remarkably clean until he spilled red wine onto his white shirt. He was a gifted artist and was becoming famous for his original style and energetic canvasses. It was messy work, so his appearance didn't improve much over the years.

His date was Frieda, her naturally curly hair straightened and cut short. "I was spending a hundred bucks a month on conditioner," she confided to Charlie. "This is so much easier."

Peppermint Patty showed up later in the evening, and greeted everyone warmly. Once upon a time, Charlie thought he was in love with her too, but Patty had always been on a different path.

She coached a college women's soccer team, was well-liked by her athletes, and went home at night to a professional trainer named Paula whom she met at the division finals.

Marcy was there, and looking good after the laser eye surgery let her put away her glasses for good. She was the head of a government think tank on health care, travelled extensively and earned a good wage on the side as a consultant. For a while Charlie thought that there might be something there, too, but he hadn't acted on it. Someday, if he could work up the courage, he hoped to ask her out to dinner.

If it wasn't for the French exchange student he met at College, Charlie realized he would still be a virgin.

At last Charlie turned onto his old street. The houses were dark and the only sound was of wind through the houses.

Arriving at his house, Charlie didn't go in, but instead went straight into the yard. He sat cross-legged on the snow in front of Snoopy's dog dish, which he brushed clear of snow, and wiped his eyes with his sleeve.

"What's wrong with me?" he asked the dog dish.

The dog dish glinted in the moonlight.

"Sally and Linus are getting married next year, and I'm supposed to be the best man. I'm supposed to give a speech and make a toast. I'm supposed to say how happy I am that my two best friends will be together forever, but I won't mean it because I feel like I'm losing them both. I'm losing everybody."

Charlie sniffed.

"First you, then my dad...Now my sister and my best friend. I can't seem to hold on to anything anymore.

"I know this is supposed to happen, everybody gets older, but I just wasn't ready for it. Good grief, I can't let go! I'd give everything just to go back and play just one more baseball game with the gang."

"Why," whispered Charlie, "does everything have to change?"

Charlie sat there for a long time, until the moon disappeared over the horizon and his tears and the snuffling stopped. It was cold and dark, and the numbness was setting in to his behind. It was time to go to bed.

Things just change, he told himself as he got back to his feet and walked to the house. He promised, for what seemed like the hundredth time, that we would try hard to change, too. It wasn't so bad — he had friends and family after all, a job he enjoyed, and a million happy memories.

The last thing he did before he fell asleep, however, was take Snoopy's red collar from the closet and hang it on his bed post. Somehow it made the loneliness go away.

As he drifted off to sleep, he remembered the last time he played fetch with Snoopy. His best friend was old then with arthritis in his joints, and was starting to go blind. He missed the ball a lot, but he seemed as happy and uncomplicated as ever as he nosed his way through the high grass.

Charlie always felt that at those times that it was really he that belonged to Snoopy — that his old dog was playing with him to cheer him up.

The next morning, Christmas Eve, Charlie was up with the sun. It was a short sleep but peaceful, and his heart felt lighter than the night before. It was still heavy, but it was a weight he could manage.

He was almost out the door and on his way to work when his hand suddenly closed again on the tattered business card in his coat pocket.

He stopped where he stood, one foot in the house he grew up in and one foot in the wide world outside. He closed his eyes and squeezed the card until his fingers shook.

"Good grief," he sighed. "I can't let go."

Resolutely, Charlie turned around and walked back into the kitchen. He took the wrinkled card from his pocket, picked up the phone and, before he lost his nerve, dialed the number that was on it.

After a few rings, he was answered.

"Hello?" said a cheery voice on the other end. "Daisy Hill Puppy Farm."



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