Good grief, Charlie Brown! I bet you said it aloud. The beat-down inflection. An all-American kid lost in the crowd. I never saw Chuck with the little red-haired girl. But he didn’t stop believing. Step up to the mound. Sweating, palpitations. Poised to swing. Keep going. Strike One! Strike two! Struck out again.

He ran with a gang called Peanuts—a moniker he hated. Snoopy the dog. Woodstock, a bird. Schroeder made music. Lucy and Linus Van Pelt, sister and brother. Pigpen and Violet. Who am I missing? Peppermint Patty. Marcie (yes, sir). Sally and Franklin. Don’t forget Rerun, the baby.

But adolescence won’t call on these boys and girls. One size fits all, ages five to eleven. Chuck’s little sister Sally stuck on seven. No, the Peanuts gang never move the clock forward, but it ain’t unique. Indeed, it’s normal. Calvin, Bart Simpson—scraping middle age, refusing to admit it. Kermit the frog, long in the tooth. I guess it’s not easy being green. Mickey Mouse? Due a telegram from the President. Not holding my breath.

Gods or vampires. Elves or changelings. Perpetual fiction. Frozen in ink. Or felt. Trading their graves for the weekly box office—or daily comic strip boxes. Eternal innocence with a wisdom beyond their years. Kids, frogs, and mice stumbling in grown-up sneakers. No wrinkles. No grey hairs. Only expectations. Is that what it means to never grow up? And picturing Chuck as an old dude—stooped and bald—makes my blood run cold. Don’t Google it now! Good grief! Don’t say I didn’t warn you! Good Ol’ Charlie Brown.

Marcie’s brow furrows, arms tight across her chest. “Brrr!” Her shoulders shake, and she adjusts her glasses. “It alarms me, Sir.”

“I don’t know, Marcie,” Peppermint Patty says, leaning back in her chair, hands behind her head. “Chuck’s tough—way tougher than folks think. He’d make a great old dude. Up there in front. A wise old coach. Boy, what a leader. Lead on, Chuck.” She swishes her hand, illuminating Chuck’s future. The chair snaps back with a crash. She’s gone—vanished in a puff of smoke and shattered wood.

“Wah, wah wah wah wah,” the teacher interrupts.

Of course, it’s a dialogue in my head.

“Good grief!” Sam said, her go-to comment on stupidity, often her own. It came to me in the pool. Head beneath the blue surface. Eyes open. White bubbles. Arms diving down like two hungry gannets. Lack of oxygen forces ideas out. Pop on the surface. There goes one now. Good grief, Charlie Brown.

Is there any other kind of grief? Other than good? Grief is good for the soul, right? It helps us process the painful passage of death or departure. Grief makes you grow. Or razes you to the ground. That’s bad. No in-between. Cue Shakespeare. Macbeth. Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak knits up the o-er wrought heart and bids it break. Malcolm’s words. I can relate. Sick it up. Words. Not comely. Not verse. Ugly tears, wails, vent the gaskets. That’s why I’m here.

Some kids called me Charlie Brown. Not kids—Sam. My sister. She looked out for me. Not mean—affectionate. Not because I sported a big yellow jersey with black zigzag lines (I never did). She said it because I had that look. Faraway. Defeated. Was it because I was different? Or because my head was too round? Too big. Not big in an ego way. Physically big—like the cartoon kid.

Five minutes later, I’d tut to myself, scrambling for a retort. “My brain’s gotta go somewhere!” But my brain didn’t go anywhere quick back then. It drifted up like a balloon, bumping into things. I like to write things down. Scrawling a good old-fashioned complaint letter puts colour in my cheeks. Face-to-face, the words trip on my tongue. Too slow. Too much.

Reckon that’s why I write. To keep up. To say what I couldn’t then. Or still can’t.

I say I’m fine with it. Cool with being Chuck. “He’s a survivor,” I tell myself. Knocked to the ground, he’d get back up. He couldn’t quit. Even Linus, his blanket-toting best friend, had hopeless days, thumb in his mouth, staring at nothing.

