Toast For Sale

I’ve never been much of a salesman. Probably because I don’t want to bother people anymore than I want to be bothered myself. I just figure no one needs me to tell them what they want to buy. But that wasn’t always the case.

When I was about six years old, I used to come home from school every day and make myself a couple of pieces of toast. I’d spread the toast with lots of margarine (not butter, I happen to think margarine tastes better) and top it off with a thick layer of my Mother’s homemade strawberry jam. Then, I’d go stand on our front porch and try to sell the toast (as I was eating it) to passing motorists. I’d yell at the top of my lungs, “Toast for sale! Toast with strawberry jam – just twenty-five cents a slice!”

We lived on a busy street and in the few minutes it took me to consume my two slices of toast, I offered my sales pitch numerous times – enough to make myself a little hoarse on occasion. But I had to yell loud otherwise people inside their cars wouldn’t have been able to hear me. Every once in a while, I’d get lucky and catch someone walking by and I could say my spiel in an almost normal voice.

I did this for quite a while. We lived in that house for about three years, and most days I was outside at some point trying to sell my toast. That’s a lot of sales pitches. Yet, in all that time, I never sold a single slice of toast. Amazing, I know. Imagine – no one wanting to buy homemade toast from a six-year-old, grimy kid. The only thing I managed to do was get an awful lot of strange looks from people. A few of them even yelled back, but I could never hear what they had to say – maybe because I was still loudly blabbing away myself.

Eventually, I gave up on the idea of selling toast. As it turns out, homemade toast is not really a big seller. Although…

Years later, I tried to convince my kids one day, that they had to pay me for the toast they’d made. “Twenty-five cents a slice,” I said.

It didn’t work. Guess I’m still not much of a salesman.

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. For more information, visit www.bruceabordersbooks.weebly.com. See Bruce’s Amazon Author Page at www.amazon.com/author/bruceaborders or view his Smashwords Profile at www.smashwords.com/profile/view/BruceABorders

Not Quite Expired

I tend to keep things well past their expiration date. I’m not talking food, but objects, inanimate objects. Long after most people would consider the item useless and toss it in the trash, I hold on to it. For instance, my boots have major holes in them, as do my work gloves, jeans, and even some of my shirts. My hat is dilapidated and badly deformed. But, all these things still work so I keep them. To some people, I’m a frugal cheapskate. I prefer to think of it as getting my money’s worth. Prices are high, things are expensive, and I can’t justify spending more money until the item in question is completely worn out. This extends to bigger items as well. My last pickup, I had for over 17 years. And tires? I run those until there is no tread. And by no tread, I mean the tires would qualify for racing slicks.

Besides all this, I’m a bit sentimental; I don’t like to part with anything that I’ve decided has any amount of sentimental value, especially when that something has to do with my children. So, it came as a shock, even to me, when I actually threw away a wooden sink/stove - with cabinets play set that my girls had. It had been through a lot, was falling apart, the boards warped and busted. I’d pieced it back together several times but finally, I decided it was too far gone to save.

I disassembled the broken toy and carried it out to the burning barrel. But then, looking out the window, something wouldn’t let me go through with destroying it. Retrieving the pieces and laying them in the garage, I made a quick trip to the lumberyard. After spending a few dollars, I returned home, armed with my new boards. A couple of days later, I’d rebuilt the sink/stove.

My wife thought I’d really lost it. “Just throw it away,” she said. But she didn’t see the look in both of my daughter’s eyes when I presented the refurbished play set!

That was over fifteen years ago and sadly, the play set again fell into disrepair – a casualty of many hours of play. But, this time, in keeping with my personal tradition of keeping things long past their expiration date, I didn’t throw it away. Instead, I stored all the boards in the shed out back. And it just may be time to make another trip to the lumberyard. My grandkids might like to play with it!

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. For more information, visit www.bruceaborders.com. See Bruce’s Amazon Author Page at www.amazon.com/author/bruceaborders or view his Smashwords Profile at www.smashwords.com/profile/view/BruceABorders

Dogs Versus Cats

I’m a dog person. Or, rather, I am a person who likes dogs, not some sort of cross breed of the two. Being that humans and canines are completely different species, that would be most unusual. My point is I am fond of dogs, not cats. And I think both of them can tell my preference because dogs seem to gravitate to me, while cats tend to slink away. I have a lot of reasons for my partiality to dogs, as I’m sure all you people who prefer cats do. If you are one of the strange sort who like cats, that’s okay. I won’t try to change your mind; I just have a story to tell.

Several years ago, my dad and I went exploring one day in the middle of Wyoming. We were miles away from civilization and hoping to find something of interest. And we did.

Walking on a high plateau, with a huge cliff in front of us, the scenery was breathtaking. Wanting to get a better view of the valley below, I moved forward and peered over the edge of the cliff. And there, not six feet down the wall, on a small rock outcropping, sat a cougar, or mountain lion if you prefer.

Not being a fan of cats in general, and particularly not ones big enough to kill me, I wasn’t impressed. Since the only gun I had with me was a .22 pistol, I did the most prudent thing I could think of and slowly backed away, half expecting the startled cougar to bound over the rock rim and come after me. To my relief it stayed put. Like I said earlier, cats tend to move away from me. Apparently, it didn’t like me any more than I liked it, which was not much. Not that I would have enjoyed the prospect of seeing a wild dog (wolf) in the same situation.

