Under the Sun

Under the Sun

By

Patrick D. Williams

Copyright 2012 Patrick D. Williams

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. Or in other words, don't be a putz!

This book is dedicated to my amazing wife, as well as to my children with whom I am well-pleased. It is also dedicated to some of the most gifted pastors it has ever been my pleasure to know as both guides and friends. I love you all more than the Carolina Panthers, although with their most recent season, that isn't saying a lot.

1

I’m all right. Don’t nobody worry ‘bout me. Why you got to give me a fight? Why don’t ya just let me be? I’m all riiight… Kenny Loggins

The shrill voice of the alarm pierced the stillness of the warm September morning, and tore unmercifully into the unsuspecting brain of its intended target. Paul McCartney (the sales clerk, and not the legendary pop star who traverses the globe in great style and comfort, while his namesake toils desperately under the endless string of jokes regarding his name) jerked upright, as if a current had passed through his tired, middle-aged body. Paul had reckoned long ago that there are two thoughts that tend to pop into a person’s mind, as they somewhat involuntarily awaken to yet another day of routine drudgery: This is the day that the Lord has made and Oh God, please not again. Paul was an optimist, though, so he personally preferred the former.

He was a little surprised to discover that his better half, Lainie, had opted to rise a bit earlier. He was, conversely, not the least bit surprised to find his two dogs (the one he spoiled and the other he did not) sprawled lifelessly across the foot of the bed. Lainie, much like himself, was not an early riser, so for a flashing second he felt a mild wave of panic wash over him. The thought of either an interplanetary abduction, or her finally coming to her senses and leaving him for someone better, had become highly plausible scenarios. Then he remembered that she had mentioned the night before that she had an early teleconference scheduled for today. His brief alarm was replaced with a mingled sense of guilt and embarrassment. He had to accept that this uncomfortable moment was the direct result of having forgotten yet another important piece of information given to him during that regrettably familiar time when husbands divide their brains into two separate modes of listening: television and their wife saying, Now honey, this is important so...

Paul slung his legs over the side of the bed he had come to love, and was preparing to bend down to slip on his red NC State gym shorts. His overly optimistic movement was stopped cold, as his annoyingly honest body reminded him that he could no longer spring to life like a twenty-something jock rushing off to his next exciting escapade. His now heavy body felt slow, tight, and incredibly old, even for a guy in his late forties. As he eased on his shorts with the slow, steady, and methodical movement of a bomb squad officer clipping the first of many multi-colored wires, Paul heard himself being serenaded by the popping of joints and dry sinews. His lips curled up into a reluctant smile, as he remembered the song his youngest boy, Devan, had composed for him one morning, which was sung to the tune of the Rice Krispies theme: Snap, crackle, pop, it’s Daddy.

Paul ambled sluggishly downstairs to let the two dogs out. His mental day planner snapped open and suddenly his mind was bombarded with everything he needed to accomplish before he could even consider heading off to work. First, he would have to begin step one in the twelve-step process of extricating his two sons from their nice warm beds. He knew this would be the most formidable challenge because comfortable beds, much like the jealous, raging seas, do not like to give up their dead easily. He also had to decide if he was going to go to the bother of lovingly preparing a nutritious breakfast that neither boy would want to eat, or just go with the more pedestrian fare of Pop Tarts or cereal. Like so many other nurturing fathers of his generation, Paul opted for the cereal.

The lunches were next on his mental Hit Parade. He couldn’t, for the life of him, understand why he had ever sheltered his children from the horrors of public school lunches. If congealed meat loaf had made a man out of him, then why not his two strapping sons? With the same loving deliberation he had given to the breakfast choice, Paul decided against carefully sliced carrot sticks and lean, tender slices of turkey impaled alongside delicious fruits on wooden toothpicks, and went with a couple of pbj’s and some Oreos. Now that all of the important, life altering dietary decisions had been made, Paul headed up to the two boy-caves that housed the children who would not take kindly to his early morning intrusion.

Paul went to Devan’s room first, because he was almost always the easiest to start with. Devan was one of the most cheerful, upbeat, and positive persons Paul had ever known. In addition to offering the least resistance, it was safe to assume that Devan would be easily roused on the first try. Lennox, on the other hand, was another matter. Waking Lennox typically required a small amount of plastic explosives and a vat of petroleum jelly.

