Bruce A. Borders

Monday, May 13, 2013

In Training

I’ve never been that great at training people. I just don’t have enough patience. Other than where my kids are concerned, I always preferred to just to the job myself - the person I’m supposed to be training can watch. I know, not a very productive method of operation in the long run. But, it beats wasting time explaining things and demonstrating, only to have the trainee not pay attention and mess something up. Then, I end up having to re-do it. That’s not exactly productive either - and very frustrating.

Despite my aversion to training, I’ve had quite a lot of experience doing it (maybe that’s why I don’t like it) at a number of jobs. When I worked as a dental technician, we seemed to go through quite a few people in the plaster department. With many jobs, and especially something such as dental technician work, the job is an acquired skill that may take months - or longer - to master. I know this, but that didn’t lessen my frustration because every few months, just when the person was beginning to get the hang of things, they would quit and I’d have to start all over with a new hire.

One Monday morning, I was dreading going to work because, once again, I had a new person to train. I was prepared for the usual slow routine. But then, I got a welcomed surprise. My trainee was not the normal beginner. She actually listened to what I said and then did a fairly decent job of replicating it! Not bad for the first day! Over the next few weeks and months she continued to be a fast learner and did quite well. I was impressed, as was my co-worker, who helped to train her. Unfortunately, we came up with a strange way of showing our appreciation.

And now, it’s confession time.

While she was out on a delivery run one day, we melted down a few Hershey’s candy bars, pouring the chocolate into little paper cups and adding different toppings: peanuts, granola, or crushed hard candy - and to a few, fresh sawdust. Yep, sawdust. Not much, just a light sprinkling.

Our homemade candy had just enough time to cool by the time our victim returned. And yes, we did convince her to try our special “treats.” If I remember correctly, I think she said they “tasted kind of good but were nearly impossible to chew.”

A cruel trick, I know. We felt bad then and told her what we had done. She took it pretty well - sort of. But for some reason, she never really trusted us much after that.

And just so you know, she didn’t just let it go. No, she managed to get back at us in various ways - several times in fact. Guess you could say she’d learned the “trade” well. Apparently, I’m a better trainer than I thought!

Bruce A. Borders, author and songwriter, has over 500 songs and more than a dozen books. Over My Dead Body, The Journey, and Miscarriage Of Justice, his latest books, are available on Apple I-Pad®, Amazon Kindle®, Barnes & Noble Nook® and Sony Reader®, Kobo, Diesel Books, and Smashwords. Now also available in print at many online retailers or at www.bruceabordersbooks.weebly.com. The popular Wynn Garrett Series Books are now available on Barnes And Noble® at http://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/?series_id=867526 See Bruce’s Smashwords Profile at www.smashwords.com/profile/view/BruceABorders #MiscarriageOfJustice

Monday, May 6, 2013

Highway Robbery

Do Not Stop On Roadway! Do Not Pick up Hitchhikers! These and other warning signs decorated the side of a secluded stretch of highway that I used to drive regularly. The road passed within a few hundred yards of a maximum-security prison.

In the past, inmates had been known to escape and then con, or force, some poor unsuspecting motorist out of their car. In many cases, the fugitives are desperate men with no qualms about carjacking or killing someone if it means a way of escape. I drove a semi truck through the area, which came with an added risk. Not only would the truck provide transportation, there also exists the potential of a huge payoff - depending on what load was being hauled in the trailer. While a lot of goods can be quickly turned into cash, other items are not so easily gotten rid of. For example: a load of cereal is worth $100,000 or so, but it’s no simple chore to liquidate 18,000 boxes of Cap’n Crunch. On the other hand, a load of electronics would be considered hitting the jackpot. The good news is, they have no way of knowing what a truck is hauling - or they aren’t supposed to anyway. It’s all a gamble, the luck of the draw. But I didn’t like the prospect of a highway robbery at the hands of escaped convicts who were hoping to strike it rich.

Back to my story. The numerous signs were erected to warn travelers of the dangers of stopping. Danger Zone - Keep Moving! Caution - No Parking at any time! And there were many more. Clearly, officials were quite convinced that portion of road was not at all safe. And so, it made the perfect place to break down. (Typed with the most sarcasm my fingers could muster).

And break down I did. It wasn’t anything major. I just needed to reconnect a couple of loose wires. All in all, I spent no more than five minutes on the side of the road and probably could have cut that time in half - if I hadn’t been keeping a wary eye on each and every approaching vehicle while listening and watching; constantly checking the surrounding terrain of tall grass to make sure no orange-clad bodies materialized.

Obviously, I made it back on my way with no ill effects. And I bet you’re wondering just what I was hauling. Okay, you probably weren’t - but you are now! So, what was the load? Well, not much really. Just six small pallets in fact. Except these particular six pallets held 45,000 lbs. of pure silver!

I think that load would have been considered striking the mother lode!

Monday, April 29, 2013

Going Barefoot

My apologies to those of you still enjoying winter - but where I live, we had our first 80-degree day this past week. Not a big deal to most people I’m sure, and while to me it’s nice, it’s not nearly as significant as it once would have been.

