Bruce A. Borders

Monday, July 22, 2013

Borders Detective Agency

I once got this grand idea that I would be a detective. A private detective, since I didn’t want to waste time going to school. At the time I didn’t have a job and was convinced I could make money as a private eye. After all, how hard could it be? I’d read that most private detectives spend most of their time locating missing persons or simply following people around and figured I could handle that. So, I set up shop. I hung up a sign, Borders Detective Agency, and was open for business.

And nobody came. No one. I didn’t get a single person to hire me. Of course, it may have had something to do with the fact that I was eleven years old. However, at the time I didn’t think that was a good enough reason for people not taking me seriously. Didn’t they realize I was qualified and could do the job? I mean, I’d taken a correspondence course and received a license, and I’d ordered an “official” badge from a magazine. Everything was set. But after a month of waiting, still nothing. Out of all the people in my neighborhood who knew me, not one of them had a case for me to solve.

So, I gave up. I took down my sign and started selling a weekly newspaper called Grit. This turned out to be fairly profitable for an eleven-year-old and soon I had quite a few customers in the area - just under a hundred!

One day, one of my customers, an elderly lady, mentioned that she’d seen my Detective Agency sign a few months before. “How did that go?” she asked.

“Fine,” I said, not wanting to admit I’d had no cases.

“Great! Do you think you could find some stolen property for me?”

“I can try,” I hedged, not at all confident anymore, now that I might have to actually prove myself.

The stolen property, I soon learned, was her grandson’s bicycle. She gave me a good description and off I went searching for the bike. And found it too! A few houses down the street, there it was leaning against a shed in the back.

I gave myself access to the back yard and then helped myself to the bike. A few minutes later, I returned it to my “client” who paid me quite well for my successful investigation. I was pretty proud.

It was a few weeks later that I discovered the house where I’d found the bike was vacant. And, it had been empty for quite some time. Asking around at a few of the neighbors, I further learned the elderly lady who had hired me didn’t have a grandson. Even at eleven years of age, I could figure it out - I’d been set up. It was rather disappointing. And embarrassing. I thought surely everyone was laughing at how gullible I was.

But then, with the help of another of my customers, I looked at it from a different perspective. Evidently, the lady had felt bad that no one had hired me and had created a case for me to solve. She was trying to do a good thing, to bolster my confidence and pride. I didn’t feel quite so bad then.

In a way, since I did figure out the whole thing was staged; I guess it was still my first “case.” And my last case too, because that’s also when I figured out that being a private detective wasn’t such a grand idea after all.

Bruce A. Borders is the author of more than a dozen books. Over My Dead Body, The Journey, and Miscarriage Of Justice, and other titles, are available as ebooks on Apple I-Pad®, Amazon Kindle®, Barnes & Noble Nook® and Sony Reader®, Kobo, Diesel Books, and Smashwords. His books are also available in print at most 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 #BruceABorders

Monday, July 15, 2013

What Speed Limit?

Speed limit 20. At least that’s what the sign said. At that speed, you could supposedly make it all the way through town without ever hitting a red light. I’m not really sure since my friend and I were both hitting 65mph when we saw the cop.

I suppose I should start at the beginning of this story. It all began with a simple question. One day at school, our teacher asked whose car was faster, my Chevrolet Impala, or my friend’s Mercury Montego - and we didn’t know. Neither car was exactly a hotrod, but with a 4-barrel carburetor, an 8-cylinder engine, and a lead foot, both cars would move -and fast! We’d had the cars for quite a while, but had never raced them. Sure, we’d driven down a few deserted country roads and knew the cars were pretty evenly matched but there had been no actual race to see who was the fastest. Until that day. Odd for teenagers, I know. The teacher was surprised as well.

Why we picked the downtown section of road for our race, I don’t know. Maybe because at sixteen it sounded like a good idea? We did have a freeway we could have used but I guess that would have made too much sense. So, instead we chose Main Street - in the middle of the day.

Starting at one end of town, there we sat, side by side, at the light. When the light changed to green, we both floored the gas pedal, leaving two nice sets of rubber tracks in the road. (And announcing to the world, or at least the people of the small town, what we were up to). We’d covered less than five short blocks when we saw the cop turn onto the street, coming toward us.