Fast-forward a few years. My job of driving truck consists of hauling garbage to the high dessert to a landfill – at night. As you can imagine, it’s not all that unusual to see cougars there scrounging for food, especially in the dry years. One night, just as I pulled the air brakes on, I saw one – a big one. It was standing about twenty feet in front of my truck seemingly unafraid of the sound of the engine, or the horn, I found.

I wasn’t about to get out as long as the cat was there – once again, I didn’t have a gun to shoot it. Thinking I might be there a while, I prepared to sit back and wait, watching it as it stared back at me. Then, for some unknown reason, the big cat suddenly sprang off to the left, disappearing across the field. Something had spooked it, that was obvious. I didn’t know what though, until I opened the door and got out. And then I heard them – a pack of coyotes yapping. From the sound of it, they were very close and getting closer. Now I knew why the cat had been scared away – the coyotes, members of the dog family, had come to my rescue! See? As I said, dogs gravitate to me and cats slink away. Just the way it ought to be, I think. After all, I’m a dog person.

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. For more information, visit www.bruceaborders.com. See Bruce’s Amazon Author Page at www.amazon.com/author/bruceaborders or view his Smashwords Profile at www.smashwords.com/profile/view/BruceABorders

To Do List

I make lists. To do lists. Partly because I can’t ever seem to remember everything that needs done and partly just to experience the satisfaction of crossing things off when I complete them.

Every week, I have twenty or more pressing things to do, and I put them on the list as I think of them – usually at night when I’m driving and have nothing better to do than think. The next day, I get done what I can, cross those items off the list and then go to work. And add more things to the list, quite often more than I crossed off. It’s a continuous cycle that has been ongoing for the last twenty plus years. On weekends, at the expense of sleep, I try to get everything caught up; cross everything off the list. Try, but it never works. I haven’t had an empty list (if there is such a thing) since - well, ever. The more I do, the more there is to be done.

I’ve been told my problem is I have too many aspirations, that I really should just relax, not make a list, and not try to do anything. My question is, what exactly would that accomplish? Nothing. I have only so many days until I die. I sincerely hope I have my list done before that happens. But, if the last twenty years are any indication, I probably won’t. And that presents quite a problem – how will I ever be able to rest in peace, knowing my list isn’t done?

Until recently, it seemed the only way around the dilemma was just not to die. I’m pretty sure that’s not a viable option. Obviously, I’m not going to live forever - although so far, it’s working quite well. But, back to my conundrum, I think I have found a solution. It’s simple really. If I can manage for my body to outlive my brain, I’ll never be able to think of anything to add to my list. No list – voilà, problem solved. After reading this blog, some will no doubt insist that my brain is already going so I should have nothing to worry about. I would love to argue the point but I don’t have time. The weekend is here and I have a long list of things to do.

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. For more information, visit www.bruceaborders.com. See Bruce’s Amazon Author Page at www.amazon.com/author/bruceaborders or view his Smashwords Profile at www.smashwords.com/profile/view/BruceABorders

How Much Am I Making?

Never agree to do a job without knowing how much you’ll be paid - a good principle to live by that I learned the hard way.

I’m not sure how old we were but when my brother and I were in grade school, the lady who lived a block away on the corner hired us to clean up her yard. No big deal – we thought. It was a small yard. “I’ll pay you,” she said.

So, on Saturday morning, eager to earn some money, we reported for duty. The lady had everything ready - rakes, shovels, trash bags, and a wheelbarrow. After she untied her dog and put it in the house, we set to work, figuring we’d be done in an hour or two.

Not quite.

What the lady had failed to tell us was just how bad the yard was. Aside from the normal yard debris of twigs and leaves, there was garbage – as in household garbage. Apparently, her yard doubled as her own private city dump! It smelled horrible. And, as you can imagine, keeping a dog tied in the yard didn’t help matters either. Neither did the multiple cats. Then to add a little more to the mix, a fruit tree (apple, I think) had dropped its fruit on the ground for who knows how long. It all added up to a gooey, slimy, and very smelly mess, anywhere from six inches to a foot deep.

By noon, we were barely half done. Taking a short break, we went home to eat lunch. But, I don’t think either one of us were that hungry. Afterward, we returned for more “fun.” Late that afternoon, we finally finished. All the slime and scum had been shoveled, raked, and carted away; the yard cleaned down to the bare ground. We cleaned up the tools and then knocked on the woman’s door.

She came outside to have a look and was very impressed. And appreciative; thanking us profusely and telling us what a nice job we’d done. And then, she remembered she’d promised to pay us. “Wait just a minute,” she told us, disappearing into the house.

Soon she returned with our pay, handing each of us a quarter. Yep, one quarter. Twenty-five cents for eight hours of work! And not the most pleasant of jobs.

And that’s how I learned to establish wages before agreeing to do the job. I learned something else that day too. Never clean up someone else’s mess!