Sam wasn’t Linus. No, Sam was Lucy. Brown curls, quick-witted, teeing up that football for me to kick. Doling out advice for five cents a piece. Snap out of it! Five cents, please. She’d watch the Peanuts specials with me on the old television set, humming, in colour. Vince Guaraldi Trio’s smooth jazz buzzed through the tiny mono speaker. Melancholy riffs, like sitting in the rain while the sun shone. Too close to the screen. Cross-legged on the floor. Heads tilted, laughing at how Charlie never learned. Did we?

“Don’t sit so close. You’ll ruin your eyes,” Mother called from the kitchen. Her tone was a clashing note. Soap suds on her hands, dishes clinking in the sink. She didn’t look, but she noticed.

Is that the point? Not to win—to keep trying. Back on your feet, even when you know Lucy’s going to pull the ball away. Even when you know you’ll land flat on your back, staring at the sky. The wind knocked from your chest. The clouds drifting by. The sky pressing. And still—you rise. Charlie Brown gives shape to the search for meaning and understanding. A journey with no simple answers. In the book of life, the answers aren’t in the back. Charles Schulz.

Let’s take a new tack.

Remember, remember the fifth of November. Only in England. I’m being ironic. Made in Wales, me. Forebears from Scotland, Ireland. Hailing from viking hordes. The Great Pumpkin is deflating. All said and done. Catholic flames at the end of the tunnel. Gunpowder, treason and plot. Hanged, drawn and quartered. If it weren’t for Guido Fawkes we’d be driving home for Christmas. Too soon, Chris Rea. Do you celebrate? Are you building a fire? Playing with pyrotechnics? All quiet here on my desert island. Nothing to burn. Heads, shoulders, knees, and toes peeling. Suntan lotion. Cheap Spanish beer. You know how it goes. No trees, no brush, no reason here. No Parliament. No lights in the sky. Only stars. The brightest one looking out for me. I saw you at three in the morning. Was that you, Sam? Good grief, why can’t I sleep?

I’ve always thought that one of those stars is my star, and I know that my star will always be there for me, like a comforting voice saying, ‘Don’t give up, kid.’ Charlie Brown. Charles Schulz.

I root out the boxes in my brain, blowing off the dust, the smell of November rain. I see it so plain. Stick fires built by tractor and hands. A family affair. My cousins, Sam, mother, father, uncle, and aunt. Ted, Marge, Roy and Dot. Extended family: Beryl, Aubrey, Ian, Glyn. Laughing, crying, burping, sloshing. Cider with spices, cats and dogs bicker. Chickens cluck, geese honk and goats blither. Connected by law, descent, DNA. Still, that’s family. I miss them.

The pyre for Guy Fawkes leaned over the greenhouse like a pulp paperback villain. Flames hissed. Crackled. Smoke puffed. The hot sting of embers. Rain veered north. Skies clearing. There blew nothing more than a breeze. The Dutch barn creaked, straw bale monuments. We’d packed them in on a warm September evening, stacking them high, climbing to the top. My cousin jumped. Sam shrieked. And I peeked between my fingers. The loose dry hay broke his fall, but I held back, too scared to soar.

Our forearms glowed, well done meat, red welts and scratches. I had him beat. A competition to see who itched the most. First past the post. I gritted my teeth. A few of the bales arranged as seating, covered in red and white gingham. Or it could be my brain is fixing the picture. We burnt sausages and chicken, and I don’t know if it’s true, but I recall a deep boiling pot of brown shrimp. Not stew. Did we have burgers? That might be the time we swam at Angle beach, Broad Haven South, Newgale or Barafundle. A pitter-patter of raindrops on our salty bare backs. Seagulls squawk and balance on a zephyr. Or was it Freshwater East? No, that was a third uncle. Not really. Father’s cousin, I know. I harvested the family tree.