I’ll explain.

My dad had a rule when I was a kid - okay, he had more than one rule but I had a hard time remembering them all at once, so I learned to concentrate on just one at a time - such as now. This particular rule determined at what point my brother and I could go outside barefoot. As you may have guessed, we had to wait until the first 80-degree day of the year. Of course, we tried every conceivable argument to change his mind: it was 80 degrees somewhere in the world, or in the house, or we’d find ingenious methods of heating up the thermometer. Nothing ever worked. Come to find out, he listened to the weather report on the radio - or used the thermometer at the bank.

I used to wonder what it would take to get the DJ to say it was 81 or 82 degrees. But, figuring it was a lost cause, and since I had no money, I never tried. And the bank - that was an obvious impossibility. There was no way to get that big reader board to read something different than the actual temperature. Or so I thought.

We’d had a couple of weeks with temperatures in the upper 70’s - but not hitting that 80-degree mark. We had been bugging my dad, trying to persuade him to relax his rule, and weren’t getting anywhere. As he so plainly put it, 77, 78, or even 79 degrees, was not 80. Then Saturday came and the weather turned noticeably colder - our home thermometer read in the 50’s. Still, we were persistent in our quest and did convince him to drive downtown past the bank - after he gave us a look that said we just might be crazy.

And then... There it was; the bank - right in front of us with the current temperature prominently displayed in big gold numerals. 100 degrees! Yay!

Our excitement soon faded however, when we were told that despite what the bank’s thermometer said, it was not warm enough to go barefoot. We argued but to no avail. Dad still said no (something about the bank having problems, a broken thermometer, or something). By the time we arrived home it had started to rain, but I ignored that - I was still protesting. The thermometer had said it was 100 degrees and that, I said, is definitely over 80! Finally, much to my surprise, my dad agreed.

“Go ahead,” he said.

Really?”

“Yes.”

I couldn’t believe it but I wasn’t about to question anything my father told me (as long as it was something I wanted to hear, of course). In seconds I had my shoes off and was out the door. The first barefoot day of the summer! And -

I think I only spent less than a minute out there. Who knew wet grass at 50 degrees could be so cold? I decided I’d wait a little while longer to go barefoot - maybe until the temperature was say, around 80 degrees!

Sunday, April 21, 2013

That Was A Close One

Things are not always as they seem. For instance, I once knew a man who’d been convicted of murder. Multiple murders, they claimed. He was quite an interesting guy actually, artistic and intelligent, with a unique sense of humor. I wasn’t sure if he was guilty of the crimes or not, but everyone else seemed to think so. By the time I met him, he’d served his time, been released, and landed a job - same place I worked. We worked together, sometimes just the two of us, usually late into the night.

Everybody told me I was crazy for working alone with him, but I didn’t really see a problem. He seemed to be a nice enough guy. Although... He did have a habit, when giving other workers a directive, of saying, “Do it, or I’ll kill you!”

I think he said it just to see the look on their face. Everyone knew his story and his words served to intimidate them. They did what they were told without arguing or complaining. But me, I don’t respond well to intimidation. And, one night when he used the line, I said, “No, you won’t.”

He looked surprised at first and then asked, “What makes you so sure? There’s nobody else here. There’d be no witnesses.”

I said, “Everybody knows I’m here and that you’re here. If anything happened to me, you’d be the first and only suspect. You just got out of prison; I don’t think you want to go back. Besides, I haven’t done anything to make killing me necessary. There would be no point.”

He laughed. “You’re right.”

We continued working together for another year or so and got along great. He was nice as could be and never “threatened” to kill me again. Still, people thought I was a little nuts for staying at my job. But hey, you can’t really choose your co-workers. And the fact that I’m still here proves that I really had nothing to worry about.

Oh! I almost forgot. Things really aren’t always what they seem. A few years later, I heard the guy had gone back to prison - and for quite a long time. The reason? Killing someone.

Whew!

Monday, April 15, 2013

Show And Tell

Show And Tell. It used to be a big deal in school. Kids would bring in some totally trivial object: a pet turtle, a broken toy, or weird food, and then go on and on about it as if it were the most delightful thing in the entire world. Then the process would be repeated by the next kid sharing what they, or more likely, their parents believed would be fascinating to the rest of the class. While teachers seemed to always make a huge production out of it, I’d learned by this time that teachers were never really satisfied. Besides, the whole sharing thing never really appealed to me so, I usually didn’t participate - other than sit there while I was forced to listen to the drivel. Occasionally, however, the teacher would insist that everyone had to be involved and she made Show And Tell a requirement - and then graded us on our performance.