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. For more information, visit www.bruceaborders.com. See Bruce’s Amazon Author Page at www.amazon.com/author/bruceaborders or view his Smashwords Profile at www.smashwords.com/profile/view/BruceABorders

My Wife Doesn't Know Me

Wouldn’t you think a wife should recognize her husband? Even if they were newlyweds, I would think she would be familiar enough with him that seeing him walking down the street should ring a bell. But, I apparently would be wrong.

Shortly after my wife and I were married, we were visiting a small town in Wyoming. I’d gone into the store and my wife was outside with my mother. When I returned from a different direction than my wife was expecting, it took her a few seconds to realize who I was – although, she’d been looking at me the whole time. Of course, I gave her a hard time about checking out the cowboy she saw walking down the street. (Hopefully, she thought I was at least as good looking as her husband).

I did find it a little odd that she hadn’t recognized me. I guess I could chalk it up to the fact that we were in a strange town, or that I wasn’t where she’d thought I would be - or something. Maybe the three or four years she’d known me at that point wasn’t quite long enough to recognize me from a distance. Whatever the reason, I really didn’t think she was going senile – yet. Several years later though, I began to wonder.

I was driving down the freeway in my semi, when my wife and one of our daughters passed me - my daughter was driving and my wife was in the passenger seat. I’d seen the car coming in my mirror, and when they went by, I waved – and got a blank stare. She didn’t know me! I waved again – still no response. And it gets worse. Later, I learned my daughter had told her it was me they were passing and my wife had said she didn’t think so.

All right, to be fair, the sun had gone down, and it was getting a little dark. Still, I would think after twenty years or so of being married to me, the woman should recognize her own husband! I realized I have aged, but not that much.

But then, maybe I shouldn’t be too critical. Not long ago, I pulled into my driveway and wondered who that was trimming roses in the yard. She looked kind of familiar, I thought, but it was quite a long few seconds before I recognized her. Yeah, you guessed it. It was my wife.

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. For more information, visit www.bruceaborders.com. See Bruce’s Amazon Author Page at www.amazon.com/author/bruceaborders or view his Smashwords Profile at www.smashwords.com/profile/view/BruceABorders

Electronic Age

This past week, my daughter’s electricity went out for a short period, but apparently, that was still too long. She asked me how people ever managed in the old days. And I replied, they didn’t, they invented electricity.

That got me to thinking of all the things we use on a daily basis that require electricity in one form or another. Microwaves, cell phones, computers, refrigerators, stoves, toasters, radios, cars, traffic lights, power tools, lights and heat, washers and dryers, to name a few. We depend on these things and many more just to survive. Electricity powers our daily existence.

Yet, the people who lived in the so-called old days were not nearly as lost as we would be without our modern conveniences. They were not dependent upon electricity like today’s society. They had everything they needed; hand tools for working and building things, a horse and buggy for transportation, a fireplace or stove for heat. And the list continues: oil lamps, wood-cook stoves, iceboxes, washboards, etc. Most households these days have very few of those things - if any.

Not long ago, I heard that four out of five homes in America rely entirely on electricity to heat their homes – with no backup. And most of the other twenty percent would last only a few days with their limited supply of wood or fuel oil. So, if the country were to suddenly be without power for any extended period, I think it’s safe to say there would be widespread chaos.

I’d like to believe that I’d fare better than most. Having been privileged to live before a lot of these modern conveniences, I think I’d be okay. I don’t really need all that stuff to survive anyway. Well, except for my computer. And my phone. Maybe central air and heat. Oh, and a microwave. And running water is nice. Then of course, there’s my pickup and…

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. For more information, visit www.bruceaborders.com. See Bruce’s Amazon Author Page at www.amazon.com/author/bruceaborders or view his Smashwords Profile at www.smashwords.com/profile/view/BruceABorders

Read, Read, Read

Ever since I learned to read, I loved books. Not just kids books, lots of books, almost any book – well, except for textbooks. I had a strong aversion to anything school related.

I used to make weekly trips to the county library and check out stacks of books. I had a mission; to read every book they had on the shelves. The library, on the other hand, seemed to want to thwart my efforts by imposing a limit of a ridiculously low number of books any one person could check out at one time, twelve as I recall. Fortunately for me, my school had a library as well. Yes, finding a way around rules and restrictions was another thing I loved when I was a kid.

I came up with a lot of methods to extend my reading time. For instance, after going to bed, when I was supposed to be asleep, I’d use a flashlight under the covers, with the pillow propped up to help shield the light, and I would read until the wee hours of the morning. If my parents came to check on me, the flashlight was instantly clicked off, the pillow allowed to fall, covering the book, and my head came out from under the covers to fall onto the pillow – all in about two seconds.

My cantankerous nature was not limited to just making time to read however. Rules are made to be broken so the saying goes. One day, my third-grade teacher made the mistake of telling the class we were not allowed to leave the school grounds without her permission, and if we tried, we WOULD be caught! That sounded like a challenge to me.

