Remembering When Santa Couldn't Find Flipper

A Christmas Story About Loss, Hope, and the Magic We Can't Always Make

There's a Calvin and Hobbes strip that perfectly captures the quiet exasperation and reluctant love parents feel when trying to fix their child's world. It's night, and Calvin's parents are out in the woods searching for Hobbes, Calvin’s lost stuffed tiger. Calvin’s dad grumbles about how ridiculous it is to look for a toy in the dark, while his mom, flashlight in hand, calls out “Ho-o-obbes!” into the trees. In the final panel, she sheepishly admits how silly it feels, and Calvin’s dad replies, “I may be crazy, but I’m not as crazy as you.” It's a moment that’s both absurd and touching—two parents doing something ridiculous simply because it matters deeply to their child.

I think about that strip every time I remember the Christmas of the Missing Flipper.

The Crisis

Faith was about five, and we were doing last-minute Christmas shopping at the mall—that particular kind of December chaos where holiday music battles crying toddlers and everyone's running on caffeine and determination. Faith had brought Flipper with her, as she always did. He was her constant companion, a small gray dolphin I'd picked up years earlier from the gift shop at the Houston Aquarium during a business trip.

Flipper wasn't much to look at—standard stuffed animal fare, the kind you'd find in any aquarium gift shop. But to Faith, he was everything. He had the perfect amount of squishiness, the right weight in her arms, and that indefinable something that makes one toy irreplaceable while a dozen identical ones gather dust.

Somewhere between the food court and Santa's village, Flipper disappeared.

The realization hit like a physical blow. Faith's face crumpled in that way that makes your heart forget how to beat properly. We retraced our steps, asked mall security, checked lost and found. Nothing. Flipper was gone, swallowed up by the holiday crowds and the vast anonymity of shopping mall America.

The Promise

Standing in that mall, watching my daughter's world fall apart over a $12 stuffed dolphin, I did what parents do when backed into an impossible corner: I improvised. I made a promise I wasn't sure I could keep.

"Don't worry, sweetheart. Santa will find Flipper. He has helpers everywhere, and they'll look for him. Santa will bring him back for Christmas."

It was the kind of parental promise that feels necessary in the moment and terrifying immediately after. But Faith's tears stopped, replaced by that beautiful, trusting hope that makes childhood both magical and heartbreaking. She believed Santa could do what we couldn't.

The Search

I was confident this would be easy. I'd bought Flipper at the Houston Aquarium—how hard could it be to call the gift shop and order another one?

Very hard, as it turned out.

Flippers that didn't make the cut

The gift shop no longer carried that particular plush. It had been discontinued. The helpful employee suggested I try their website, other aquarium gift shops, maybe eBay. What had seemed like a simple phone call became a quest that would span two states and the entire internet.

I visited every toy store in Southern California. I bought dolphins from eBay sellers across the country. I examined plush marine life with the intensity of a marine biologist. Gray dolphins, blue dolphins, small dolphins, large dolphins—I acquired enough stuffed sea creatures to stock my own aquarium gift shop.

But none of them were Flipper. None had quite the right shade of gray, the same fin shape, the perfect degree of huggability that made Flipper irreplaceable. Each purchase was accompanied by a mixture of hope and growing dread as I realized the magnitude of what I'd promised.

The Letter

Christmas Eve arrived, and I still hadn't found him. Faith had asked about Flipper every day, her faith in Santa's abilities unwavering. I was going to have to tell her that even Santa had limits.

So I did what parents do when magic fails: I tried to make meaning from the disappointment.

Santa's letter explained that he and his elves had searched the whole world for Flipper. They'd checked toy stores and aquariums, looked in children's bedrooms and under Christmas trees. But sometimes, Santa wrote, when a special toy gets lost, it finds its way to a child who needs it even more—maybe a little boy or girl who didn't have any toys at all, who needed Flipper's comfort even more than Faith did.

Santa was sure Flipper was in good hands, making another child feel loved and safe. And while he couldn't bring back the original Flipper, he hoped Faith would give this new dolphin a chance to become just as special.

The Reality

Faith accepted the explanation with the grace that children sometimes show when adults are honest with them about hard things. She named the new dolphin Flipper 2 and dutifully carried him around for a while. But it was never the same. You can't manufacture the bond between a child and their chosen comfort object, no matter how much love and Santa magic you pour into the attempt.