Secrets die with owners. Did my grandfather, on my father’s side, have a secret brother? Why did Leslie, my grandmother’s first husband, up and desert her? What a cad. What a coward. Families thrive on secrets. Some we inherit, some we uncover. Is that what my granddad meant when he said, “Weeds will bury us all”? Was he saying nothing mattered?

Do we become children again as we age? Do the traumas of our formative years mature? Apples are to cider as some are to vinegar. Milk is to cheese that blossoms into mould. Our bodies shrink. Brain cells and children desert us. Strong arms, legs, and minds push away. A duality. While part of us weakens, a part grows louder. Is that relativity? Do our traumas appear greater because we are less of ourselves?

“Why it happened to mother!” I exclaimed, recalling a conversation. “Right before she passed.” She feared raised voices, loud noises. “We knew she wouldn’t last.” Her father the cause. A strict wild boar. That haunted her the most. The loudness of him. Good grief, Charlie Brown. Are we all echoes of the people who hurt us?

But Granddad got confused in the end, and shouted at me. Reduced to tears, I ran from the hospital. I saw him once more. His gentle eyes sparkled, he offered up his hands, a smile, an apology. He didn’t understand. He’d done nothing wrong.

My last memory of father, yellow skin aside, him eating a kiwi fruit—innocent brown eyes. Scooping the green flesh with a greedy slurp. He stopped with a gasp. A jerk. A burp. Blood flowed freely. An omen. A sign. His lips, chin, hospital sheets stained a dark wine. Acidity, medication, a lack of immunity the culprit. Another trauma to push inside. He became a child. I became the parent, shaving off his hair for the cancer treatment. Helping him to the toilet, mashing his food, crushing his pills. Isn’t that the cruelest joke? Life flipping the script, making us play roles we never rehearsed.

I must escape my head. Or my fate is sealed. But how? Is that the inheritance we carry? Trauma passed down like heirlooms. A gift that keeps on giving. Good grief, life isn’t fair.

Sam met Nick at one of our barbecue bonfires. Eyebrows raised. “Aren’t they related?” It’s a little convoluted. Close enough for whispers. It didn’t bother me. The last I heard, rumours, no more, Nick, an audio technician for The Cure. Ah, it could have been them. Or the B-52s. Or did the apple fall close to the tree? His role nothing more than brewing tea? He gave me a cassette of Atom Heart Mother. I love the tension of psychedelic brass. Sizzling eggs and bacon. I had high hopes for Nick—as my sister’s suitor. Guitar strumming. A James Dean lip curl. The boyish charm of Haircut 100.

Still, Nick’s father hid a secret. Skeletons rattling. A whopping untruth, wove its way to me. Let’s call him Barrah, to avoid litigation. “Oh, the shame,” dragging through the dirt our upstanding name. Man of the wilderness. Broad country accent. Stiff blonde curls. Ruddy complexion. No blood relation, he’d married mother’s second cousin—Mara. Take your pick on its origins: ocean, strength, lady or truth. The whole world knew—except Mara, and the other two. Carrying on with two other women. How did he do it? How did it work? Two extra families, no more. Three families on the go. What a whore. Can you believe it? What a cad! How could he?

One ménage is surely enough. Is that how a travelling salesman roves? Not father. No. He sold double-glazed windows. When the news of Barrah’s bigamy broke it made the national papers. A double spread feature—not science fiction. One of the three had smoked out his betrayal. She plotted with the others. Sold their shame. To the highest bidder. It had all been a lie. A sham. Not 69. I’m all out.

On the surface, quirky, generous, content as a pair. But misleading. Their tumble-down country house moaned in the wind. It shook on a prominent rock. Barrah gave us the tour. Break-neck speed—wheezing. A rundown on renovations. Smell of damp. Turquoise. Pink. Nursing home green. The hole in the wall in an upstairs bedroom. How did he explain it? Six feet across. Views to the tiny cathedral city. Rolling fields. Sheep grazing. Sea glinting. White horses. A neolithic burial at Pentre Ifan.