After a couple of days of playing by the gate at every recess – to get the teachers used to seeing me in that area - one Thursday morning, at the first recess, I slipped through the gate, disappearing around the big evergreen bushes. From there, it was simple to make it around the corner unseen. Then, I casually strolled on downtown. At two forty-five, I was standing in line to get on the bus, like normal. The next day, I arrived at school with a dubious feeling of accomplishment. I hadn’t been caught, but I couldn’t very well point that out to the teacher, or anyone else for that matter. That sort of robbed me of my sense of victory. I had to be content with just knowing that I’d done it and that the teacher was wrong.

Oh, yeah. Just in case anyone is wondering – where does a nine-year-old go while skipping school for over five hours? The library. At least that’s where I went. They had a couple of books I hadn’t read.

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. For more information, visit www.bruceaborders.com. See Bruce’s Amazon Author Page at www.amazon.com/author/bruceaborders or view his Smashwords Profile at www.smashwords.com/profile/view/BruceABorders

Making My Own Road

With over fifty-five million miles of roads in America, there should be a road for anywhere a guy wants to go, right? Well, you’d think so, but that’s not always the case. Sometimes a guy has to make his own road.

Several years ago, my wife and I were in Nashville, where I was trying to get onto Interstate 24. Normally, that’s an easy thing to do but this day they had construction at the interchange with barrels set up blocking the on-ramp. I followed the detour signs for I-24 south – and ended up going north. Figuring I’d misread the sign, I circled around the cloverleaf and in a couple of minutes, was back where I’d started. This time, I double checked the signs – and followed the same route – right onto I-24 north. Of course, I was complaining the whole time, while my wife seemed convinced that I’d just made a wrong turn – twice. So, we went around again. And again, ended up going the wrong direction. And we weren’t alone. The car in front of us and the pickup behind us were driving in circles too – and they had Tennessee plates!

By this time, I was a little more than frustrated. I could see the road I needed to be on but following the signs did not get me there. Admittedly, I don’t have a lot of patience – about three-times-around-a-cloverleaf’s worth as it turns out. My wife made some remark to the effect that we couldn’t get there from here, to which I responded, “Oh yeah?” Sometimes a guy has to make his own road.

Driving partway around the cloverleaf again, I chose a nice level grassy area and turned. Traveling across the median, the other side of the freeway (which was closed), and then crossing some more ground, I angled the car up the hill, merging onto the on-ramp for I-24 SOUTH! There were none of those pesky police officers around so I didn’t get a ticket. And while my wife thought I was a little nuts, the guy behind me in the pickup must have thought I had a good idea because he followed.

A few years later, I was driving a semi in a major metropolitan area just blocks from where I needed to deliver. All I had to do, I thought, was make a left turn at the next light and go a short distance. But, due to construction (again!), I was forced to make a right turn instead. The flagger assured me that I could go a couple of blocks down and then go around the block to get back on the road in the right direction. “Just follow the signs,” he said.

I did find the signs and the detour like he’d told me – the only problem was, the road went under a bridge marked 9’ 4” and my trailer was 13’ 6”. So, I continued down the road, watching both sides of every crossroad. Low clearance signs were posted on every single one. And then ahead of me, I saw another low clearance sign – I was trapped. But, I didn’t panic. I knew what to do.

On the left, was an empty parking lot – just wide enough to turn a semi around. And with several people from the nearby apartment complex watching, I drove the truck up over the curb, making a circle to get back on the street. Unfortunately, a semi weighs considerably more than a car and I left deep tracks across the grass – trenches would be more accurate.

Arriving back to where the flagger was, just in case any more trucks came by, I stopped and told him about the problems with his detour. He was surprised and apologetic, and then wanted to know how I’d gotten turned back around. I shrugged and said, “Sometimes a guy has to make his own road.”

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. For more information, visit www.bruceaborders.com. See Bruce’s Amazon Author Page at www.amazon.com/author/bruceaborders or view his Smashwords Profile at www.smashwords.com/profile/view/BruceABorders

The Collector

Being a guy who rarely throws anything away, it’s quite natural that I’d be a collector. That has a much better ring to it than hoarder, I think. My career as a collector began early in life, when like a lot of young boys I decided that I needed to collect things – anything and lots of things. Like what, you ask? Priceless works of art and antiques? Not hardly. I’m more of an average guy. My collections were not exactly junk though; I saved things like stamps, coins, candles, and fish eyes. Really! I kept them in a plastic bag on my windowsill. At least until my mother found them. I came home from school one day and no longer had my fish eye collection.

As I grew older, the types of things I collected changed. Belt buckles, hats, Johnny Cash albums, and books. I still have most of my collections, except for the fish eyes, I’ve hauled them all over the country as I’ve moved, boxes and boxes of stuff. These days, I don’t really collect that much anymore. I have enough junk, I think – at least that’s what my wife tells me.

At some point, I’ll have to go through and sort all my treasures, I suppose. Maybe see if any of my stamps or coins are worth anything. Because, there is one thing I do still collect – dollars!

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. For more information, visit www.bruceaborders.com. See Bruce’s Amazon Author Page at www.amazon.com/author/bruceaborders or view his Smashwords Profile at www.smashwords.com/profile/view/BruceABorders

High Crime Area

I may have to move. The town where I live is trying its best to become a big city, and not just through a population growth. It seems the crime rate is also rising.