Flipper Two was tolerated rather than treasured, a constant reminder of what had been lost rather than what had been found.

The Redemption

Faith & a Flipper, St. Nicholas Day 2006.

For a few years St. Nick, who is fond of brining good children stuffed animals on St. Nicholas Day, brought a new dolphin to bring to Faith—mainly to assuage my guilt. Soon enough, she found herself with a bed full of stuffed dolphins. She liked them all but my (and St. Nicholas') quest continued. Finally, a few years later, browsing yet another toy store during the holidays, I found him. Not Flipper—that ship had sailed—but his nearly identical twin. The same shade of gray, the same proportions, the same soft texture that had made the original so perfect.

This time, I didn't promise Faith that Santa had found the original Flipper. St. Nicholas simply left the new dolphin in her stocking with a small note: "Sometimes miracles take a little longer to arrive."

By then, Faith was older, wiser about the ways of the world and the limitations of holiday magic. But she accepted this dolphin with something approaching the old affection, and he became a gentle presence in her room—not quite Flipper, but close enough to bring comfort without the weight of impossible expectations.

The Lesson

In the Calvin and Hobbes strip, Calvin does eventually find Hobbes—his friend Susie had been taking care of him. But the relief comes only after Calvin has experienced the full weight of loss, the helplessness of searching, and the devastating possibility that his best friend might be gone forever. Sometimes the world does restore what's been taken from our children, but not always, and not on our timeline. The magic we create as parents—the reindeer feed, the special keys, the carefully crafted stories—works beautifully when we're building wonder. But it has limits when we're trying to heal genuine loss.

What I learned from the Great Flipper Crisis is that sometimes the most honest magic we can offer our children isn't the promise that everything lost will be found, but the assurance that they're strong enough to survive the losing. That love doesn't end when comfort objects disappear. That new attachments are possible, even if they're different from what came before.

New/Old Flipper

Faith is in college now, and one of the Flippers still sits on her dorm room bed—a quiet testament to the enduring power of comfort, even when it comes in unexpected forms. But I still remember the lesson of that Christmas—that parental love is powerful, but not omnipotent. Sometimes the best gift we can give our children isn't the restoration of what was lost, but the modeling of how to keep going when restoration isn't possible.

The magic we make works best when it celebrates what's present, not when it promises to undo what's past. And sometimes, that's enough.

Merry Christmas, and may all your important things stay found—but may you find strength when they don't.

This Year I am Thankful for an Empty Nest...and Zombieland

For the first time in my fifty-odd years, I celebrated Thanksgiving without my kids, without the comfort of my parents, or my siblings and their extended families. Here, at last, the dreaded empty nest... 

I won't be alone per se, but I also won't have what I have come to see as a "normal" Rockwell-esque Thanksgiving. But I did have some time to prepare for this eventuality...

Rockwell's Freedom from Want ©1943

My original plan, let's call it Plan A, for dealing with no one being home this year called for taking an extended Thanksgiving break from work, flying to the East Coast, and spending the holiday with my parents, sisters, and their families, and my son and his girlfriend. I'd have still missed my two girls who were off doing other things (one with her fiancé and the other with her mother), but still, I had hoped it would be one of those old-fashioned family get-togethers filled with great food, fun games, and the occasional family angst (that always comes when everyone is brought together in such close proximity).

You know, all the elements that make for cherished memories...

As is often the case, real life got in the way of my best-laid plans. The first SNAFU was financial. With my youngest a sophomore at a wonderful(ly expensive) private liberal arts college and my oldest getting married in the Spring, rubbing enough nickels together to pay for a transcontinental Thanksgiving flight would mean adding to my credit card debt. If I am being completely honest, I would have done it, but it wasn't the right thing. However, the second Horseman of the Apocalypse, work, reared its ugly head. Unexpectedly, my boss went on a lengthy medical leave. This meant cutting what I had planned to be a ten-day trip down to just four (and traveling on two of the busiest and most expensive days of the year). Before the last two horsemen appeared, as much as I longed for that Rockwell-esque holiday, I decided to reassess Plan A - it just wasn't in the cards this year.

