I can still recall Sunday afternoons — unimaginably long stretches of time free of the electronic jangle of yet-to-be-invented video games or cell phones — when I would lay propped on my elbows in our shag-carpeted living room with the bright sheet of comics spread before me. In those moments I became one with Charlie Brown. His world was my world. His dog was my dog. His snatched-away football was mine. His embarrassments turned into my own social failings. On those afternoons, my head indeed felt like an oversized balloon in proportion to the rest of my body.
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