Dandelions in Paradise



  DANDELIONS IN PARADISE

  by

  Kit Duncan

  ~~~

  Wingsong Publishing House

  Nashville TN

  Copyright © 2007 by Kit Duncan

  All rights reserved.

  This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part by any means without express permission from its author.

  For additional information:

  Kit Duncan

  kitduncan56@yahoo.com

  Other Books by Kit Duncan

  Corban

  Tea With Mrs Saunders

  Dear Aunt Myrna

  Nonfiction

  A Dance of Empowerment

  Life's Road Trip

  To

  Barry Michael Craig

  17 May 1954 - 28 June 1976

  Smitty!

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  About the Author

  CHAPTER ONE

  Life was very, very good.

  I had just returned home from a six week book tour two days earlier. My fourth novel had been on several best sellers' lists for months. My agent had called that morning and said a producer in LA was interested in negotiating film rights for my second novel; I wasn't familiar with his work but Robert said he had an excellent reputation. The spring daffodils had just started blooming, and the forsythia bushes in my front yard were getting yellow knobs on their branches.

  Yes, sir, life was good. Life was very, very good.

  I don't usually drive at night. Don't see quite as well as I did when I was a young whippersnapper. But I hadn't visited my best friend Janey since before I left in February. Her daughter and her family were visiting from out of state. Janey's grandson Jeremy was turning four months on Sunday, and she wanted me to see him. I wasn't that enthusiastic about being around a baby, but when you're good friends with someone you like to appear interested in what is terribly important to them.

  As it turned out, Janey's grandson was terribly important to her. Grandmama's are funny that way.

  Besides, it was only eight miles to her house. What could possibly happen in eight miles? I pulled out of my drive and headed east on the highway. I rolled the window down about an inch or two. The cool evening air felt good, and I whistled some mindless little tune that had been with me for days.

  I've often heard that when a person dies they see a bright light ahead of them.

  I did not see a bright light. I saw two bright lights. Head lights. Of a semi tractor trailer.

  In my experience, getting hit by a truck pretty much wrecks your whole day, even when you've been having a good day.

  Nature, who does not have a reputation for being consistently gentle, does occasionally behave mercifully. Sometimes she puts people to sleep when they die.

  Or maybe she just knocks them senseless.

  Anyway, not knowing too many details of the hours just after your death is a great blessing. I understand there is a lot of commotion, and dying is aggravating enough without being bombarded with too much eternity all at once.

  I didn't dream much just after I died, not the way you do when you're sleeping. Just a few fragments, distorted memories, wisps of a lifetime bouncing off one another. Nothing dramatic.

  And then the dreams fell dormant, silent, still. They dissipated into a fog, and I was left with nothing but a little breezy air swirling around me. Bored, I opened my eyes.

  An old man was rocking in a chair about five feet away from me, reading a book. He was dressed casually, a faded pair of brown corduroys, a crumpled white shirt, and a burgundy cardigan with a little hole in the left elbow. His legs were crossed. He was barefoot, and his left foot was dangling limply. He was bald headed, though a thicket of tight, curly white hair circled the back half of his head, and he had a scruffy beard and mustache. Bifocals were perched lazily across the middle of his broad nose, and as he read his book his thick lips smiled, and every now and then he giggled out loud.

  I sat up and crossed my legs. We were in a field, a meadow. Bluebonnets and a few Indian paint brushes were a blanket as far as I could see, and a small clump of locust trees grew nearby. I could hear spring birds chirping, and there was a gentle wind caressing the flowers and the grass. In the distance I saw a small frame house with a thin line of smoke coming out of the chimney. A large shed was in the back of the house. The sky was crystal blue, and far, far off in the horizon were a few dim puffs of clouds.

  I wonder if it rains in Heaven, I silently, mindlessly asked myself. Then, more curious about this old man in the rocking chair than Heaven's weather patterns, I coughed. The man didn't move. I coughed a little louder. He chuckled a bit as he turned the page.

  "Are you God?" I asked, and I realized my tone was more demanding than inquisitive.