Sure enough, Devan agreed to get up, get dressed, and head downstairs for a quick breakfast. Paul could not help but smile to himself, as he let Devan’s good mood wash over him. Devan was clearly one of those seize the day types, and Paul often wished he could be more like him. He often found himself quietly hoping that Devan would never turn from his wonderful eleven-year-old, red-blooded, American boy attitude. Devan loved life, people, and new challenges. But most of all, he professed a love for God that went well beyond his tender years. Paul could easily see Devan as a teacher, a doctor, or a pastor. His heart filled with its usual warmth, as he watched Devan bound down the stairs with the energy and purpose usually reserved for those who feel inexorably drawn to whatever life has ready for them.

Now, there was Lennox left to raise. Ever since Lennox had turned twelve years old (he was now fifteen, with the emphasis on teen), Paul more frequently experienced the slight sense of melancholy that often accompanies watching a child transition from one milestone to another. First was the time when Lennox had moved from being a preschooler, who held onto his father’s hand with a grip comprised of love and total dependence, to becoming too quickly a boy heading off to kindergarten. Then there was the experience of having let the elementary-aged boy go off to junior high school to become a young adult. And now, as Paul slowly panned the room that still housed models of dinosaurs and Star Wars space craft they had built together, he had to deal with the realization that his precious little boy was now more interested in girls than Winnie the Pooh. He had to deal with the fact that the little boy, who used to hang on his precious father’s every word, now couldn’t care less what the old man thought of anything. It was at this point that Paul always quietly and stealthily curled up beside the young man who was now as tall as he, and held him as if he were still that small, innocent toddler who couldn’t wait to spend time with his adoring daddy. After a moment or two, Paul got up slowly, if not sadly, and exchanged his deep and tender love for what would be the first of many urgent pleas for his oldest son to get out of bed.

Lennox. Lennox, son. It’s time to get up. Lennox? Hey, Lennox, are you sleeping?

No, dad. I’m practicing for the blind Luge, came the irritable growl from the thing lurking beneath the jet-black comforter.

Very funny, Shecky, Paul replied while stifling his glee over the snappy retort. Dude, you’ve gotta get up. Your brother’s already downstairs having breakfast. He was up well before dawn jogging ten miles, clearing the back forty, and building low-cost housing for the poor. For the love of mercy and delicious, crunchy breakfast cereals, rise, Lazarus, rise!

All right, all right! snapped the boy who was dangling at the end of his father’s patience.

Lending credence to the belief that anything is possible and everything’s eventual, Lennox rose, dressed, and dragged himself down the stairs with the urgency and enthusiasm of a condemned man walking the last mile. After dropping himself like a sack of bricks onto one of the simple pine chairs at the dining room table where Paul and Devan were seated, he quickly began devouring an entire box of Pop Tarts like a ravenous goat coming off a forty-day fast. Paul found himself amused and somewhat awestruck by this sight, like tourists on an African safari watching a lion devour a struggling gazelle.

You know, son, you’d better enjoy eating your body weight in those things while you can. One day I’m a young twenty-something buck down at the IHOP chowing down on the Rootie-Tootie Fresh and Fruity, and the next I’m a forty-seven year old grunt who sits down every morning to a bland 12 ounce serving of a cereal called Colon Blast. Ummm, good eats.

Devan let go with an impish chuckle. Lennox without looking up from the nearly empty carton of Pop Tarts, simply mumbled, I’ll keep that in mind, Dad.

Once breakfast was mercifully out of the way, Paul directed the boys upstairs to the bathroom to brush their hair and teeth, though not in any particular order. Once those tasks were completed, it was time to head downstairs to Lainie’s home office in the basement to say goodbye. Ah, Lainie’s office: the space formerly known as Paul’s gym, music room, and mighty Fortress of Solitude. It was an ancient site that once smelled like sweaty guys and rock ‘n roll. But now, with the passage of time, it had morphed into a clean and organized den of femininity that smelled of scented candles. Curled posters of rock music legends and Budweiser babes had been removed and replaced with framed family portraits and quasi-religious posters, and the place that was once a fortress against conformity now had the warm, fuzzy feel of a Hallmark store at Christmas. Paul fully understood and accepted that this was a necessary sacrifice, being as how Lainie needed this room in order to work from home. She was,