I started to think of ways to spend my time differently this year; let's call this Plan B... Four days off work, no real responsibilities, and a very strong desire to avoid Black Friday at all costs. Meaning I could spend four days hiking around Southern California, footloose and fancy-free. Maybe my long-delayed hike of the La Jolla Canyon Loop in Ventura County or the Backbone Trail near Malibu. However, a quick peek showed that Southern California's last couple of fires and the follow-on rainy seasons had resulted in many trail closures in the Santa Monica Mountains.  Thinking less grandiose, living in the foothills means plenty of hikes much closer to home. My decision was made; I planned to strike out and hike the 'Glendale trifecta' (the Verdugo Mountain Peaks, Cherry Canyon-Cerro Negro Loop, and Mt. Lukens Loop). About twenty-five to thirty miles of mostly quiet hiking in my backyard. Ace the Wonder Dog and I were set for our very own Thanksgiving #optoutside adventure...

Alas, Plan B was dashed by Mother Nature. A series of Pacific storms decided to race down the California Coast, making this year's holiday one of the coldest and wettest Thanksgiving weekends in Los Angeles in the past 15 years. While the cold would have been manageable, washed-out and muddy trails (and a twenty-pound Scottish Terrier/Schnauzer), don't mix...

On to Plan C... a scaled-down, traditional Thanksgiving dinner, maybe a movie, and some much-needed rest. A wonderful lazy, long weekend...As those of you who have ever prepared a "traditional" family Thanksgiving know, just the food prep and cooking is an all-day affair (I even started the night before), not to mention the dreaded dishes! So much for relaxing!

But slave away in the kitchen, I did (but I got to watch Zombieland while cooking). The menu was mostly my Mom's traditional recipes, with a couple of my own additions. Everything was delicious, if I do say so myself. But even with my efforts to cut all the recipes in half, there were still tons of leftovers - but I'll return to food later... I can hear you, gentle reader asking a question... "Zombieland, why on earth watch Zombieland as a Thanksgiving movie?!" My answer was, "Why not?"

But really, I generally avoid horror movies, almost like I would a zombie-inducing plague. That said, a few days before, I stumbled upon a really well-written (and positive) review of the Zombieland sequel Zombieland: Double Tap. The author raved about how funny the sequel was (and how much they enjoyed the parody-esque original). The review was so gushing I decided to see the new movie over my newly freed-up long weekend. But before going to see Double Tap, I naturally decided I needed to watch the original movie first...hence my cooking companion for the day.

Review

Zombieland directed by Ruben Fleischer
My rating: 3½ of 5 stars

Let me say what a treat this 2009 movie was to watch. Clearly, my disdain for horror movies has been misplaced, at least for comedy/horror/romance movies. Like most really good movies, everything starts with the script. Rhett Reese and Paul Wernick's story is wry, witty, and has snappy dialog (the kind I narrate in my head during "real" conversations!). The story here is coupled with quick pacing, and interesting visual overlays, including the '31 Rules' and Zombie Kill of the Week cuts by director Ruben Fleischer (in his feature directorial debut). His direction seamlessly ties excellent performances by the cast (Jesse Eisenberg, Emma Stone, Woody Harrelson, and Abigail Breslin) into one funny (not-so-scary) little (81-minute) horror/comedy film that one professional reviewer called a "balls out the entertaining movie." The blood and gore are there, but not so overwhelming, and certainly not just for blood and gore's sake (which is probably why I like this movie - did I mention it was entertaining?).

The comedic timing of the actors and human relationship story elements make up for some questionable decisions the characters make (seriously, in a world infested with fast-moving, light and noise-sensitive, flesh-eating zombies, why would you turn on all the lights and music at an amusement park?!). But this is a horror/comedy, after all... I thoroughly enjoyed the production, the "surprise" cameo in the middle of the movie, and the slow-mo gory scenes, which ended up being really fun.

Completely not what I had expected..with a name like Zombieland!! It changed my mind completely about this sub-genre of honor films, and I'd rank it up there with some of my other favorite screwball comedies like Kelly's Heroes, Big Trouble in Little China, The Great Race, and Dr. Strangelove. So, bring on Shaun of the Dead and Warm Bodies!

I know, I know, this probably sounds like a terrible Thanksgiving to the more extroverted personality types in my family, the ones who thrive on social activity (you know who you are!), but an excellent dinner, a funny movie, and time to myself, really worked for me..but next year I will finish those hikes, or at least head back East for a Plan A vacation!