On one such occasion, of which I’d been given a full day’s notice but had conveniently forgotten about, I decided to get into the spirit of things. Although, I’d come to school unprepared, I thought fast, recalling an article I’d seen in the encyclopedia. I decided I’d use that. When my turn rolled around, I walked to the front of the room, grabbed the encyclopedia and opened it to the story, complete with pictures. I then launched into a recap of the article, which described the Apollo 11 mission to the moon, with Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin, and its splashdown in the Pacific Ocean where Navy Seals met the capsule and assisted in getting the astronauts out safely. Near the end of the article was a small picture of the first Navy Seal to reach the Apollo after splashdown.

As I finished my story, the teacher, with a rather disapproving look, reminded the class that Show And Tell was supposed to be something personal. And then looking back to me she asked what the story in the encyclopedia had to do with me.

I said, “The guy in this picture is at my house.”

A few of the kids seemed to think that was cool but it was obvious the teacher did not. “If you don’t have anything for Show And Tell, you should just say so instead of making something up,” she lectured me.

“But it’s true,” I insisted.

It was no use. She didn’t believe me. And I got an F.

Thing is, it was true. The guy in the picture was indeed at my house at that very moment. The retired Navy Seal, who was by that time a preacher, had been the special speaker for several days at the church my dad pastored. The man’s name is John Wolfram, and he was the first Navy Seal to meet the Apollo on splashdown.

Rather than continuing to argue with my teacher, I went home and told my parents - and luckily for me, John Wolfram heard the story too. He was leaving early the next morning so he couldn’t accompany me to school but he had an idea that he thought would help.

The next day, I proudly carried another picture into class - a Polaroid of me and John Wolfram - in front of my house! Yes, I felt pretty smug about the whole thing. The entire class was impressed, including the teacher, and my grade was changed to an A. Everything was great - until the next day. My teacher decided that since I’d had such an interesting guest, it would make a perfect topic for a report - due the next week. See? Teachers are never satisfied!

Monday, April 8, 2013

Laundry In The Good Old Days

Every so often on Facebook, people post a picture of something from days gone by that says “Like” if you know what this is. Recently, I saw one of an old wringer type washer. Actually, it was not that old I guess, since it had an electrical cord attached. Somehow, an electric wringer washer just seems less authentic - at least to me.

Not only did I know what was in the picture, I’ve helped my grandmother do laundry on one of them - without a cord. Ah, those were the good old days! Back when every single article of clothing received its own special care and treatment - all the time and attention that each deserved. Of course, laundry took all day and it was an awful amount of work.

Doing laundry with a wringer washer actually required the presence of the one doing the laundry. Back then, there was no starting a load and running off to do something else. These days, when the clothes are put into the washer - a dial is turned and you can walk away and forget it. And then, when the load is done another three minutes of work is required to start the next load - after placing the clothes into the dryer, and pushing another button. That’s another aspect of laundry that is much easier these days - drying the clothes.

Oh, hey! I wonder how come whoever posted the picture of the wringer type washer, didn’t include a dryer from the same era? Maybe they just didn’t think it was important. Or, they might have worried the two wouldn’t have been a matching set. Or, perhaps they simply didn’t have a picture of such a dryer. But I do. I’ve posted it below. Maybe I’ll put it on Facebook, with a caption that reads, “Like” if you know what this is.

Monday, April 1, 2013

April Fools' Day

Happy April Fools’ Day!

The day, also known as All Fools’ Day, is not a real holiday - just in case anybody is trying to wrangle an extra paid day from their employer. April Fools’ Day is known for practical jokes and silly pranks, trying to get someone to believe something is true that is obviously not, or sending someone on a fool’s errand - searching for items, which do not exist. In some places, it’s a day for pointing out the idiocy or foolishness of certain folks or their behavior.

The origins of April Fools’ Day are not known but there are an abundance of theories, none of which seem to make any sense. That in itself is rather fitting in my opinion. I’ve read many accounts on how the day came into practice. Some seem logical, others are obviously pure fiction. Still others are downright ridiculous; stories so preposterous that only a fool would believe them. Fanciful bets with emperors and kings, a mistaken date of March 32, and spring weather fooling with people are just the beginning. Somehow these seem à propos to the day.

The generally accepted explanation is; that the celebration April Fools’ Day can be traced back to the 1500’s in France. Prior to 1582, the New Year was observed on April 1. The adoption of the Gregorian calendar moved the date to January 1. This ruined the weeklong New Year’s festival, which began on March 25 and ended April 1. Some people refused to go along with the change and were ridiculed by the rest of society for stubbornly clinging to tradition. Sounds good, except the theory doesn’t account for the fact that the day was already widely celebrated before the 1500’s in other parts of Europe and the rest of the world. For example, the ancient Romans had a festival called Hilaria, on March 25. The Persians also had a day of pranking, celebrated on April 1, dating back to 536 B.C . Other ancient societies, including the Jewish and the Greek cultures, had similiar celebrations all on or around April 1. So, to accept the traditional version of the origins of April Fools’ Day would be - well, foolish.

Since there are no definitive explanations for how the day came about, I think I’m free to join in the speculation. Could it be that throughout history there have always been those who were a little less than well-endowed with intelligence? Have people always done things that weren’t too smart? Apparently so. And not just a few. Enough of them that many cultures, dating back to the begining of their existence, set aside a day just for these people. And of course there have always been those who took the opportunity to identify those people - and by extension to prove they themselves were not part of that group.