About a month ago, I arrived home from work one morning at my usual time, approximately five a.m. Turning onto my street, I was greeted by a scene of flashing lights from no less than a half dozen police cars. Crime scene tape was stretched across the road just on the other side of my house.

My first thought was, “They better let me into my drive!” After working all night, driving 715 miles, the last thing I wanted to do was argue with the cops about whether I’m allowed to go home or not.

Weaving my way through the cop cars, which were parked haphazardly on the street, I was able to maneuver my pickup into the driveway. No officers said anything, although I did get quite a few long stares.

Waking my wife, I asked what had happened, but she didn’t know. Whatever it was, she had slept through it. It took a couple of hours to find out exactly what she’d slept through. Apparently, our neighbor lady, two houses up, had shot her husband and then herself. He lived. She didn’t. My wife must be a fairly sound sleeper. Crime scene investigators were on the scene until late that afternoon.

Since that day, there has been a wave of violent crimes including, another domestic shooting death, two men beaten to death on the street – on separate occasions, and most recently, local police officers shot and killed a man who tried to attack them with a knife.

That’s an awful lot of crime fatalities for a relatively small community in one month. We’ve had more than our share it would seem. But hopefully, things will settle down for a while now. I never intended to live in a high crime area!

Okay, I’m not really thinking of moving. I know there are nut jobs committing violent crime everywhere. Moving wouldn’t change that. Besides, if I even considered the possibility of moving, my grandkids would probably kill me!

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. For more information, visit www.bruceaborders.com. See Bruce’s Amazon Author Page at www.amazon.com/author/bruceaborders or view his Smashwords Profile at www.smashwords.com/profile/view/BruceABorders

Pick Up The Tools

“Put the tools away when you’re done using them,” – one of my dad’s favorite sayings when I was younger. Apparently, my brother and I had a little difficulty with that concept. We’d use his tools to fix our bikes, to work on toys, or to build things, and then we’d forget to finish the job, leaving screwdrivers, sockets, wrenches, hammers (and anything else we dug out of his toolbox) laying wherever we’d been working – usually in the yard. He’d find them the next day, or the next week, or later. Sometimes, they were still usable!

Bigger tools like rakes, shovels, and picks were not immune from our absent-minded approach to tool placement. We’d drop them, and then leave them, moving on to other things.

One day, we decided to use my dad’s tools to dig a tunnel under the street, from one side to the other. The street went up a fairly steep hill and the place we set up our operation, the top of the road measured about fifteen or twenty feet off the ground level. We worked more than a single day on our project, weeks in fact. Eventually, we had a sizeable tunnel, big enough for both of us to fit inside and work, standing up. Digging the dirt loose with a pick and then loading it with shovels into a wheelbarrow, we hauled it out.

To help keep our work hidden, the entrance to our tunnel was obscured by some bushes and a large pile of dirt from the excavation of a building site for a new church. The pile of dirt outside grew daily, but apparently, no one seems to notice the exact size of a pile of dirt.

We managed to dig the tunnel, maybe a quarter of the way across the street – and then we moved, leaving everything as it was under the street. Everything included my dad’s pick and maybe a shovel or two. A driveway for the new church building is now where the opening of our tunnel was, and after more than thirty years, I think it’s safe to assume the street is not going to collapse – at least I hope not. On the other hand, maybe that wouldn’t be so bad. I might find my dad’s pick! Or, not.

After this incident, (and several others) you’d think I would have learned to put tools away when I was finished with them. But no, I still haven’t. I don’t generally leave them in the yard though.

This past weekend, I stopped at my parents’ house. My dad is building a retaining wall behind his house and while I was there, I went around to take a look at his progress. The wall is coming along nicely, but that’s not what captured my attention. There, with a couple of shovels, was a pick. I guess at some point in the last thirty-some years, he replaced it. Although, he might not have it long. Now, I know he wasn’t actually done using it when I was there, however, when I saw it, the pick was laying in the yard!

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. For more information, visit www.bruceaborders.com. See Bruce’s Amazon Author Page at www.amazon.com/author/bruceaborders or view his Smashwords Profile at www.smashwords.com/profile/view/BruceABorders

Strangely Normal

People sometimes think I’m a little strange and – well, I’ll neither confirm nor deny it. But, if I am, I think I have a pretty good idea why. My teachers. Not all of them, but enough. It’s a wonder I’m sane at all considering the odd behavior of some of them.

I’ll describe a few – without names of course. See? I can a be nice guy.

Grade school. One of my teachers was a particularly grouchy lady, who made a habit of not paying attention to much of anything. She continually gave us erroneous facts and information and “corrected” our supposed mistakes. Then, she’d get really cranky when anyone (me) pointed it out. A quick example: I had to write a report on a family summer activity, and I chose our vacation to Missouri. In my report, I mentioned several towns we’d visited, including Flat River and Zalma. When my graded report was returned, both of those towns were circled in red with a note that said Zalma was spelled with an ‘e’ on the end and it was the Platte River, not Flat River. However, had she actually read the report, she would have noticed that Flat River was indeed a town and not a river. As for the spelling of Zalma, a quick check of a map would have told her it was correct. (My parents helped set her straight). This scenario was repeated throughout the year, with me, as well as other students.