To that end, this year, I am grateful not only for my family and the blessings of years of special holiday memories but also for some serious time to decompress and hang out alone (with some canine companionship). No real expectations, no responsibilities, and no worries (well, at least not many). I'm also thankful for Zombieland and the broadening of my movie genre palate.

Epilogue - 'Twas the Night After Thanksgiving...

I mentioned the food earlier; despite dropping from a 23/24 pound turkey to a 15-pound bird this year, there were still plenty of leftovers. But most importantly, the turkey carcass. With extra time on my hands (with few family obligations), I decided to try my hand at one of my Mom's old favorites, Turkey Carcass Soup. All of (or perhaps any of) my culinary skills are largely due to my Mom (thank you, I love you), so in an effort to get as many family recipes documented as possible, here is my take on her original recipe:

Turkey Carcass and Vegetable Soup

Ingredients

1 turkey carcass
4 quarts water
2lbs little (baby) potatoes (halved or quartered)
16oz baby carrots, diced
4-6 stalks of celery, chopped
2 14.5oz cans of diced tomatoes (I prefer the ones seasoned with basil, garlic, & oregano)
1 10oz bag of frozen peas
1 10oz bag of frozen corn
48oz turkey bone broth (chicken stock can be substituted in a pinch) - optional
1 tablespoon of garlic salt
1½ tablespoons of onion powder (you can substitute 1 large diced onion)

Simmering the carcass

1 tablespoon of Worcestershire sauce
1½ teaspoons of kosher salt
1 teaspoon of dried parsley flakes
1 teaspoon of dried basil
1 bay leaf
½ teaspoon of granulated garlic
¼ teaspoon of cracked black pepper
¼ teaspoon of paprika
¼ teaspoon of poultry seasoning
1 pinch of dried thyme

Directions

1. Place the turkey carcass (I also included the turkey wings) in a large stock pot and add the water; bring to a boil, reduce heat to simmer, cover the pot, and cook the turkey frame until the remaining meat falls off the bones (at least 1 hour, but even better if it can simmer overnight).
2. Use a wire strainer to remove the turkey carcass bones and separate the meat. 
3. Chop the meat (and look for small bones, especially ribs).
4. Strain the broth through a mesh strainer into a clean soup pot and add the chopped turkey (sans bones) back into the broth. Depending on the length of time you simmered the carcass (and your personal preference for the liquidity of your soup, you may want to add the turkey bone broth at this time. Bring the mix to a boil, then reduce the heat to a simmer.
5. Stir in the potatoes, carrots, celery, tomatoes, Worcestershire sauce, and dry seasonings and simmer for an additional 30 minutes.
6. Add in the frozen corn and peas and simmer for a final 30 minutes (until all the vegetables are tender),
7. Remove the bay leaf, and the soup is ready to serve.

The Sweet Tradition: Five Years of Donuts and the Unexpected Power of Showing Up

Sometimes the smallest gestures create the most lasting traditions.

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It started with a box of donuts and a team that needed to remember they weren't alone.

A "standard" Friday box.

June 6th, 2014 was National Donut Day, and our CRM conversion team was drowning. These were the "back of the shop" folks—the ones who kept our systems running while the rest of us went about our daily work, blissfully unaware of the digital architecture holding everything together. They'd been pulling long hours on what felt like an impossible project, dealing with frustrated internal clients, and facing technical challenges that seemed to multiply faster than they could solve them.

The mood in those basement offices was heavy. You could feel it when you walked by—the weight of stress, the quiet frustration, the sense that they were fighting a losing battle. I'd worked with some of these people for years. I knew how good they were, how much they cared about getting things right. But here they were, toiling away on critical infrastructure that everyone depended on, yet somehow invisible to the broader organization. The irony wasn't lost on me: the people keeping our entire operation running were the ones feeling most forgotten.

That morning, I made a decision that would unknowingly become part of our office DNA for the next five years. I stopped by Foster's Family Donuts in La Crescenta—a small neighborhood shop that had become a regular stop along my commute to work. These weren't mass-produced donuts from a chain; they were the kind of fresh, made-that-morning pastries that only a true family bakery can produce. I brought in a few dozen for the team.

