Psychiatric Help

I’ve always had a love of words.

And Charles M. Schulz cartoons.

Honest.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve found words to be something magical and wonderful. And Snoopy is pretty cool, too.

I was probably around four when my sister gave me an old Lucy and Charlie Brown poster she no longer wanted. It hung on my bedroom wall, across from my pink-ruffle encased bed until I was in high school and moved into my brother’s vacated room. (And in case you were wondering, dear brother, when I was cleaning out the remnants of your junk, I did find your stash of naughty magazines stuffed into that little hidden cubbyhole no one knew existed! Shame on you!)

At night, when my bedtime was enforced with an iron fist despite my many protests, I’d fuss and pout then settle down, starting at the poster and memorizing the words. I think I was quite likely the only first-grader in my school who could spell “Psychiatric” both forwards and backwards.

When I was in the fifth-grade our teacher quite often had impromptu spelling bees. I remember the heated competition boiling down to me and my archnemesis one afternoon. I barely squeaked ahead with one particularly challenging word that I don’t at this time remember. What I do remember is that when it was her turn to spell, the word was “Psychiatric” and she got it wrong.

I was so excited and giddy, I could hardly stand still. Quickly spelling the word correctly, it was finally my turn to lay claim to victory. It didn’t happen often with her, which made the win doubly sweet.

Now, I’m glad something stirred my interest in words early on.

Although I’ve grown up (mostly) and may on occasion be in need of Lucy’s psychiatric help, words are even more important and vital to my existence.

I still find them to be something magical and wonderful.

And Snoopy is still pretty awesome, too.

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