Middle-aged Will Sonnet lives on twelve acres in the middle of peace and serenity, where fixing fences and pounding nails distracts him from a string of pompous, egotistical bosses he has endured at his job for the last several years. Content with his independent life and his dog, Stretch, as his best friend, Will finds it challenging to find a good woman-one who will not be concerned with changing him. As a result, marriage is but a distant thought. But when his neighbor Sarah shows up at his door with lunch, an invitation to share the day in the country arises, everything changes. Suddenly Will realizes that Sarah's companionship is hard to surpass. With a comforting laugh and total acceptance of him as a man, Sarah envelops Will in the folds of unconditional love as two souls are brought together by fate. As two dreams are brought together as one, both Will and Sarah soon learn that the past is better left behind, leaving the future guided by only their hearts as they finally learn to embrace and accept true love.

Will Sonnet: The Independent Man

By David Sadring

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2012 David Sadring
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4502-9180-4

Chapter One

Oh the alarm clock!

I have, through the years, learned to control my disdain of such an early morning racket.

I have played with the snooze button atop its plastic wooden body as if to one up the clock's duty. Though I know it does not care if I awaken or not, the clock; would be content to let me sleep until way past noon. Soon though I know these games may no longer be played; at some point in this awakening new day, I must get up and strive to be productive.

It's a bright and early 5:a.m., Gods great gift, the early morning hours, I feel at times greedy in the thought that not everyone gets to see the beauty of this time of day.

The dawn is breaking in crisp hues of golden sunlight over the eastern hills that line this dusty town from which I live. Natures own light is taking its sweet time breaking through my kitchen window as I fix the morning coffee, the juice of life as some say, this brown liquid of caffeine and water.

My eyes go from half closed to wide open with every sip of coffee from my trusty old cup.

The cup came from a restaurant that my Father and I visited many years ago in Laguna Hills California when he was still strong and stood tall before age took its toll on his aged body.

The cup has a ship on it, one of those old clipper ship's as that of the Cutty Sark, once dubbed the Great Queen of the Sea in Scottish lore and poetry, though made more famous by the elixir that borrowed the ships name than to the honor of the ship itself.

However, for me it is the thought of the journey on a ship like that I think of the most, as I look at the cup that I hold in my hand and fondly remember the day that it came into my possession.

What a thought, my Father and I sailing the Pacific on a grand sailing vessel being captains of the sea, seeking treasures and distant uncharted islands; oh no, not to plunder, but by choice to live amongst the natives of the distant islands for but a month and to move on towards the calling of the sea.

In my own truth, I would fall into my past youth and seek the perfect wave in which to ride to one of the sandy shores leaving my father to get the skiff from ship to shore on his own. The ever-present urge to ride, wave-rider or surfer, what a glorious piece of nature, the wave.

The day is young, but all of my days start out that way. Young that is, as I have rarely slept much past 6:a.m. in my adult life. An honest day's work has more to do with the time that you get up than it does with the time that you go to bed, and for decades my days have always started in the early morning hours.

I suspect that is why this old body cannot sleep past six in the morning hours; I would surmise from a thought such as this that my body's alarm clock proves we are all creatures of habit.

The past week has been in the toil of my boss' guidance, do this or do that, but he does pay me for my work and that is for certain. Though it is at times that I wish the business mine, as I get tired of doing the work for others.

It seems these days that getting a paycheck is the free license that a boss has to control a person. Sad the weakened spine of the working man to put up with actions from ego driven people, we have, as a society, become so very dainty and fearful of another persons lacking view of those that do the overseer's bidding and toil.

But today, well, today is mine and I plan with a full heart and a strong back to do my own bidding as to what I get done at the end of the day; oh yes believe me, I have plenty to do.

I grew tired of my last boss, his pompous arrogant style of worthless new age manners, and no respect for the people that work hard for him.

One day I told him what I thought of him, oh sure it was in a respectful manner except for a few choice words.

Ha, he looked at me in disbelief that a man would talk to him in a manner of any kind of authority other than his own, he being a man of wealth, power and stupidity.

But I reckon that if the ego takes over the brain then you just think that this is your world.

I thought as I was working through my discourse with him, that I should show him some sympathy for his blindness in life and his lacking respect for the lives' of other's.

Oh yes, it is for certain, it did not take long for me to get over that thought, then I quit and went to work elsewhere; for no man nor woman should put up with any great tolerance of the abuses of a boss who's main claim is seen in his or her laziness.

When I look around this house and yard, and all the trimmings therein that need my attention, I give time to ponder my old boss.

What a moron of a man, well I have seen boys that were more of a man than he was upon any given standard of what a man should be.

I believe that he would die of fright as to what needs tending to around here; his hands would be too soft for these chores. Though my hands of callus and scraped palms and scarred knuckles are right at home with this gratifying labor.

This being Saturday, the day before the day of rest, it is mine to do as I please. Pounding nails, cutting the molding for the door, fixing the old fence that it may stand one more winter's season.

It all seems like honest therapy to me, and I don't have to pay some shrink for the pleasure of getting some peace of mind, you know, so that I can sleep well at night. Save all that for the city bread people, the ones with nothing but time on their hands. All because they live in one of those apartments or condominiums that need little attention, where they sit with idle hands and wandering minds.

Me, I live on twelve treed acres, not so much like Robin Hood's forest, but shade nonetheless.

I live in the middle of peace and serenity in a house built in the tens of this last century. It is certain the house needs work and I accept the responsibility; for everything I do is in the spirits of the craftsmen that originally laid their hands on, so long ago, to every inch of slat and lumber in the construction pocesses.

I look around the kitchen and see my handy work, the counters now have this mornings remains of eggshells and potato peels, the stovetop has some splattering of grease and a damp towel hanging from the handle of the oven door.

The kitchen is in beautiful shape otherwise with new counters and faucets, hardwood floors and paint. I just make a mess when I cook, it is my nature. By any other guise, as if I was a child in a candy store running loose without guidance, I am a man and do things in a man's way.

I am sure in the eyes of a woman that they are peculiar ways, maybe a sign of a man's laziness, but I get things done, and that is the sureness of my path.

Now though, I have eaten and I have to clean up my own mess for there is no need of a maid and there is no discourse about the chore at hand; it must be done. I don't have a dishwasher, though if I am to sell the house someday, it would be a measurable thought to put one in.

But as for now, I am too independent in my life and beings its Stretch and I here I don't have the quantity of dishes to fill a dishwasher with.

Independence is a funny thing; people see movies and revel in the hero for their attributes and independence.

Women see the strength, fall in love with said strength, and yet try to change the man.

Bosses hate independent ways, remembering my old boss hated my independence because he could not control me as he could some of the others, those little parakeets in a cage.

Well my life...