It wasn't a grand gesture or a calculated management strategy—it was simply a recognition that these people deserved to know their work mattered, that someone saw the long hours and appreciated the sacrifice. And if I was going to make that gesture, it should be with donuts that were as thoughtful as the intention behind them.

The History Behind the Gesture

National Donut Day has roots that run deeper than most realize. Created in 1938 by the Chicago Salvation Army, the holiday honored the "Donut Lassies"—brave women who served donuts and coffee to soldiers during World War I. These volunteers worked close to the front lines, often in dangerous conditions, bringing comfort food to troops who were far from home and facing unimaginable challenges.

The parallel wasn't lost on me. Here was our own team, working in their own kind of trenches, dealing with the pressure of a massive system overhaul while everyone else depended on them to keep things running. Those Salvation Army volunteers understood something fundamental about leadership that transcends military conflict: sometimes the most powerful support comes not in grand gestures, but in simple acts of recognition. A warm donut. A moment of connection. The acknowledgment that someone sees your struggle and values your contribution enough to show up for you.

This wasn't about the food itself—it was about visibility. About making the invisible work visible, even if just for a moment.

What Happened Next

The response surprised me. What I'd intended as a simple morale boost became something more—a moment of genuine recognition in the middle of chaos. People lingered in the break room longer than usual. Conversations started flowing between team members who'd been heads-down at their keyboards for weeks. Someone cracked a joke. Someone else shared a breakthrough they'd had the night before.

For the first time in months, the team felt seen. And feeling seen, they began to feel like a team again.

The database conversion was still challenging. The technical hurdles remained formidable. The internal clients were still impatient. But something fundamental had shifted. There was a sense of camaraderie that hadn't been there before—and more importantly, a recognition that their work mattered not just to the project, but to the people around them. They weren't just fixing systems; they were the guardians of our institutional memory, the architects of our future efficiency.

When One Day Became Every Friday

Foster's on Foothill Boulevard
in La Crescenta, CA

The following Friday, I found myself back at Foster's. Not because it was a holiday this time, but because I'd seen what a small gesture could do. The team's response was immediate and enthusiastic—and they specifically commented on how good these donuts were compared to the usual office fare. Word began to spread beyond our database group to other departments. People started asking if I'd be going to Foster's again for "donut Friday"—it had become "a thing."

What began as a one-time act of support for a struggling team evolved into a weekly tradition that started defining our Development and Institute Relations (DIR) office culture. Foster's Family Donuts became our unofficial bakery partner, though they never knew it. Fridays became something people looked forward to. New employees learned about "donut Friday" during their first week—and quickly developed preferences for Foster's glazed old-fashioned or their surprisingly perfect raised chocolate donuts. The tradition grew beyond the original database team—now staff from multiple floors and different departments within DIR make their way to our break room for their Friday morning "fix."

I kept bringing the donuts, week after week, because I could see what it meant. Not just the sugar and caffeine—though those helped—but the ritual of gathering, the informal conversations that happened over glazed and chocolate frosted, the way it created space for connection in the middle of busy workdays. And yes, the quality mattered. Foster's donuts had that fresh, made-with-care taste that reminded everyone this wasn't just about convenience—it was about doing something thoughtfully.

The Ripple Effect

Over the years, I've watched this simple tradition create ripples far beyond what I ever expected. Team members from different departments began mixing during Friday morning donut breaks, leading to cross-functional collaborations that might never have happened otherwise. New hires found their footing faster, welcomed into conversations and inside jokes over coffee and pastries.

The tradition has morphed in wonderful ways. We've expanded beyond just donuts to include bagels some weeks, accommodating different tastes and dietary preferences. People have gotten comfortable making special requests—someone might mention they're craving an apple fritter, or ask if I could pick up those cinnamon sugar ones that Foster's makes so well. These little requests have become my informal barometer for reading the team's mood and stress levels. When someone specifically asks for comfort food, I know they're dealing with something challenging. When the requests get more adventurous—"Could you get some of those maple bacon ones Foster's had last week?"—I can sense the team is feeling confident and playful.

Foster's became such a fixture in our office culture that when well-meaning colleagues would occasionally bring donuts from Winchell's or Krispy Kreme, people would politely partake but inevitably comment on how much they missed "the Foster's quality." It became a running joke—and a testament to how even small details matter when you're trying to show people they're valued.

