Prologue

To Begin With….The Lost Cherokee Legend

Episode 1 - Introduction

There is always a birth to each story; the beginning of something anew. Life, above all else, is no exception. It is a time when someone remembers for the first occasion; their memories of family and of home, of first crawls, the first smell of a rose, the first hands in the grass within a meadow field, the first breeze, the first showers; the 'firsts to everything'. How else is a story to have an appropriate, shall we say 'Genesis', than to have a start where a story is most regularly first-born. And as it so happens, this story shall bear its first fruit in the tale and revelry of my initial youth.

How convenient, I suppose, it is for me to be the product of my own yarn. But a story such as this carries its own value and genuine beauty; that it must and most assuredly be told. It could have happened to anyone. Yet, perhaps I was the fortunate one to have it occur so promisingly within my own life.

Now mind you I have become an old man now. One who sits on the park bench in a wayward and remote town deep in the heart and hills of North Carolina. No, no; I certainly wasn't born this way; just to express to you where I have come to in my life. Now I shall share with you where I have come from.

People pay me little or no attention these days. I have learned to partner myself with my own solitude; and I to be resting in the fact that my life has been a very blessed one. Each day, when the sun and weather cooperates, I will find myself steadily passing bread to my pigeon friends, which I have grown to love and know almost by heart and name.

The early morning is always fresh as if it were smartly baked and cooked by the uprising sun, or newly born from the previous night's dew. The tightly-spun breeze moves about the open meadow park at its own leisure, and seemingly leaves its soft whistles in the branches on the trees about. I know the spot well; the one I regularly and prominently go to. If you were a regular here you would see me present in a religious kind of way also. I suppose nature has turned into a sort of Bible to me. This is where I find many of my companions strolling about from tree limb to tree limb, and they picking feverishly at their feathers as they go about.

"Don't suppose you can tell me on your general or specific preferences for bread…" I would watch them pace about at my feet, angle their heads back and forth, pace some more, stare back at me 'blank-eyed' again, and pace even further as I pulled out every assortment of bread known to man, "Cornbread...Eh? How about sweet buns anyone? Biscuit? Muffin? Cottage Loaf? Surely you will take a gander at Yeast rolls…No? Crumpet? Rye? Certainly someone has a taste for Farl?"

They continued about their pacing silently.

"Well – They do say a good friend is one to always listen," I smiled with reflection, "Doesn't say much…"

I paused.

"But if you had the mind to, the mouth to, the tongue to," I laughed, "you might take to talk so much that your feathers would fall off and you would strut about like a long-necked goose without its clothes on."

They paced with even more agitation.

"Now that wouldn't fair too well, would it? It'd get too cold in the winter…and where could you fly to?"

There is Fredrick; having eyes only for the largest share of bread. He takes his dough quite 'wheat-like' thank you, bobbing his head in approval as I toss it to him. Now Jeremy enjoys the smaller scraps as he cares more for the heel than the softer bread. My guess is he has a weak stomach and digestive tract, and he prefers a more hardened supper. Jewels, quite the obstinate fowl, will have the finicky notion of a cat; almost requiring me to feed her from hand-to-mouth, though her colors are oddly beautiful.

Ah yes, and as well, Roger. He is such the fat kite that I would never think he could take off and fly amongst his feathering friends again. Though, to his good credit, he makes smart management for flight after each and every meal; even with his enormous appetite. Cory is the most intelligent of this crew, watching me from his tree stool till I can find a good seating place nearby. There, as always, he would swoop down and rest himself right on my shoulders; eyeing every morsel and food product I could pull from my coat pocket, and he so pecking at it till the food was free. He seemed to always want first dibs.

When all was finished and every bird was disbursed about…

"Ah now," I smiled broadly to see the last, lone bird to inch forward, "saved the very best for last…"

And there was Landon. I have a special affinity for him. He is the more patient; waiting privately for his individual turn; never to jostle or poke through or push his brethren aside, but rather polite and esteemed in his mannerisms. He appeared more like a true southern gentleman than a small-minded pigeon. His truest art is in his courtesy, or as wisdom reaches even the smallest of fowl, he possesses a bounty load of it.

As each visit to that special bench came and went, I would often keep one eye on Landon and the other eye on the rest of them. They could be rather 'flesh' happy if my hands are too far exposed. Or hunger could drive them to be so bold in their eating habits like feasting kings at the dinner table. Landon however kept his distance and always fed in the rear of the supper; as to the gentle pigeon he appeared to be. He would never eat if another bird went around the least bit hungry. I learned quite early to pardon a small portion of my rations till the very last when I knew, with the utmost of certainty, that all the other birds were fattened to the ripe stage and no other pigeon could even wobble my way, least of all fly off with the hefty new baggage they carried.

It was such a joy to view Landon's polished humility. I peered out to make sure the coast was clear and then I pulled from my left pocket the true prize of the feast. How he would stare for a moment, and so put my smile into such laughter when he looked about. He would come ever cautiously to my feet, stare at me, flap his wings in a slight way, and lift himself to my knee where I politely fed him his desert.

It is such a frequent occurrence, that during his dainty and particular way for feeding I can softly pet and stroke his wings. He is a fancy bird that surely had the proudest of parents, and the most beautiful pigeon I have monitored to date.

Author's Notes:

'A Diary's House' is currently available for purchase on a multitude of websites including: Kobo, Barnes & Noble, Amazon, Smashwords – to name a few. More information is provided on www . cdavidmurphy . com. There is also a heartbeat series on this site called 'Language from the Heart' . You can follow the extensive blog tour – details provided on www. promotionalbooktours . com, beginning September 24, 2012. Reviews are provided on www . goodreads . com