  My voice startled the old man, and his eyes snapped at me with a jerk. Then, closing his book, he smiled and said, "Oh, good. You're finally awake. Another couple of hours and I'd have this here book finished."

  "What are you reading?" I asked.

  You wait your whole life to meet the Almighty, and the second question you ask is what he's reading.

  "This?" he held the book up. "Catcher in the Rye. You ever read it?"

  "Yes," I said. "In my twenties. I thought it was good, but I don't remember laughing much when I read it."

  "Well," he said, "I reckon it depends on your outlook. I think it's hilarious."

  "The ending's pretty sad," I told him.

  "Good Lord!" he retorted impatiently. "Don't tell me how it ends! You'll ruin it for me!" His voice softened then, and he apologized, then added, "Anyway, folks usually can't tell an ending from a beginning."

  He started to open the book again, then closed it and set it firmly on his lap and uncrossed his legs.

  "So!" he said with a chirp. "You're the new gal in town! How are you feeling?"

  "I'm fine," I said without conviction. "I mean, I guess I'm okay. You?" I thought I may as well be polite.

  "Oh, I'm doing great!" the old man beamed. "Just great. Very great, I have to say. Thanks for asking."

  He stood up and stuffed the book into his back pocket. He stretched his arms and breathed in the spring air, then reached for my hand and swung me up next to him. His grip was stronger than he appeared.

  "There, that's better," he said. "Now, let's have a look at you."

  "What's to see?" I asked a little nervously.

  He didn't answer me, just stared into my face for a long time. He didn't look at the rest of me, and he didn't ask me to turn around. Slowly a little grin curled on the edges of his lips, just under his white shaggy mustache.

  "Yep," he said finally. "Yep, I reckon you'll do fine."

  "What am I going to do fine?" I asked.

  "Oh, sorry," he apologized for his lack of clarity. "You do this a few hundred years or so and it's easy to be insensitive to others who are brand new to it."

  "New
to what?" I asked.

  "Why, dying, of course," he said, and he looked a little impatient, then gave his head a quick shake, and a slight smile edged back into his face. "Alot of folks don't realize they're dead when they quit living. Of course," he scratched his bald head, "alot of folks don't seem to know they're alive before they die."

  "Say," I said with a squint. "You're a quirky little fellow." I didn't mean to sound rude, but he was a bit peculiar.

  "Am I?" he laughed. "More quirky than you?"

  "You think I'm quirky?" I said with a little defensiveness.

  "Well," he said, "You're no Mother Teresa. Now there's a real saint!"

  "So I'm not going to be a saint?"

  "I should think not!" the old man laughed. "But then, I don't have much say in it. I just don't believe you're going to qualify."

  I looked at him, confused. "So," I asked. "You're not in charge?"

  His laughter roared across the meadow, and startled three birds sitting in the locust trees. "Me?" he asked? "Heavens, no!" Then he giggled at his pun. "'Heavens, no,'" he quoted himself, "Get it?"

  "Yes," I sighed. "Got it. But if you're not, well, God, who are you?"

  "I'm Silas Peters."

  "Silas Peters?" I asked. "Like Simon Peter?"

  The old man frowned. "No. Not like Simon Peter. Like Silas Peters. People are always confusing us. I'm not sure which one of us is more irritated at that. I don't even like fish, and he's a good sixteen hundred years older than I am. Besides, he's so old fashioned. Still wears those silly tunics from time to time. I told him to get himself some Levis, maybe even a cowboy hat, but he won't do it. I think he just likes to impress people, but he says no, tunic's are just more dignified."

  "So you've met Peter? What's he like?" I asked. I wasn't really that interested, but I thought I should make a little small talk.

  "Peter? Oh, yes, we've run into each other a couple times. Nice fellow. Cusses like the sailor he is, but he's got a great, beautiful heart. I like him right well."

  The conversation lagged again.

  "So," I looked around the meadow, "Is this my place? Is this my home in Heaven? It surely is lovely," and I smiled.

  Silas did not smile. "Your place? Heaven?" And he laughed again, and I think he was laughing at me.

  "What's so funny?"

  His laughter stopped in mid air, and his face went serious. "Well," he said. "In the first place, no, this is not your place. This is my place. But thanks for the compliment. And secondly, no, this ain't Heaven."

  "If not Heaven," I asked, "then where?"

  "Why," the old man answered, and his eyes were twinkling now, "This is Paradise!"

  "Thought they were the same thing," I said.

  "I expect," Silas said, "that you'll soon discover a lot of things you've thought before ain't quite accurate."

  CHAPTER TWO