The tradition has become so embedded in our DIR culture that when I'm out of the office—vacation, travel, whatever—someone else automatically steps up to make the donut run. It's not assigned or mandated; it just happens. People understand instinctively that Friday morning isn't quite right without that gathering, that moment of sweetness and connection to start the weekend. The tradition has become bigger than any one person because the principle behind it—recognizing and valuing each other's contributions—has become part of who we are.

The CRM conversion project? We completed it successfully, though not without its struggles. That team that had been drowning found their rhythm, supported not just by technical expertise but by a sense of belonging and appreciation. Many of those team members are still with Caltech today, and they often reference those difficult months not just as a professional challenge overcome, but as the time when our department culture really took shape around the idea that everyone's work matters, especially the work that often goes unnoticed.

More Than Sugar and Caffeine

Looking back, National Donut Day 2014 taught me something important about leadership and recognition. Sometimes the most powerful gestures are the simplest ones—not because they're easy, but because they cut straight to what people need most: to know that their contributions are seen and valued.

In any organization, there are people doing essential work that rarely gets acknowledged. The folks who keep the lights on, who maintain the systems, who solve the problems that others don't even know exist. They're often the most competent and least recognized members of any team. The lesson of that struggling CRM conversion team wasn't about donuts or morale boosting—it was about learning to see the invisible work and finding ways to make those contributions visible.

The Salvation Army's Donut Lassies understood this during World War I. They knew that acknowledgment and comfort could provide hope in the darkest times. In our own small way, our Friday tradition carried forward that same spirit—using food as a vehicle for recognition, connection, and community.

I think about those World War I volunteers often when I'm standing in line at Foster's on Friday mornings. Their work was obviously more dangerous, more consequential than mine. But the impulse was the same: the recognition that people doing hard work need to know they're not alone, that their efforts are seen and valued, and that someone is willing to show up for them, consistently, with the best you can offer—not just the most convenient.

A Sweet Legacy

As I write this on National Donut Day 2019, the tradition continues. Five years and hundreds of Fridays later, those weekly donut runs have become part of who we are as a department. New team members quickly learn that around here, we believe in marking small victories, supporting each other through challenges, and never underestimating the power of showing up with something sweet to share.

What strikes me most is how the tradition has become self-sustaining. It's no longer dependent on my initiative alone—it's become part of our collective identity. When I return from time away, people eagerly fill me in on who covered the donut run, what varieties they chose, and which new person got initiated into our Friday morning ritual.

The database conversion team that started it all has long since moved on to new projects and new challenges. But the culture they helped create—one donut at a time—remains. It serves as a reminder that building strong teams isn't always about formal programs or grand initiatives. Sometimes it's as simple as showing up with a box of donuts and saying, "I see the hard work you're doing, and I appreciate it."

Every National Donut Day, I'm reminded of how a single moment of thoughtfulness can grow into something lasting. And every Friday, as I watch colleagues from across DIR gather in our break room, sharing stories and sugar in equal measure, I'm grateful for that struggling database team from 2014 who taught me that sometimes the smallest gestures create the biggest impact.

The tradition started with a team that needed to know they weren't forgotten. It continues because we've learned that recognition—real recognition—isn't something you save for annual reviews or formal ceremonies. It's something you practice weekly, with intention and consistency, especially for the people whose work makes everyone else's possible.

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What started as support for an overlooked team became a cornerstone of our company culture. Sometimes the best leadership lessons come not from business books, but from the simple recognition that everyone deserves to feel valued—especially those whose contributions often go unnoticed.

Wanting to Be Snoopy, Feeling Like Charlie Brown

Lately, I've been thinking a lot about Peanuts. Not just the Sunday comics or the TV specials we all grew up with, but the deeper psychology behind Charles Schulz's simple genius. It's amazing how much truth he packed into those four-panel strips—truth about human nature, loneliness, imagination, and the quiet struggle to keep showing up.

If I'm honest, most days I feel like Charlie Brown.