“Do you want a cuppa?” Mara interrupted. The kitchen table sighed beneath broken cups and hopes. She peered into one, wiped the rim with her sweater. Sloshed in milk, tea. Pointed to a bag of sugar. That’s no exaggeration. None of them clean, but I don’t say it to judge. A commune of artists, under one roof. A new age co-op. Odd to me and sheltered folk. Lentils sputtered. The kettle whistled. A gas flame flickered. A sheep dog. Eyes bulging. Demented. Nose twitching. Tongue hanging. Saliva dripping. Yapping and growling. We watched it from the kitchen window. Once, twice, three loops around the house. Again and again.

Good grief! My brain hurtles forward, I slam on the brakes. Can you follow? I can’t help it. It comes to rest on the east of east London. Upton Park. Near West Ham stadium. I’m reading Jean Rhys again. Wholly entertaining. It reminded me of a failed date. A night bus. The N15. The smell of ammonia. Wet asphalt. Bus shelter trembling.

A man, sickly-looking, approached me as I alighted at Barking Road. “Blow job for bus fare.” I raised my eyebrows, lips quirking. Declined.

“Two quid should do it!”

My last coins were spent. I patted my pockets, shrugged, apologised. I didn’t need that connection. I had to keep looking.

As I eat breakfast now: muesli, Greek yoghurt and nectarine, I think of an evening at the Masonic Hall. A dance? A band? I can’t remember that. Oh. My adolescence. A great place to be. So people told me. A vivid recall of burgundy slacks. An American phrase. But I can’t place the shoes or what covered my skinny torso. Not Sandie Shaw. Not Iggy Pop. A shirt? A sweater? Sneakers? Formal shoes? Did my mother still dress me? My first outing alone? I can’t say. But I remember Econ Gritter performing New Rose.

I recognised some faces. Mods, punks and goths, some Duranies or fans of Spandau Ballet. New Rose spins on my forever turntable. Sam once called me Captain Sensible. Some say he sold out. Went off the rails with Happy Talk. Not the babbles of fools (like me). But composing a ditty that didn’t fit with the image.

Econ Gritter, a local band, arrogance and peacock. Taking their moniker from a brand of deicing equipment. Keeping Britain moving—ironic. For sure. As in the wild west of Wales, we rarely saw snow, ice, a thaw. Hurricanes, gales, mild winters and downpours. Stunted trees bent from prevailing south westerlies. It’s a wonder I grew so tall in a place like that. But it toughened me.

I’m curious to go back in time, to recollect it all, but that’s the nature of memory. Or mine that falls short. Did they serve me a drink with alcohol. Did I choose something without? A water with cordial? I stood at the bar. In the corner. Out the way. I felt out of place even there. The music I loved vibrated the scenery. The dance floor convulsed in shadows and mystery. Did they play Fields of the Nephilim? No, they came later. The Sisters of Mercy? The Cure a dead cert. The Smiths and The Mission. Was it Christmas? Or New Year? Dance floor goth divas. Hairspray. Mascara. Red eyeliner. Black lace and bows. A creature in death’s throes. The bar called to me, “It’s safe here.” I go. A haven for perspective and reason. If only to avoid punching arms and communing. Yes, even there, I didn’t quite fit. Was I too tall? Good grief. What I wouldn’t give to feel like I belonged.

A junction. A distraction. A detour. Were my recollections that bare? I was there at that function. I wore burgundy slacks. At the end of the bar. So they wouldn’t surround me. Or walk behind me.

I must come clean.

A few years ago, I found footage online. Not scared teens in the woods—a gig at the Masonic. A friend of mine played bass in the band, right? I’d wanted to attend, if I’d known I could have gone. Nah. My brain put me there—exposed. Childhood dreams burn brightest. Mine to be a rock star. I didn’t look the part. I couldn’t play guitar. Why was it coming back to me now? “He can carry a tune,” Granddad said. “It brought me to tears.” Mother declared. “Don’t you remember? He sang in the school choir. St. Katherine’s and St. Peter’s. Gothic revival.” Near the library and town hall. A round opening. No, not a window—a clock. Black Roman numerals. Square tower. Arched, louvred bell-lights. Daffodils, snowdrops, little purple flowers.

