As I prepare our summer cabin for new renters, I find myself sifting through countless items. Our accountant chuckled when he learned we had left it vacant for so long. “What are you, the Rockefellers?” he joked. “Just rent it!” So, I’m packing up beach towels, bunk beds, and shelves brimming with puzzles, games, and toys.
But instead of donating everything, I’m loading many of these treasures into my car to bring back to my city apartment, where they now form a sizeable pile in my living room. As I sort through the clutter, I’m deciding what to keep—dominoes, poker chips, and mancala get a thumbs up. Random games with missing pieces? Straight to the recycling bin. Worn-out towels and sheets head to the pet shelter. Duplicates of my favorite books? Off to the library.
Yet, there’s one item that stands apart—my stuffed Snoopy. This little guy, a cherished companion from my third-grade days, once took center stage on my bed adorned with Snoopy sheets. Even as I grew older and discovered the joys of adolescence, Snoopy remained close by, transforming into a decorative pillow rather than a playmate. He didn’t make the trip to college but returned when I had my first baby, watching over the nursery with his stitched-on eye. Now, after three decades, he’s back on my sofa.
In 1972, I had an undeniable longing for Snoopy. I added “Snoopy” to every birthday and Christmas list, eagerly devouring the daily Peanuts comic strip and the paperback collections my brother picked up from Scholastic. While I adored my dolls, Snoopy was something special—he was Joe Cool. Fluffy and soft, he wore a black leather collar that hinted at his canine nature. I even crafted clothes for him, though getting the tail hole right was a challenge for my nine-year-old self. Eventually, I received some official Snoopy outfits from the Peanuts store at the local ice rink owned by Charles Schulz.
With time, Snoopy became more worn, sporting a few repaired seams and a faded appearance. He hasn’t retained his original bright white hue, but his smile remains as inviting as ever, and he carries a scent that evokes comfort and love. Throughout my life, Snoopy has been a source of solace, absorbing my tears with his soft, grayish fur. He offered unconditional love, never judging me.
I brought Snoopy back from the cabin last week and set him on the sofa, where his familiar face brings a sense of warmth. As I relaxed on the couch this afternoon, I found him nestled beside me. Looking at his face stirred up a wave of memories, both joyful and bittersweet. I reached for him, resting my head against his, and felt a connection that reminded me of countless moments spent crying into his fur.
To borrow a sentiment from The Velveteen Rabbit, Snoopy isn’t just a toy; he’s a reservoir of memories, a safe haven, and a loving embrace from the past. As long as his stitched smile and kind eyes are watching over me, I know I’ll be okay.
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In summary, the nostalgia and love tied to my stuffed Snoopy remind me of the comfort found in cherished memories. These connections shape our lives and provide solace through the ups and downs.