Then, there was the teacher who had severe anger issues. The slightest little thing would set him off. His face would turn beet-red, he’d yell and cuss at us, and throw things. A couple of years after I was in his class, he finally lost it and threw a javelin through a kid’s neck. For some reason, they didn’t let him teach after that.

Another of my teachers used to spend more time in the Kindergarten class and the teacher’s lounge than in his own classroom. It seems he was rather fond of the Kindergarten teacher and his wife wouldn’t let him bring her home. To be fair, that only lasted a couple of years – until the divorce.

While these may seem a bit odd, they weren’t the worst. That distinction belongs to another grade school teacher, a woman we called Mrs. Wacky Wafer. Now, before you start thinking we were being disrespectful or rude, let me just say we had a good reason for giving her that name. The very old lady, who should have retired long before I reached her class, was – well, eccentric. (That does sound better than saying she was crazy, doesn’t it?) She routinely forgot our names, and her name, assigned us the same homework two or more days in a row, and sometimes even forgot which classroom was ours after recess. One day, shortly after lunch, she announced that she had to go talk with the principal for a few minutes – and never came back!

The great part was it usually was easy to convince her that we hadn’t had recess yet. In fact, it was pretty simple to convince her of just about anything. And those times when she’d re-assign us the previous day’s homework - I just turned in the same paper again! Once, my grade even improved!

After writing this, I’m wondering how I managed to get any education in grade school. And, now that I think about it, I’ve decided that I’m not the least bit strange after all. Just a normal guy. And, in light of some of the teachers I had, that is definitely strange.

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. For more information, visit www.bruceaborders.com. See Bruce’s Amazon Author Page at www.amazon.com/author/bruceaborders or view his Smashwords Profile at www.smashwords.com/profile/view/BruceABorders

Electrical Education

I had a strong fascination with electricity when I was a kid – still do; only now, I also have a healthy respect for it. After I learned the hard way its not really something to play with.

I was six years old. My parents had gone away on a trip, leaving my brother and I with some of their friends to watch us at our house. As anyone knows, it’s much easier to get away with things you normally wouldn’t be able to do when your parents aren’t around. I should have been content with that but no; I chose to take the opportunity to attempt to electrocute myself. That wasn’t my intention - that’s just the way it turned out.

In my dad’s toolbox, I found a short piece of bare wire, about eight inches long, with an alligator clip attached to one end. I took the wire to my room, not really knowing what for at that point. But, I figured there had to be something exciting I could do with it. There was.

In my room, I had a small metal wall heater located about four inches from a plugin. For some reason, I thought it’d be a good idea to attach the alligator clip to the heater and then insert the other end into the plug. I guess I wanted to see what would happen. What happened was, the instant the wire made contact, I got a severe jolt, as blue and orange sparks flew. But that wasn’t the worst of it. My little miniature arc welder welded the alligator clip to the heater and the other end to the plug. And then it melted the skin on my forefinger and thumb together around the wire.

Of course, the burning feeling and continuous surging of electricity caused me to jerk my hand back. The only result of that was my fingers slid smoothly down the wire; I couldn’t let go. At some point, I started yelling – probably the very second I felt the first volt enter my fingers. Everyone in the house rushed into my room where my plight was quite obvious. The guy who rescued me said later, he knew that if he’d touched me or the wire he’d have wound up in the same predicament as I. Lucky for me, he also knew what to do.

He quickly removed his thick leather belt, and I thought I was getting a spanking. Instead, he looped the belt around the wire and gave it a quick pull. The relief was instant! No more shocking and burning feeling! Still, one small problem remained; my fingers were still melded together. A little persuasion from a pocketknife and I again had the use of all five digits on that hand.

I still have the scars on my finger and thumb but I don’t think I need them to remember the experience. The incident left a rather searing impression on my brain as well and I never attempted a repeat performance. But, I have a son who a lot of people say is a lot like me – right down to his early and unhealthy interest in electricity.

He was three at the time. We were at my parent’s house and like his father; he decided plugins were meant to have things, other than a plug, inserted into them – keys in this instance. Unlike his father, he was able to let go but not before creating his own artistic display of fireworks and making a unique set of black marks on the wall. He suffered no long-term ill effects (we think) but never seemed to want to discuss the incident much. However, his interest in electricity wasn’t totally dispelled. In fact, this past week, he started Lineman College. Apparently, he too, decided electricity isn’t something to play with – he’s going to make a career of it.

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. For more information, visit www.bruceaborders.com. See Bruce’s Amazon Author Page at www.amazon.com/author/bruceaborders or view his Smashwords Profile at www.smashwords.com/profile/view/BruceABorders

The Amusement Park

There’s something about an amusement park that brings out the kid in people. It’s not just the rides but the whole atmosphere of fun and, well, for lack of a better word, amusement. The shows, the music, the games, and of course, the food. I learned long ago not to stuff myself with caramel apples, cotton candy, taffy, and ice cream - not if I wanted to enjoy myself the rest of the time at the park. Not that I get sick on the rides, although I have always found it ironic that amusement parks and carnivals sell all this type of food to people who then go on numerous wild rides, twisting and turning upside down and sideways at high speeds. It’s no wonder that some people have a little difficulty keeping their food down. For me, I just don’t like all that sugary food at once; I’d rather eat real food.

