Charles Pendelton
      © 2008 Marty Langdon
Chapter 32 (Prologue)

Our little story takes place in the forgotten borough of Staten Island. Forgotten
because no one ever writes about it, nor does anyone really care to give it a rightful
place in their best-selling novel, or tale of grandeur worth remembering, for that
matter. The town I grew up in is called New Dorp. A peaceful community located
in the tranquil Borough of Richmond. Connected by bridges, it is easy to tour all
of New York’s respective counties. Looking back through the window of time in
its alluring serenity, I will admit it was a wonderful place to live.

Sitting in my room, sucking on a Luden’s cough drop, that acted like an oral
anesthetic for my ailing sore throat, I can hear the television on downstairs.
Where the smell of freshly brewed coffee gently rises to permeate the stale
morning air, and the undeniable aroma of eggs cooking in bacon grease
greeted my nostrils like a long-lost friend. Grandma’s eggs, I thought
as I pattered down the stairs.

My paternal
grandmother is watching me until my parents arrive in the evening,
and for the most part, it appears to be a rather
average day. I probably could
have gone to school, but considering
it was Friday, my parents thought it would
be best if I stayed home.
At least until Monday, when the risk of infecting other
children would be at an absolute minimum.

Whether it was a mild case of the flu or simply a bad cold, one more
day at home wasn’t going to hurt, plus it would allow my grandmother
the dignity, she so rightfully deserved, to nurse me back to health.

Another bowl of chicken soup followed by some sun in the backyard
might very well be one of life’s simple pleasures that a child could
equate to living contentedly.

Would my life follow in that precise manner?
I did not know.

What I did know, however, was that in my humdrum life of ‘ever-the-same,’
nothing really changes too dramatically.

At least not in the traditional sense, anyway.

As the planetary system in its eternal order begins to shift,
Almighty God in his celestial chair, somewhere out in the ethereal
cosmos of time and space gazes down at me from on high.

It has begun. . .

                                                                                                Pg 161

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