My theory seems to make as much sense as any other, I believe. It’s reasonable and plausible. Now if I could just figure out whether or not to take offense when someone tells me Happy April Fools’ Day.

Monday, March 25, 2013

Broken Bones

There are people who claim that you cannot really tell if a bone is broken without having a doctor tell you. I beg to differ. I’ve had several broken bones and it is usually rather obvious. To quote an old Johnny Cash song, “I Was There When It Happened, So I Guess I Ought To Know.”

My first experience with broken bones was my head - which may explain a lot. Actually, it wasn’t that traumatic - it definitely did hurt, but I lived. I was only three at the time, I think. Thanks to a bed frame assaulting me, (might have had something to do with my brother and I playing tag in the house) my scalp was split open. No, my brains did not fall out - of that, I’m fairly certain.

I suppose that should have been a sign - a forewarning of things to come. About three years later, I was sitting, minding my own business, watching a baseball game, when an errant throw sent a ball smashing into my nose. I can assure you that nose cartilage is no match for a baseball. I still have a scar to prove it. Over the years, my number of broken bones grew. The list includes; both kneecaps, a couple of toes and fingers, my wrist, and a few ribs, and others. Nowhere near Evel Knievel stats, I realize, but more than enough for me. I never went to the doctor to have any of them set, my dad took care of most of them, or I just wrapped them up. They all seem to have turned out pretty well.

So, how do I know the bones were actually broken? Well, other the familiar dull aching pain, and limbs or digits not functioning properly - or not at all, as the case may be - I did get some proof later in life. I was visiting a chiropractor, due to most of the vertebrae in my neck and back being out of place, which is quite painful in itself, in case you are wondering. After a few x-rays, the doctor came to me with a rather perplexed look. He said, “Although they all have apparently healed up just fine - did you know you’ve had several broken bones?”

Well, I may have been in a lot of pain, but that didn’t mean I’d lost my ever-present cynical nature. I gave him a frown and said, “Um, yeah Doc, I was there for every one of them.”

Friday, March 22, 2013

WLC BookBuzz "Suspenseful Storyline With a Twist" MISCARRIAGE OF JUSTICE by Bruce Borders | World Literary Cafe

Monday, March 18, 2013

Clean Your Room

My Mother had a lot of sayings when I was growing up. One of her favorites was “Clean your room.” I may have just cleaned it the day before, or the week before perhaps, but she’d still insist that I needed to clean my room. I did have a habit of just throwing things wherever seemed convenient. To me, the room was never that messy. But then, I sometimes have selective eyesight.

I think, being a kid, I probably complained about it a lot. Not that I was lazy or anything, but I had so many other things to do. Important things, like; ride my bike, play with the dog, read a book, or even watch grass grow - anything but clean my room.

One day, when I had a lot of pressing issues and things to get done, I thought I’d outsmart her. Instead of taking the time to clean my room the proper way, I shoved everything into the closet and under the bed. And by everything, I mean not only all the toys but even the stuff on top of the chest and my headboard, and off the dresser. The room looked spotless!

About 5 minutes after she’d sent me to clean, I went back downstairs, prepared to get on with my day.

“Did you clean your room already?” My Mother asked with a doubting look.

“Yep. All done,” I told her, trying to scurry out the door.

My Mother, however, being wise to my ways, decided to have a look before I went outside. I followed along behind her, thinking she would certainly be pleased with the job I had done. Never in a million years did I expect her to go directly to the bed and look under it - but that’s exactly what she did! And then she walked to the closet!

Needless to say, I spent the next several hours re-cleaning my room - the correct way this time. And the whole time, all I could think of was; how had she known? So much for outsmarting her!

All these years later, you’d think I would have learned to keep things picked up, but no such luck. I’m a piler. I pile papers, tools, books, clothes - pretty much anything I’m carrying, on the dresser, the table, the counter, the bed, and if all the available space is taken, the floor works nicely. No, my wife is not impressed with my “tidiness” and my piles of clutter. But, after nearly twenty-six years, I think she’s given up.

On the bright side, I don’t have to search through drawers or boxes for things I need, it’s often out in the open, right there on the counter - sort of. Buried halfway down in a pile of papers and other junk could almost be considered “in the open” couldn’t it?

Here’s the odd part of my story. Although my Mother lives three hours away, every now and then - at the strangest times - I distinctly hear her saying, “Clean your room.” And sometimes I do, but usually, I have more urgent matters, like well, anything.

Monday, March 11, 2013

The Paperboy

Anyone who knows me, knows I’m a straightforward, matter-of-fact guy. I don’t like playing games. However, if someone insists on playing games, I’ll usually find a way to win.