Up until this past week, it had been several years - 6 or 7 I think - since I’d been to an amusement park. Last week we went on a three-day mini vacation with family and friends to a theme park. The first day there, I discovered that evidently, I’ve aged a bit in the last few years. The rides, which I always loved, weren’t real nice to me. It seems they’ve started making them rougher and more backbreaking than they used to be. And then there was all the walking. I’m a truck driver, which means I sit all day long, not stand in lines and walk. But I still love the rides so, with tired muscles and an aching back, I hobbled along from one to the next; multiple roller coasters, the Cork Screw, the Flume, Thunder Canyon, Panic Plunge and After Shock, etc. I was intent on not missing any of the thrill.

The next morning, it was a little difficult to get moving. But after an hour or so, (and a handful of ibuprofen) I was back to normal - at least as normal as can be expected for an “old man” as my children refer to me. But as I stated at the beginning of this blog, there’s something about an amusement park that brings out the kid in people. Though I had to pay a little more with all the aches and pains, it was still fun and I eagerly went back the second day for more - the wilder the rides, the better. On second thought, instead of bringing out the kid in me, maybe it caused some sort of brain damage resulting in a lapse of judgment. But then, a lot of people would say a lapse in judgment comes from being a kid. So, I guess I was right to begin with.

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. For more information, visit www.bruceaborders.com. See Bruce’s Amazon Author Page at www.amazon.com/author/bruceaborders or view his Smashwords Profile at www.smashwords.com/profile/view/BruceABorders

Down In The Dumps

There's an old saying that goes, "One man's trash is another man's treasure. I agree.

To most people, a city dump is not exactly a prime place to go shopping. Most people don't even like being at a dump, let alone scavenging through piles of rubbish for things they can use. Most people. Me, I'm not so particular. I don't mind being at the dump - never know what I'll find there. Obviously, I'm not talking about garbage or broken and busted items, which no longer function in any sort of intended capacity, but people routinely throw away perfectly good "junk." It may be they no longer have a use for it or perhaps it's not new enough. Whatever the reason, they toss it out because it's become worthless to them. 

Over the years, I've benefited from this many times. My first bicycle came from the dump. An uncle found the bike and brought it to me. The only thing wrong with it was the missing seat. But I didn't care in the least. At three years old, I hadn't yet learned that I was supposed to be grossed out by the thought of anything coming from the dump. I was elated to have a bicycle of my own, missing seat or not! Never-mind that I didn't actually know how to ride a bike yet.

That quickly changed. I learned to ride on that bicycle, standing on the pedals - with no seat and without training wheels.

A few years later, that same uncle brought me an electric guitar - from the dump. A perfectly good guitar. I plugged it in and everything worked fine. It even sounded good and stayed in tune! I still have it nearly thirty years later.

Since then, I've found a few treasures at the dump myself. I'm continually amazed by what people are willing to throw away. I can see a lot if you shaking your head, more amazed that I would consider something from the dump worth salvaging than by the fact that someone would throw it away. But I don't have a problem with shopping at the dump. That could be because I spend a lot of time there, since I've worked at the dump - excuse me, sanitary landfill - for the past 16 years. At least that's where I report to for work. Then I get into a semi and haul 68 tons of garbage back to the dump every day. Junk mostly. Other people's trash that sometimes becomes my treasure!

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. For more information, visit www.bruceaborders.com. See Bruce’s Amazon Author Page at www.amazon.com/author/bruceaborders or view his Smashwords Profile at www.smashwords.com/profile/view/BruceABorders

A Picture's Worth A Thousand Words

I apologize in advance for the length of this post. Go ahead, you can still read it; it’s actually not that long. You may even find a bit of irony and humor in it. Maybe.

It’s been said (by some supposedly wise person), that a picture is worth a thousand words. But that’s just a saying and it’s not really true. Sometimes, what may seem like wit and wisdom is nothing more than mere words. Sure, those words may sound nice and cause a person to think, but they can’t always be taken literally. This I know. What follows is a short story of how I know this.

Back in school, high school to be specific, I once turned in a very vibrant and colorful picture for a seven hundred fifty word essay assignment - and figured I had it covered. Lucky for me, my teacher had a sense of humor. Instead of giving me an “F” as he probably should have done, he handed the picture back the next morning and said, “That’s cute. Try again.” But, he was smiling!

I had written an essay, as I was supposed to, and I gave it to him. And even though it had technically been turned in late, he didn’t mark my grade down because of it. And that left me a little disappointed. I’d really expected him to mark me down and was even prepared for it. In fact, I’d written another essay based on Einstein’s Theory of Relativity. This second essay served to “prove” my point that since time is indeed relative, nothing can ever be said to be late. After all, if there is no fixed time standard what could possibly be used to establish the basis for the concept of late?

