The Adventures of Mr. Schnoozle

FOREWORD

Nearly two years after I was born, and only several months after being diagnosed with Hodgkin’s Lymphoma, my father sat down to write a story for his children, Eric and Gretchen. I can only assume that the impetus was watching us play in the backyard, delighted by our imaginations which ran freely in the out of doors.

Our imaginations must have ignited his, and the curious Mr. Schnoozle was born. He wrote of a crow and a mushroom house and a trip to the beach. Two months later he wrote of a roller skating adventure and getting lost in the woods. During this time my aunt drew a picture of dear Schnoozle so we would have at least one illustration to go with the stories. He read them to us often and they delighted us over and again. I begged to be added as a character in the stories like my big brother was. He had every intention to do so, as soon as life slowed down.

Life took over. He was honorably discharged from the Navy, we moved to Oregon, and he continued to write, but only in his journals. He wanted Eric and I to know him. About “what made their dad tick”. It was his way of sharing himself with us, knowing that his time to truly share himself with his children was limited. He did not want us to grow up both fatherless, and also ignorant of who their father was.

Then the cancer took over, and his stories died with him. Mr. Schnoozle and his adventures were lost for over two decades. Upon rediscovery in 2014, I made a promise to myself, and to my father, to carry on his legacy of “wordsmithing”; to bring his writing to life in the hopes of delighting others as he did us. After making some embellishments to his original stories, and writing eight more, The Adventures of Mr. Schnoozle came into being.

PROLOGUE

“What do you suppose it is, Timmy?”

Timmy kneeled down peering at the creature. He scratched his head. “I don’t know, Lana.”

“Well, do you think it bites?” Lana was standing back, looking around as if there might more of them lurking about. She wasn’t entirely convinced that the little, green, floppy-eared creature, who was asleep in a patch of pansies, was not a vicious little monster, just waiting for them to inch closer.

“I hardly think a little troll who giggles in it’s sleep like that can bite,” Timmy said, now standing to face Lana.

“You’ve bit me and you giggle in your sleep all the time!” She said, with her hands on her hips.

“Yes, but you’re my sister,” said Timmy, invalidating her reasoning with a roll of his eyes.

“I’ll have you know, boy...” the little green creature had begun to speak.

Timmy and Lana shrieked and clung to each other.

“...I, am not a troll.” He crossed his arms and nodded curtly at them. Timmy relaxed a bit, but Lana did not loosen her grasp on her brother.

“Also,” the creature continued, “you should know that it is rude to talk so loudly next to someone who is clearly enjoying their afternoon nap.”

“I’m — we’re... sorry, uh, sir,” Lana stuttered, “we didn’t mean anything by it.”

He waved his hand at them as if waving away her concern. “It’s neither here nor there, little girl. I’m awake now, aren’t I?” They nodded numbly. “It should be made clear: I do not bite.” Then shaking a finger at Timmy, “and neither should you, young sir!” They relaxed a little, and looked at each other in utter confusion. “Oh I do wish you wouldn’t look so frightened,” said the creature. “I mean, if anything, I should be afraid of you, shouldn’t I? After all, I am not much larger than your foot.”

“I suppose you're right,” Timmy conceded. He sat down and tugged on Lana’s arm. She followed suit. “Can I ask... what, exactly, are you?”

The creature laughed with a snort. “Of course you can, you just did!” He giggled to himself for a moment, while the children looked at him, perplexed. “Ahem, well, never mind. As I’ve already told you, I am not a troll. Nor am I a creature of the biting sort.” He paused for emphasis, to ensure he had their full attention. “I am a Schnoozle!” he announced with pride, spreading his arms wide.

“A what?” Timmy asked.

“He said ‘a snoozer’, Timmy”, Lana said.

“Uh, not quite right my dear... what’s your name?” the Schnoozle asked.

“Lana.”

“I am a snoozer some of the time, as you’ve seen. But Schnoozle’s the name.”

“Where are you from, Mr. Schnoozle? Are there more of you? Are there any girl Schnoozles?”

Mr. Schnoozle chuckled. “Slow down, little Lana. If you have the time, I shall tell you a story that will answer your questions.”

“Oh please do!” Timmy said. He looked at his sister. Lana’s countenance had brightened significantly and she was inching her way closer to the little Schnoozle.

“Well alright then, get comfortable.” He popped a pansy in his mouth, and as he munched, he clambered onto a nearby mossy log so as to be eye level with the children.

Adjusting his straw hat on his full head of thick, grey hair, he said, “I am going to tell it to you as my great-great-grandmother did ages ago when I was just a wee Schnoozle.” Lana and Timmy leaned forward with eagerness as he began.

(To be continued in "The Adventures of Mr. Schnoozle: A History of Schnoozles")