Like a lot of Americans, when I was younger, I had a paper route. As far as jobs go, if you can call a paper route a job, it was fairly simple. I spent an hour each day, Monday to Saturday, delivering the papers. I tried not to be one of those paper boys who just threw the papers haphazardly somewhere near the house, choosing to pay attention to each of my customers likes and dislikes. Some of them wanted the paper in the box, some preferred it to be placed inside the screen door, others didn’t want it rolled up, and a few of them had some bizarre requests; like hiding the paper inside their car or under the doormat. I figured it was my job to accommodate them all - and I did.

So far, so good, right? The problem came in at the end of the month. Collection time. The way the system worked was; I received a bill from the newspaper, stating how much money I needed to collect and what amount to forward on to them. The rest was mine. What this meant was any shortages by the customers came out of my pocket. While most customers paid promptly with no objection, a few of them routinely tried to avoid me, or make excuses in order to delay the inevitable. Sometimes it took a week or more to receive all of my money, but with a little persistence I usually did get it. One particular lady however, was a bit more difficult.

From the beginning, it was a chore to collect from her. I learned to be creative in my mission to extract my money from her pocket. No, I didn’t resort to stealing it, if anyone is wondering. I would show up at unexpected times, knock on a different door, or try to catch her outside. This went on for several months with her grumbling each time she actually had to pay for her paper. Then one day she informed me she wasn’t going to pay and to not come asking for it again. I politely (almost) told her she would need to call the newspaper office if she wished to have her subscription stopped, but meanwhile, she still owed me for two months’ papers. Her answer was that she did not want to cancel, but she still refused to pay. Well, I had a simple solution for that. I stopped delivering her paper. I didn’t think it was my responsibility to pay for her to read the news.

A couple of months later, I was informed by the circulation manager that it indeed was my responsibility to deliver her paper - even if she did not pay. I was told we have to keep the customers happy or we would lose subscriptions. Apparently, newspapers owners place more emphasis on the number of subscribers than on their profit. Or not. Turns out, she and the circulation manager were somehow related and he had been delivering the paper to her for the last two months.

“So, if she doesn’t pay can I deduct it from the amount I owe?” I asked.

No, I was told. Collecting was part of my job and I had to pay the full amount on my bill. Furthermore, I was not allowed to stop delivering someone’s paper for non-payment.

Really?

I had a better idea. Taking the papers from my bag, I laid them on the counter and told the manager to deliver them himself. And walked out.

It took three weeks for him to call me. He had been running my route but it was taking up too much time. It seems he couldn’t find anyone who wanted a paper route. He then asked if I would consider taking it back.

“Sure,” I said. “But here’s the deal; I get my money first. I’ll give you a list of those who do not pay and you can deal with them.”

Apparently, the man really was busy because he agreed. For the next several months, at collection time, I made one, and only one, stop at each house - even if the customer wasn’t home. Then, I took out my money and gave the newspaper what was left - along with a list of those who hadn’t paid, just as promised. As I said, I don’t like games but when forced to play, I do play to win.

About two years later, after I’d moved on to bigger and better things, I was talking to a friend who still delivered papers and was happily amused by something he told me. Some of the other paperboys had gotten wind of the deal I’d struck and had demanded the same. Eventually, the newspaper had revamped their billing system. The paperboys no longer collected. Customers were sent a bill each month. And... the best part... if the bill was not paid, their subscription was suspended! After two months of no payment it was canceled!

Now, where had I heard that idea before?

Monday, March 4, 2013

Okie Engineering

Note: This is Read-An-Ebook-Week. My books, Miscarriage Of Justice, Over My Dead Body, The Journey, and The Only Bible The King James Version are 50% off at Smashwords. Use Code REW50 at check out. http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/BruceABorders

Okie engineering is the meeting of necessity with an adequate amount of knowledge and ability to make things work. It’s not always pretty but it does serve to get the job done. Sometimes, Okie engineering is brilliant mechanics and sometimes it’s just practical common sense. Either way, it usually saves time and money and comes in quite handy. I use it all the time - and I’m not even from Oklahoma. Fixing broken things without the right tools and without the right parts may not produce a grand masterpiece - but if it works then who cares, right?

Well, the answer to that is: professional people or government inspectors. (I’m not entirely sure the last category counts). Apparently, both groups frown on unorthodox methods of rigging things together, even temporarily.

Several years ago, when I first started driving a truck for a living, I was cruising down the highway late one rainy Friday night. The steady hum of the tires on the pavement was interrupted by my low-air warning buzzer and then the bright red light came on. Almost as suddenly, my brakes locked up. Contrary to popular belief, when a semi loses air, it does not lose the brakes, rather it loses the ability to release the brakes. A complete loss of air means the truck is not going anywhere except very quickly to the side of the road. The nice part was that with the rain, the eight trailer tires slid easily off to the shoulder.

And so, there I was alongside the road, not able to move. It didn’t take long to find the problem. One of the main air lines on the trailer had been cut completely in two. (This was sort of odd considering these air lines are about an inch thick, reinforced hard rubber). I didn’t have much for tools (a Gerber all-purpose tool on my belt) and had no parts. An extra air line would have been nice but then, I would’ve had no way to make a splice anyway. After determining the line had been too loose and swaying back and forth, I saw what had severed it - the spare tire rack.