I think my teacher may have known me too well. He hadn’t marked down my grade precisely because he probably knew what was coming given my history of behavior on such things. Any time I took a test and happened to get an answer wrong, almost any answer, I would argue the point. More often than not, I was able to persuade him that my answer, while perhaps not the best answer and maybe not the answer he was looking for, was at least partially correct. Sometimes I convinced him that my answer was one hundred percent correct! Those were the moments I reveled in! Usually, whether my answers were completely right or only partially right, my test scores were amended, due to my willingness to press the issue. Yet, this time, he had robbed me of the opportunity! I’d written the second essay for nothing, though I really couldn’t complain.

Now for the downside. Although I hadn’t received points off of my grade for turning in a late assignment, the teacher did mark me down for going over the limit on words - an arbitrarily assigned limit as I discovered. (It had been presented as having only a minimum limit. Who knew there was also a maximum word count for an essay)? As it turned out, the minimum was also the maximum, seven hundred fifty words, period! Of course, being me, I did argue the point. I said there had to be some allowance given. No one could write something that long and have it come out with an exact word count.

Still smiling, my teacher agreed. Normally, he said, he did allow a certain amount of leeway. But, he then added, that leeway didn’t extend to more than double the minimum word count requirement. Yeah, apparently, I’d gotten a little carried away with my fifteen hundred plus words. (But hey, I’d always wanted to be a writer - that was just practice). Evidently, back then I had a tendency to talk, or write, too much. Still do, as my wife would be quick to tell you. But, I have an excuse. I have all these pictures in my mind and as I understand it, each one is worth a thousand words, so...

Okay, in all fairness to my teacher, I know why he marked me down for my excessive writing on the essay; at least I think I do. And it has nothing to do with pictures. I’m pretty sure it was his way of telling me that I needed to learn how to edit; to cut the unnecessary words, phrases and sentences, or even delete entire paragraphs at times; to eliminate the excess, re-write and condense. As you can see, I still haven’t quite mastered that.

For anyone who may be wondering, yes, I am aware that the phrase in question was not meant to be a literal equivalency, but is simply poetic prose. It’s a unique way of saying that rather than to try telling someone something, especially something totally unfamiliar to them, it’s far easier to convey the message with a picture. But, is that picture really worth a thousand words? Who knows? Depends on the picture - and the words, I suppose. Obviously, the more vivid the details of the picture, the more words it would then take to describe it.

In light of the theme of this post, I considered including a photo, either of my school or perhaps of me writing. However, I decided against it since I really didn’t have one that seemed appropriate. All the photographs of my school were not exactly spectacular - hardly worth a dozen words at best. And as far as I know, there are no pictures to be found of me writing. Sure, I could have taken one, but I’m a little older now than I was at the time of this story. That would have looked a bit odd.

But, if a picture truly is worth a thousand words - well, this post contains exactly one thousand words. Feel free to draw your own picture! (Right after you’re done counting the words to see if I’m right, of course! And in case you do, the blurb below is not included.)

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. For more information, visit www.bruceaborders.com. See Bruce’s Amazon Author Page at www.amazon.com/author/bruceaborders or view his Smashwords Profile at www.smashwords.com/profile/view/BruceABorders

Playing With Fire

“Don’t play with matches!” I think every kid has heard that at some point. Me included. Trouble is, I always had a hard time listening to things I was told. Of course, that led to major problems - more than once.

For some reason, matches are particularly intriguing, especially to young boys. While visiting a couple of friends at their house, the three of us went outside to play. Somewhere in the shed, we found several books of matches. And apparently, we all thought it would be a good idea to go behind the shed, in the alley and burn up the matches. Not a smart plan considering it was mid-summer in a very hot and dry climate.

We were standing in dried brown grass about a foot and a half tall, striking the matches. We did know better than to purposefully set the weeds on fire - we’d strike the match, hold it while watching it burn and then toss it aside once we were sure it was out.

I still remember striking the last match that day. A tiny piece of the sulfur coating on the match head went flying to the ground and almost instantly, the weeds around my feet were burning. I stomped on the flame, which did no good, and then the other two kids tried to help. It was no use; the fire was growing way to fast, spreading to a huge circle within seconds.

Now, just because I had a hard time listening to things and wasn’t too bright about standing in a dry patch of weeds while striking matches, doesn’t mean I was entirely without brains. Although the other two kids insisted we couldn’t tell anyone, I saw three houses that were about to be burned down. I ran back to my friends’ house to tell someone to call the fire department.

By the time the fire trucks arrived, two fences had been partially burned, along with the back wall of a couple of sheds. The firemen put out the blaze rather quickly and that was the extent of the damage. Yes, I got into a little trouble - and not only from my parents. One of the firemen told me that I had almost burned down three houses.

Ever willing to argue, even as a kid, I said that actually, I had saved three houses from being burned. I don’t think the fireman agreed with my assessment. “Don’t play with matches,” he said rather sternly.

Feel free to draw your own conclusion about whether or not I listened. All I will say is that since that time, I have neither burned down (or almost burned down) any houses nor have I saved any houses from being burned.

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. For more information, visit www.bruceaborders.com. See Bruce’s Amazon Author Page at www.amazon.com/author/bruceaborders or view his Smashwords Profile at www.smashwords.com/profile/view/BruceABorders