I have been an artist for as long as I can remember. Ever since I could grab a pen and move it with any dexterity, I’ve drawn, scribbling robots on notecards and doodling stick figures on the waxpaper sheets at the doctor. It’s been the way I express myself for my entire life, and it’s stayed that way because of one man and his legacy.

Picture the scene. New Year's, Santa Rosa, CA. I was visiting my grandparents for the season, and we had a schedule of activities lined up for the week. The highlight, I assumed, from how the others were talking about it, was a trip to the Peanuts museum. It didn’t seem like much to me. A building with too-high ceilings and a few comic strips on the walls. I know, ‘teen thinks museums are boring’ isn’t the hottest take, but I was especially nihilistic back then. All I could imagine was the uncomfortable skin-crawl of being surrounded by fellow tourists in a space that was too open and too closed at the same time as we moved at a snail's pace.

So, as we got in my grandparents’ car and started the rather short drive, I was preparing myself to completely disassociate for the next 3 hours. That was, until we met with my grandmother’s friend, walked past the museum, past a gate, and into the most serene place I had ever been. It had an open, mostly empty driveway, lined by hedges and a few buildings. As we walked into the space, a wave of beautiful, relieving peace washed over me, and a quiet song started playing in my mind. Somehow, I knew that this place was special.

We came to the main building, which was only a little bigger than the others, and walked through the doors, into a quiet lobby. On the reception desk sat a replica of Schroeder's piano, and memorabilia hung from the wall. It was the studio. It was the studio where they drew the comic strips. I wasn’t getting a tour of the museum, I was getting a tour of the actual studio. I was in a bit of shock as we were guided through the hall, but I felt it was important I was respectful. We were guided through the building until we came to a door, and an older woman greeted us, leading us in. It was a two story room, with a set of stairs leading up to the second level. I assumed it was some kind of printing room, until I saw the drawing table. And the tools sitting in a glass cage. And then I realized it wasn’t just any printing room or drawing chamber.

Charles Schultz drew each comic strip, two feet from where I was standing. I had stepped into the chamber of one of my idols without even realizing it. And then another revelation. The woman guiding us into the room was Jean Schultz, his widow. Needless to say, it was like a religious experience for me. It felt like a massive weight was taken from my shoulders, just for a little while.

Later, when we went to the actual museum, we watched a little documentary about Schultz, and I realized that I was a lot like him. If I were in his shoes, I’d have done the same things, lived the same lifestyle, even eaten the same food. It was like I was looking in at a best-case future for myself. Even after all was said and done, and we were driving back home, I felt calm. Happy. Like there was a path for me in life. Like I could have a happy ending, like Schultz. It still keeps me going to this day.

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