There's something so painfully relatable about Charlie Brown—the kid who tries and fails, who organizes the baseball game no one wants to play in, who never kicks the football but always runs toward it anyway. He's the eternal optimist living under a rain cloud, and I think that's why so many of us see ourselves in him. But the genius of Peanuts lies in its cast of characters who don't just support Charlie Brown, but actively challenge him. Lucy, for instance, is more of an antagonist than a friend. She's confident and outspoken—with a streak of bully in her personality—and she delights in pulling the football away just as Charlie Brown is about to kick it. Her actions aren't meant to help or encourage; they're meant to knock him down, test his limits, and sometimes mock his persistence. Yet, what makes Charlie Brown so endearing is that he keeps running toward that football anyway. His perseverance isn't because of Lucy's encouragement—it's despite her attempts to trip him up. Lucy embodies those voices in our lives that push back, that doubt us, or that challenge our optimism. Charlie Brown's struggle against her reminds me that resilience often means standing strong not with the help of others, but in defiance of those trying to hold us back.

But then... there's Snoopy.

Snoopy is everything we want to be. Confident. Cool. Imaginative. Unbothered. He reinvents himself daily: Joe Cool, World War I Flying Ace, bestselling novelist. While Charlie Brown is down in the mud, Snoopy's dancing on the doghouse. He doesn't worry about fitting in or getting it right—he just is. And isn't that the dream?We all want to be Snoopy. But most of us walk around feeling like Charlie Brown.

I've noticed this theme popping up in my own writing more than I realized. In The Unfinished Work, I stood on the battlefield at Gettysburg, grappling with Lincoln's call to continue the work of democracy—wrestling with whether we're living up to the sacrifices made there, whether our civic understanding is strong enough to sustain what so many died to preserve. That kind of deep reckoning—questioning whether I'm doing enough as a citizen, whether we're all worthy of what we've inherited—feels very Charlie Brown to me. It's earnest. A little anxious. Overwhelmed by the weight of history and responsibility. But it's also rooted in hope, in the belief that showing up matters even when the task feels impossibly large.

Still, there's a part of me that longs for Snoopy's spirit. His creative energy. His ability to turn a boring afternoon into a full-blown saga. As I look back at older posts—from travel reflections to musings on leadership or family—I see flashes of that spirit. Those are the moments when I'm trying to channel Snoopy. When I let my imagination run, when I let humor or curiosity lead, when I step out of the box long enough to ask bigger questions.

But inevitably, I come back to Charlie Brown. I come back to doubt, to duty, to the desire to do better even when the odds aren't great. And maybe that's okay. Maybe the goal isn't to be Snoopy, but to let his spirit visit us when we need it most—to balance the worry with a little wonder, the failure with some flair.

This tension... surfaced deeply in my Christmas reflections from 2010. I admitted to dreading a certain kind of Christmas—the one filled with "lasts." Last Christmas with all the kids at home. Last Christmas with a true believer before the Elf era began. That felt very much like a Charlie Brown moment: the melancholy, the ache of change, the worry that the magic might fade.

But then came the Snoopy side of that Christmas—the passing of the torch. Inviting my youngest into the quiet fraternity of Christmas elves, just as my mom once did for me. That difficult but hopeful conversation wasn't a moment of loss, but of legacy. We talked about belief—not just in Santa, but in something deeper: the enduring magic of generosity, wonder, and love passed down through generations. That's pure Snoopy—the imaginative spark that turns endings into new beginnings, that celebrates mystery and keeps the magic alive.

And it's the same dynamic in Trains, Presidents, and Baseball, my account of a cross-country road trip with my daughter. What started as a practical move to Philadelphia for medical school became a journey of reconnection. We shared national parks, presidential history, and ballgames, but it was the quiet, in-between moments—the misfires, the museum closures, the unexpected laughs—that brought us back to each other. That felt like Charlie Brown's honest longing for connection paired with Snoopy's joyful improvisation. It reminded me that relationships, like life, don't come wrapped up perfectly—they unfold in fits and starts, with hope and humor intertwined.

All of these reflections—ranging from solemn civic duty to family celebrations and travel adventures—trace the emotional arc between Charlie Brown and Snoopy that runs through my life and writing. They remind me that we don't live fully at either extreme, but somewhere in between. We ache, we aspire, we stumble, we imagine. That's what makes the journey real.

What Schulz understood—and what I'm starting to accept—is that we contain both: the melancholy and the magic. We are Charlie Brown with a little bit of Snoopy inside, trying to break free.

So I'll keep chasing the football. I'll keep pitching no matter the score. I'll keep showing up. And maybe, just maybe, I'll dance on top of the doghouse every once in a while too.