“Anglican, Protestant or Church of England?” I wondered. My family never took a shine to religion. Scripture spat by a hard-edged Irishman. Red face, eyes bulging. A crack of a literary whip. “Sit down! Sit down!” He’d bluster and thunder.

The second teacher uttered in soft, bright tones, the story of Jesus and “Sinners like you, finish in Hell!” she warned us. A pastel blue knitted cardigan. Wouldn’t say boo to a goose. Nose twitching. Appearances are deceptive I’d come to learn. Yellow curls, rosy cheeks, couldn’t warm a bitter heart. Lady, who hurt you?

“No, you can’t go to the toilet.” She screamed, face pinching. “Wait till class ends. Wait till we’re done.” She tutted. Her eyes glistened, threatening to well up. I held on. Face scrunched. Bladder tweaking. Feet tapping. Until I couldn’t. Oh, sweet relief. Warm turned to cold. At least I sat alone. Funny that my ear rings now. Angry. Alarming—somehow. Reliving moments that caused me to suffer. Think of a different topic. Something less painful. But it lingers. No let up.

Oh, here’s something new.

The odd train with the front window, the cow on the tracks. Big, dumb eyes staring at fate rolling towards it. An old confidant sat in the first row, saw the whole thing. The cow didn’t move. He said it looked right at him, like it knew. The thud as it smacked. Sucked beneath the wheels. Squished into the tracks. Ground beef. What can I take from that? Grief feels like that. A look, a splat, a mess you can’t clean up. Did the cow know? Was the grass greener on the other side of the tracks? Or it knew everything, more than we ever will. Good grief, Charlie Brown. Do we stare, waiting for the next train to hit? Or do we walk away, pretending we don’t hear it coming? It sucks the life out of you.

And now this. Snake oil salesman. The swindler. Conman. Confidence trickster. Um, Mr. President. Fake tan, fake eyes, lying, conniving, two-bit cheater. Rapist, proven in court, enabler of genocide. Hush-money strippers. Play the religion card, I thought. Is he the devil? So many candidates. I prayed it was a walk down memory lane. Not a hope. Was his book called The Art Of The Con? At that he’s had practice, a maestro, a pro. Look at that, would ya? Hoes and cons.

Which one of the Four was he? Horsemen. Apocalypse. Keep up, please. Red, black, white, and pale. Pale green? Sudan, Palestine—colours of flags. Death, Conquest, Famine, and War. Old Testament riders, Zechariah and Ezekiel penned four. Four rings. Four goblets. Four pillars. Four doors. Old school kingdoms—death of us all. Doesn’t it depend on your doctrine, y’all? It’s the horses I pity. Servants of war. Aren’t we sick of it yet? Romans, Germans, Israelis and Russians. GIs and Limeys hearing the call. Empires built on murder and bloodshed. Soldiers waving banners, the march never changes, riders still fall. Peace not war.

And then there’s the Gaza effect. Explosions, bodies, more explosions, more bodies. Can’t escape the noise of suffering. The guilt of helplessness, the paralysis of constant exposure, and the futility of making sense of it all. Broadcasting genocide. My attention span is broken. My brain descends like a biblical plague, toads and frogs skipping over the world’s sadness. I want to understand it, to fit it into a framework. But it leaks like radiation. I can’t contain it. Can anyone? Do we let it happen? Are we insignificant, too powerless? Or are we too distracted? Good grief, Charlie Brown! How do you sit still in a world like this?

But my brain throws me back into the depths. A new vein to mine. Mine. As in belonging to me. Another dark cave, I can see so well. Beneath a public house overlooking the Cleddau. Named for a Lord or was he an Admiral? No. He was both. Along with Hamilton, Greville and Nantucket. Oh, fuck it! Sam favoured whisky, she’d had too much. It’s where she met Rimmer. A villain, a swindler at 26, older than her. But I won’t take that path, his swank, his bray. His story doesn’t deserve its day. What a cad!