I think the police officer was more surprised to see us than we were him. It took him several seconds to make a u-turn and come after us. Those several seconds were about three seconds longer than it took us to disappear. Literally. At the light, where the cop had suddenly appeared, my friend turned right and I made a left. And then we were gone. We never saw which way the cop turned but it didn’t matter. By the time he got back to the intersection, we’d both made several more turns and then headed for a dirt road outside of town. And just in case anyone is wondering, one of the most satisfying feelings in the world for a sixteen-year-old is to successfully outrun a cop!

The only problem was, we never did find out whose car was fastest, not that day or any other. But the race wasn’t a total waste. I’ve always tried to learn something from my experiences, even if it’s not what I expected to learn. This day was no exception: That bit about driving 20 mph and hitting all green lights? Well, it works at 65 too!

Monday, July 8, 2013

Medical Emergency

I learned something new this past week. Amazing, I know. Apparently, you can teach an old dog new tricks. (Not that I’m getting old or anything). What I learned is, if you are experiencing chest pain DO NOT go to the hospital. I realize this runs contrary to the general wisdom regarding such pain, but I’ll explain.

When I arrived at the emergency room, surprisingly, I got right in. Evidently, the mere mention of the words “chest pain” allows a guy to skip the customary two or three hour waiting period normally associated with a visit to the ER. So far, so good.

Then started the melee. Almost a circus, really. Numerous doctors and nurses swarming all around, each one introducing themselves. (Like I was concerned with their names - or would even remember). Within minutes, they had me hooked up to several machines, diodes and wires attached to various points on my upper torso - nineteen of them, I later found. Monitors beeped in concert as if they were playing a well-orchestrated symphony of my body’s vital signs. Drugged up on a private cocktail of meds, and even sporting my very own nitro patch, I lay there quietly listening to my song. “The drugs, particularly the nitro, might give you a little headache,” one doctor said. That was a drastic understatement!

Meanwhile, the medical personal seemed to have a peculiar fetish with needles. In rather short order, they had opened a portal into my circulatory system. This established a viable means of delivering and extracting multiple fluids, including a sizeable blood donation by yours truly. Of course, the ready-made spigot, that some call an IV, wasn’t good enough. I guess they needed more blood than one of my arms could provide, because it took only a few ticks of the clock for them to start poking the other arm. Perhaps they just liked perforating my skin. It’s probably easier to remove that way - in case they decide further torture is in order.

And then began the game of 120 questions. If you’ve never heard of that game, it’s sort of akin to the more popular 20 questions, except the questions are repeated every 10 minutes by a new interrogator. I think they could tell I was becoming annoyed with the game when my answers were all, “The same thing I told you the last four times you asked that.”

They ran every test in the book, and then invented some new ones, I think. Blood pressure, ekg, breathing test, blood tests, etc. And then the story gets worse. They decided to admit me for “observation,” like I’m a rare specimen of human. What they actually wanted, I discovered, was not to “observe” me, but to “interact” with me; to poke, prod, measure, take my temperature, blood pressure, check my pulse, listen to me breath, and more things that I can’t remember. Honestly, every five minutes, it was something new. And like clockwork, someone showed up every hour to steal more of my blood. “The pet vampires we keep in the basement are hungry,” a nurse explained.

For two days they kept this up, advising me to just get some rest. Exactly how was I supposed to rest? They had deprived me of sleep, caffeine, food, and given me a massive headache, while periodically sticking me with needles, taking a few gallons of blood - all in preparation for a stress test. Really? I can’t think of any reason why I would be stressed at that point! I had come in with chest pain and a few hours later everything hurt, I was tired, hungry, and very irritable. I should have just put up with the chest pain!

Okay, the bottom line is, they found absolutely nothing wrong with me, all tests were normal. I’d had no heart attack, no heart problems of any kind. Two days of playing the part of a human test subject - all for nothing. The hospital had succeeded only in creating more pain and discomfort. In my opinion, this is by design. I’m convinced it’s all a ploy - so you forget about the original pain and think they cured you.

My “medical emergency” was neither medical nor an emergency. They never did discover why I’d had the chest pain; so apparently, my hospital stay was a colossal waste of time, and money. Eventually, I was discharged, but not without a strong warning: “If you feel any more chest pain, be sure to come back for more tests.” Yeah, not going to happen. I learned my lesson the first time; show up in the ER without a heart attack, they’ll do their best to give you one.

Monday, July 1, 2013

Freedom

With Independence Day coming up this week, I thought I’d write a serious blog for a change. Shock! I know.