Returning to the cab, I looked through the junk in my toolbox, hoping to find something I could use. I did. A roll of duct tape. Knowing the tape would never stick to the air line, which was covered with an oily road-grime, I used a can of Coke to clean it, drying the line with a rag. As anyone who’s ever wiped up spilled soda can imagine, that left things pretty sticky. I wrapped a single layer of tape around the line to hold the two parts together - barely. With 120 pounds of pressure that would be going through the line, the duct tape would provide an initial seal but would never hold by itself once the system was charged with air. I soon solved that.

Finding three large paper clips, I used the file on my Gerber to sharpen the ends and pushed them through the ends of the air line. The third paper clip was used to twist all three together. This would keep the two lines from pulling apart but it was still flimsy. I needed something to provide more strength. Spotting a small tree limb from the shoulder of the road, I used the knife on my Gerber to shave it into a splint. Then, attaching the splint to the splice, I covered it all with half a roll of duct tape. I still had eighty miles to go to the terminal and I crossed my fingers as I pulled back onto the road.

The mechanic on duty took a look at my handiwork when I pulled into the shop and I could tell he wasn’t impressed. Shaking his head, he pulled things apart and fixed it the “right” way. “You’re lucky you didn’t have to cross a scale,” he said. “The DOT (government inspectors) would never let that Okie engineering pass.”

It didn’t bother me that he found no use for my repair job. “It worked,” I told him. “And it saved you from going on a service call on a Friday night.”

He didn’t answer.

A few years later - or slightly more than a few, time flies when you’re having fun - I was going across a scale when an ever-observant weighmaster heard an air leak. After finding the leak, he showed it to me - a sizeable hole in an air line. And after he messed with it a while, the hole grew even larger, in fact, it was barely holding together. He told me he would have to put the truck out of service.

Great, I thought. Friday night, just a few miles from home and there I sat. It would be several hours before my company could send a mechanic.

“Looks like you’ll be here awhile,” the DOT guy said as he started filling out the paperwork. “Unless... Can you fix it?”

“Uh, sure,” I answered, recalling that I had a roll of duct tape in the truck. And paper clips. And I still carried my Gerber.

An hour later, I rolled across the scale with the weighmaster outside listening carefully for air leaks. Then, shining his flashlight under the trailer, I saw him shake his head. But, he gave me the thumbs up, and I hit the road.

That mechanic years ago was wrong. Apparently, I can get my Okie engineering past the DOT!

Monday, February 25, 2013

My Winter Rule

Yay! Winter is almost over! Only four more days left!

Yes I know, technically, winter lasts until March 21st, but you see, I have a rule: no more snow, icy roads, or extreme cold after February. And since 2013 isn’t a leap year, that leaves just four more days. And I’m very glad. As I’ve mentioned on numerous occasions, I do not like winter. I could blame my dislike on the fact that I drive a semi nearly 600 miles a day, but the truth is, even if I didn’t, I still wouldn’t like it. Never did. Too cold, wet, and snowy. By this time of year, I’m really sick of it all. Thus, the rule.

My wife tells me I do not get to make the rules concerning the duration of winter but I disagree. I’ve had this rule for quite a few years, fifteen in fact, and not once during that time have I had to drive my semi on bad roads after February - it’s never even snowed! So apparently, I do get to make the rules. Of course, it may help that fifteen years ago, I moved to a milder climate - one where winter weather is usually over by mid-February.

I realize that by writing this blog I’m probably jinxing things. March 2013 will now become known as “that one winter.” That one winter that set a new record for snowfall. And freezing temperatures. That one winter that extended through the middle of April. That one winter that everyone remembers as the worst winter - for the entire region.

And that brings up a problem. Obviously, such a long winter would break my rule. But I’m not exactly sure what I could do about it. It’s not like I’m actually the boss of well, anything but especially, the weather. That would be God and I’m pretty sure He gets to do what He wants. He doesn’t generally check with me on these matters. Okay, He never checks with me on these matters. That’s all right. I really do not expect Him to.

I suppose then, my “rule” is more of a hopeful wish than any sort of requirement. And in light of that, I should really be thankful to live where my “rule” has prevailed for the last fifteen years. And I am.

Hey! Wait a second. What is that white stuff falling from the sky? Snow? Yep, it’s snowing on me. It wasn’t when I started writing this. “Time to kick off the cruise,” I mutter to myself as I blow out an exasperated sigh.

The good news is: there are only four more days of winter. Maybe.

Monday, February 18, 2013

These Boots Are Made For Walking

At forty-five years of age, I thought I was done walking - well, not literally done, as in never to walk again. Done with walking long distances - you know, no farther than from the house to the pickup or, from the pickup into a store. Apparently however, I needed a little more exercise than I was getting.