Back in the dark, I drank Guinness, championed by goths, and girls called Ennis. The black straight glass and creamy head. Pull your minds from the gutter. A local band screamed like Hitchcock’s Janet Leigh, her death in the shower. Vampires and ghouls all decked in sombre. The stage like an apse. Not Econ Gritter, but some bastard child of. The singer, skinny, smoking Marlboro Red, hair slick with grease, newly-dyed black. A nervous wreck. Fingers shook as he throttled the mic. Breath swirled through dry ice. But he carried it off into the night. Fay Wray screamed. The Empire State building. Not King Kong. A rendition of Bela Lugosi’s Dead, if I remember rightly. It stuck in my head. Could I have done better?

One place felt secure for weirdos like me. I could be myself—free. I recall the faces. Jane, Matthew, Nicola, Sam and me. Sixth form. Art room. Steve Wright. Radio background. Tea. Oil paint, printing inks. Nature took its course. It came to be. Art foundation—CCTA. New weirdos like me. Weirdos from before. The skinny singer, now puffing Marlboro Gold. He gifted me a mix-tape of Christian Death rarities. Alien Sex Fiend hits. Then he vanished. Taken in the night. The psych ward for rehab, rumours no more. He made it. I’m glad. Living his best life. I recall his smile.

The following came later if we work chronologically. The boy in our band, puppy dog stare. Iron Maiden fan. Red bass guitar. Big hair. He might be why. Why what? Bass drives my motor, my beat, my heart. Helps me breathe. Keeps my time. I listen for him. Him and Peter Hook.

It’s easy to fall. He took his eyes off the ball. First year at Oxford. Mathematics on a scholarship. Barely eighteen. Don’t you see? An expert with numbers. It all added up. Fibonacci sequence wanted him dead. He OD’d—not on prescription meds. I want to say it could have been me. But I was too afraid of losing control. So no.

How many deaths do we witness in our lives? How much grief can we push inside? Good grief. Don’t ask me—I don’t know.

“Where do we go from here, Sir.” Marcie pushes her glasses up her nose and blinks.

Even Peppermint Patty stutters for words.

One and the same, my shadow and I. We have changed so much. Unrecognisable from the kid who grew up. Did experience strip away gullibility, naivety, my innocence? Did I change? Did my shadow just grow larger?

I gasp at wonders that excited me as a boy. I crave that. Is that why we cling to the past?

Good grief, Charlie Brown. Could it be the point isn’t to fit in, but to find peace in the not-fitting? Are we all Chuck at points in our lives?

Sometimes I lie awake at night and I ask, ‘Why me?’ Then a voice answers, ‘Nothing personal, your name just happened to come up.’ Charlie Brown.

That’s why I love Charlie Brown. Grief is about growth, too. About learning to live with the parts of yourself that feel out of place. About finding your own rhythm in a world out of tune.

My mother is in the next room. She’s alive and kicking. I can hear her humming, the buzz and ping of an electronic game, the shuffle of her slippers.

The only death I can claim is mine. Not family, not friends, not strangers online. I’ve met Death too often. He’s a friend of mine. When he came for Sam, I buried my head in my hands. “Please, don’t take her, I beg you. A little more time.”

She compared me to many. Sam’s words. Don’t forget her.

To her, a duplicate of Rutger Hauer: mysterious, blond, slim, dark overcoat, like a glass of Guinness. An echo of Simon Le Bon—blond again, petulant, pouting. Moves like Captain Sensible: still blond, awkward, rebel without a clue. Once, I was Bowie, Lennon. Jagger.

My favourite comparison. When she called me Charlie Brown. The weird kid with the funny shaped head. A survivor, philosopher, hero, anxious dreamer. Not blond, I thought with a gasp. Good grief! It’s hard to tell. Chuck’s hair was a pen squiggle—a wisp of ink that said everything and nothing.