Flying Too Close to the Sun by George Jehn (most inspirational books TXT) 📗

dark, wood-stained cedar shingles now slightly curled from years of heating and cooling. A faint, almost imperceptible summer breeze blew ruffling the fine, almost invisible blond hairs on his forearms, while bright sunbeams dappled the colorful and symmetrical purple clematis, pink impatiens and roses his mother had sown in the flowerbeds alongside the walkway, all of which spelled a need for order. Like expensive perfume, the gentle puffs of air unfolded their exquisite fragrances, so they mixed with and clung to every breath, while the dazzling sunlight lent a surreal radiance to the rich upholstery of contrasting colors. This was a day when you could almost hear the flowers growing. Erik closed his eyes and competed with them to soak up the soothing rays and vitamin D. Regardless of the great weather, uncontrollable cold storms raged deep within him. Even though everything seemed to be in perfect balance, no sunny memories were associated with this place, even on a day like this and his slender body only added to the illusion of perfection.

The next-door neighbor had just finished cutting the grass and the scent of the newly-mowed lawn mingled with the bouquet of the flora, adding to the eclectic surroundings woven together by the tapestry of diverse colors. The man saw Erik lying there and commented, “Your mother’s roses are exquisite.”

Erik thanked him for the pleasant words that should have cheered him up, but didn’t. Instead, he felt his mother’s flawless and fragrant roses piercing every inch of his psyche with their thorns. The neighbors apparently also got their thrills out of almost perfect, lush green lawns and rows upon rows of well-tended flowers, making him wonder what went on behind their leafy facades.

This pictured perfection was the public image his German immigrant parents had painstakingly constructed. To Josef and Ursula Preis, everything came down to an outward show of an undefined something Erik knew didn’t exist. The appearance was everything, making it impossible for Erik to forget a childhood as rancid as annuals left outside to rot over a long, freezing winter. Lying there he made a halfhearted effort to cheer up with some corporeal thoughts. He was in great shape, had a full head of dark blond, streaked hair that women paid hundreds of dollars to get washed in at a salon. To the best of his knowledge, at least for the time being, he also had a terrific airline flying job with great earnings potential just around the corner. But his thoughts unrelentingly returned to his old man. The walls were thin and from overheard German language conversations, which neither parent knew he understood. Erik grasped his father might once have been a meticulous European mechanic who after learning of his wife’s affair added unsuccessful American alcoholic to his resume. It was Freud who stated a person’s mental health was gauged by their capacity to love and the ability to perform a day’s work. Joe had no trouble with the latter, but lots with the former. Erik tried to retrieve a happy image of his father and although he could picture him laughing, it was always the drunken, cackling kind. Following Erik’s birth Joe became poisoned after learning he was sexually betrayed by his stunning wife. For reasons unknown they remained married and his father’s private American dream became determined by the amount of control he exercised over family members and his number of possessions. The word insane didn’t fit quite yet, but was getting close.

Most parents might harm their children in some manner, perhaps by tilting the short-lived hourglass of youth a bit, spill out some sand through overindulgence or other forms of excess, while others like Joe smashed the glass entirely. Erik had done nothing to incur his wrath but was nonetheless forced to exist with this festering wound for as long as he could remember. Although he bore no physical scars, his father’s first sin was one of total disregard followed by hostility. Even though they shared the same house, they never existed on the same planet. In an attempt to suppress his own anger, by his teenage years Erik began distancing himself and becoming the total opposite. The apple normally doesn’t fall far from the tree, but in this case, like father not like son was more descriptive. He was aware one’s personality is normally a blend of genes and nurture. He refused to go there because thinking of Joe, Erik knew what it might mean for him. So, because Joe was narrow-minded, he became overly tolerant. The old man was unforgiving, so Erik was broadminded and rolled with life’s punches, accomplishing everything by channeling all the negatives into motivation. He played ostrich for years burying his head in the sands of time, hoping tomorrow would be better, except the tomorrows never arrived. He finally realized they never would, even though his father had it within his power to change everything through a simple paternity test. Erik didn’t adopt quite the same attitude toward his mother, because while her conduct was at the root of the problems, he still looked to her for a meager amount of affection. Once again, these carefully guarded emotions were relegated to the no trespassing, outermost recesses of his mind.

Once finished priming himself for skin cancer, this was followed by a shower, but Erik absolutely knew no matter how hard he tried, these memories tugged at him like an unrelenting dog on a leash. He blew-dry his hair, donned a clean shirt and required tie and turned both ways to double-check his image in the mirror. Many times he wondered if perhaps his good looks might provide deliverance into a better world. This yearning came to fruition, but in a different way than expected when a friend’s father invited him up for a flight in his newly purchased single-engine Cessna 152. While the man flew, Erik carefully observed his every move and figured he could do as well, or maybe even better? So, Erik asked if he could