A couple of weeks ago, I took my pickup in for some repairs. I was supposed to have it back that afternoon. With my wife at work, and not a single one of my three children around to give me a ride (since they ALL moved out) I walked home. It wasn’t that far actually; the walk took exactly eleven minutes. Later that afternoon, although the shop hadn’t called to say the truck was ready, I walked back. Another eleven minutes - for nothing as it turns out because they were not finished. It would be another couple of hours, they said. So, back to the house I went - walking.

Waiting patiently (as patiently as can be expected from a very impatient guy) for the time to pass, I returned to the shop - again, on foot. And again, the pickup wasn’t ready. And to make things worse, they’d found other issues that needed to be addressed. To fix it would take a couple of days. Okay, looks like I’m walking one more time, I thought. By now I was up to fifty-five minutes. For a guy not used to walking much, it might as well have been fifty-five hours! I was getting a little tired to say the least. But, as I discovered in the next few days, my legs were just getting broken in.

Down to only one vehicle, my wife and I learned to share. Since we work opposite shifts, her in the morning (like a normal person) and me at night, it wasn’t that hard - although, quite inconvenient. She had no car at night and I had none during the day. Which meant, if I wanted to go anywhere, it was back to my primary mode of transportation (as my son refers to it) my feet. I lost track of the trips - and the minutes - but for the last couple of weeks, I have done more walking than any one person should have to endure!

I do have the pickup back now. The guy from the repair shop called the other day to say it was finished. Finally! All I needed to do was go pick it up. Great. Just one little problem though, my wife was at work and with no kids at home (Did I mention they ALL have moved out? I’m not bummed about it or anything) the only way to get there was to walk. Then came the surprise. After two weeks, I was a little more in shape. Apparently, all my walking had done some good - the trip took only nine minutes!

To be fair, either of my kids who live in town, as well as my wife, would have given me a ride - if I had asked. And in reality, they did run me around quite a bit. But they are busy so I tried not to ask. Besides, at forty-five years of age, I would’ve thought I was done asking for rides.

Monday, February 11, 2013

Stupid Drivers

Here’s a little known fact about me - I don’t always root for the so-called “right” side to win. Okay, I usually don’t root for the right side and it’s probably well-known, particularly when the situation involves stupid people.

Last week, I was making my last run of the week in my semi. The time was around 2:00 in the morning. Not a lot of traffic is on the road at that time and its normally peaceful - the most uneventful part of my run. Not this night.

I was approaching another semi-truck and I moved over to the left lane to pass. As I pulled even with the truck, in my mirror, I saw the headlights of a car, and it was gaining fast. I continued passing the truck, which took a minute or two. By this time, the car was riding my bumper. The driver, apparently anxious to get around, began flashing his lights back and forth from bright to dim. Not being able to speed up, even if I had wanted to, I waited patiently for the truck driver to flash his lights, signaling that I had cleared him, and then I moved back into the right lane. Once my trailer was out of the left lane, the driver of the car sped up, quickly passing me. I figured with the hurry he was in he’d soon be out of sight. Then, his stupidity gene kicked in.

Instead of going on down the road as a normal person would do, the guy thought it’d be a good idea to play chicken with a semi at 60 mph! He pulled to the center of the freeway so his car blocked both lanes, and hit the brakes - hard. Now, this happens quite a bit to truck drivers and so I was prepared for it. I hit the brakes and the Jake came on slowing me down. Generally, once a stupid driver has made their point that I’ve slowed them down, they speed up again and that’s the end of it. Not this guy. He slowed down even more, still riding the centerline.

Rather than hit him, or play dangerous games on the freeway, (a game that I can easily win, but then lose my job) I kept slowing down. Our speed was now about 30 mph.

The guy in the semi behind me had seen what was going on and being an independent driver must have had no worries about losing his job. And, as he later said on the CB, he really didn’t like stupid people. He pulled to the left lane and accelerated, passing me and continuing on toward the car. Apparently, the guy in the car was too busy watching me because he didn’t move as the truck raced toward him. The road we were on had only about a one-foot shoulder on the left side and when I discovered the truck driver had no intention of slowing down and nowhere to go, I started backing off as fast as I could, waiting for the crash.

The car swerved suddenly to the right and at first I thought the truck had hit it, but I saw no flying pieces of plastic and metal. I realized the driver had jerked the wheel. Evidently, he’d finally seen the big truck bearing down on him. Then, I had another worry, as it appeared the car was going to flip right in front of me. It made several swerves but somehow the driver managed to get it under control. I pulled to the left lane and passed the now very slowly moving car. The other semi was well down the road. A minute or so later, the car speeded up and passed both of us, disappearing into the night.

This story has a good ending; no one got hurt or killed, no one was involved in a wreck, and no one (namely me) got fired. But for a few tense moments, the possibility of all the above was present.

The ordeal had lasted only a minute or so and as I watched the scene play out in slow motion, I had one clear thought. Although I knew what would happen if there were a crash, and knew the truck driver would be at fault in any altercation, I was still rooting for the truck. I don’t really like stupid drivers either!

Monday, February 4, 2013

A Wandering Mind

As a truck driver, I have a lot of time to think. Sometimes my thinking is productive, other times not so much. Sometimes I end up wasting a lot of time just thinking in circles. Okay, a lot of the time I do that. I’ll give you a little glimpse at a typical train of thought, which I’ll call the thoughts of a wondering mind, or wandering mind. This meandering of thought takes place in the form of questions and reasoning away those questions with sound answers - maybe. Ready?

When we’re looking for a parking space why do we say we’re circling or going around the block? Blocks are not round. And why is it called a “round” of applause? Handclapping doesn’t form a geometrical shape. And that’s another thing, why is someone whose body has good form said to be “in shape?” We don’t specify what shape, so it could be any shape. I think a body is in the shape of, well, a body. Whether that body is physically fit shouldn’t matter. Unless of course, someone throws a fit over it. But that doesn’t really make sense either; one does not have to actually throw something to have a temper tantrum. I do know when babies engage in this sort of behavior we sometimes let them sleep it off. But was it ever “on” them in the first place?

Speaking of sleep, why do we say we “fall” asleep? Unless we collapse from sheer exhaustion, we don’t fall anywhere. It seems to me the only purpose of saying we fall asleep is to justify the expression of waking up. Because, while we may “wake up,” we may not necessarily “get up.” That would then mean we were still lying in bed. Then, that begs the question of why do we say we “lie” in bed? It makes it sound as though we can’t tell the truth unless we are standing up. Is that why we say, “he’s a stand-up guy,” if he is an honest man? And if that is the case, then why do judges “sit” on the bench. And why is it called a bench when it more closely resembles a desk and the judge is clearly seated in a chair? Shouldn’t we instead refer to him as a chairman? Although, unless the chair is permanently attached, he would not really be a chair-man, just a regular man.

But wait, if there are “regular” men does that mean there are unleaded men as well? And what about diesel men? I guess those would probably be called truck drivers. You know, guys like me with a lot of time for useless thought. And then, being lost in thought we miss our turn and have to circle the block.

Monday, January 28, 2013

The Broken Window

Has anyone besides me ever gotten into trouble for something you didn’t do? Probably. But for me, it seemed to be a habit because it happened a lot - still does from time to time. Just recently, I was blamed for tearing a hose off the fuel pump at my job - until they actually looked at the surveillance camera footage and saw it wasn’t me. (Would have been nice if they had checked that first). When I was a kid it wasn’t always that easy to prove my innocence but usually, I did find a way to get out of things without suffering any ill consequences, as in the following story.

I was nine or ten years old at the time. An apartment building was being built across the alley from my house. A neighbor friend of mine and I loved to ride our bikes in the piles of dirt. One day, when we’d stopped for a rest, I picked up a dirt clod and threw it through one of the open windows. No glass had been installed yet and we didn’t see any harm in tossing a few more dirt clods through the window hole. A little more dirt on the dirt floor inside couldn’t hurt anything.

We soon grew tired of throwing dirt and went back to riding our bikes. That might have been the end of it except some other kids had seen us and decided throwing dirt clods looked like fun. For the next few days the other kids took it upon themselves to move as much dirt from outside the apartments to the inside, one dirt clod at a time. Then one day, when we all got home from school, the windows had been installed. Of course that fact didn’t at all deter the neighboring kids from their fun and it wasn’t long before one of the windowpanes was broken.

Before the shattered glass had settled to the ground all of the other kids were long gone. My friend and I had done nothing wrong and so we stayed. The next day after school, we again went to ride our bikes on the mounds of dirt. And then suddenly, there were four or five men who appeared out of nowhere - and they were mad! One of them, evidently the boss, was yelling and cussing at us, asking us why we’d broken out the window. It did no good to tell him we weren’t the ones responsible, he didn’t care what we had to say. He’d talked to someone across the street and they told him we rode our bikes there everyday. We were going to have to pay for the window, he said. Then he added, that he wouldn’t call the police if we’d tell him where we lived.

I may have been only a kid but I was no fool. Remember I said getting in trouble for things I hadn’t done was sort of a habit of mine? Well, that habit had taught me at least one thing and I knew better than to tell the guy where I lived. He wanted to talk to my parents, and that wasn’t going to happen - not if I could help it! But neither did I want to lie to the man. So, my friend and I just took off riding as fast as we could - away from the construction site and in the opposite direction from our houses.

Returning home an hour or so later, we half expected to be greeted by a cop car - but there were none. Neither of our parents mentioned it so apparently, the guy hadn’t figured out where we lived. In a few weeks the apartments were finished and we never saw the man again. For once, I had won! I wasn’t sure exactly what I had won since I hadn’t been guilty in the first place, but it was nice to feel as if I’d gotten away with something.

The whole reason I’m telling this story is that I was reminded of it the other day while driving past those apartments. I was slightly amused to see that a window was broken. The same window. Great, I thought, as my smile faded and I quickly drove away. I wonder if I’m going to be blamed for this?