July 4, 1776, a new nation is born - America! At least that was the official start, though the process began long before that date, hundreds of years, in fact. But, I’m sure everyone is well aware of the history of the United States of America, so that’s not what this blog is about. Instead, it’s about the idea that spawned the birth of this nation. That idea or concept was freedom: religious, as well as political freedom, and a yearning for that freedom. But what exactly does that mean? What is freedom?

Freedom is more than a list of enumerated rights, such as free speech, the right to assembly, the right of a free press, or the right to keep and bear arms. Freedom is more than the ability to choose where we live, where we work, and to lead the life we decide. That’s what I was taught in school, but the meaning of freedom goes much deeper. Those things are a result of freedom, not the definition.

One of the most basic definitions of freedom is the condition that exists when the people are in control. Freedom is when the people tell the government what is allowed, not the other way around. Freedom is when the citizens do not live in fear of what a corrupt government can do. Freedom means not being subjected to a tyrannical and oppressive form of government. It means our lives are not ruled by thousands of regulations aimed at creating criminals out of ordinary citizens.

Freedom also means we have the reasonable expectation that our government will not spy on us, that it will not invade our privacy, and that it will not conduct unwarranted search and seizures. It is the ability to live life unworried. Freedom means the right to be left alone!

In recent years, it seems the American government has lost sight of the meaning freedom. But that doesn’t mean our freedom has gone away. We still have the right to voice our opinion, elect our leaders, to change our leaders or our whole governmental system if necessary. Freedom isn’t free, as the saying goes, but is worth fighting for.

That’s what freedom means to me. No, I’m not a big political figure. I’m not a guy with any influence at all. I’m just a flag-waving, patriotic nephew of my Uncle Sam. And I’m Proud to be an American! Happy Fourth of July! (Independence Day for those of you who are sensitive to that sort of thing).

Monday, June 24, 2013

No Good Deed Goes Unpunished

No Good Deed Goes Unpunished, the saying goes. You do something nice for someone and inevitably, something will happen to make you wish you had just ignored them. Or, at the very least, make you wonder why you were so quick to help.

This is evident in the small things as well as bigger things in life. For instance: I’m sure everyone has, at some point, stopped to let a car out of a parking lot onto a busy road. Then, almost without fail, at the next light, they’ll go sailing right on through - as the light turns to red and there you’ll sit. That’s a small thing.

An example of something bigger would be the following scenario.

A neighbor lady shows up on your doorstep in the middle of the night, terrified and screaming that her husband is trying to kill her. You can hear the husband shouting and then you see him waving a gun around through the window of his house. The woman begs you to let her in and asks you to call the cops. Of course, you do. Good deed, right? Sure, except by the time the police arrive, she has decided she wants to go home. She tells the officers that none of what you told them on the phone is true and she has no idea what you are talking about. Now the cops are looking at you like you made it all up. (Yes, this actually happened to me). Another lesson in the maxim No Good Deed Goes Unpunished.

The point is, if you help someone you may well end up being blamed for anything that goes wrong. I should know this by now and should have learned to just say no to doing good deeds. I don’t mean to give the impression that I’m some noble guy who goes out of his way to help people. I’m not. But human nature dictates certain responses and behavior. If someone is following close behind as you enter a store, you naturally hold the door for them, right? To let it slam in their face would just be rude. So, I have not learned to just say no.

Which is why a few minutes after pulling a large amount of paper towels out of a guy’s throat, and getting him breathing again, I found myself locked outside the car, on a deserted road, at night, with that same guy brandishing a knife, threatening to kill me. He said he had been trying to make a “statement,” and that I had interfered in his life. Uh, sure, if by interfering he meant prolonging it then I guess I’m guilty.

As you can obviously deduce, he did not kill me. And no, I didn’t kill him either. However, I did manage to get the knife away from him! And eventually, he calmed down - about the time the state police showed up on the scene. Although, not before telling the officer that I had “stolen” his knife. Really?

I did give the knife back - a few days later, very mindful of the fact that No Good Deed Goes Unpunished.

Monday, June 17, 2013

Bank Robbery

America, the Land of Opportunity, where anyone can succeed. Where people are free to come up with ideas and turn these ideas into a nice profit. At least that’s what I was taught in school. Only problem is, sometimes even the best idea is completely worthless.

When I was a young kid, a scheming kid, I had the ultimate plan to get rich. The perfect plan - robbing a bank! Not the most original idea, I know. And not the most effective approach either. But with a little different twist, I was convinced my idea would work.

So, I went down to the local bank and studied their security, the building layout, and camera locations. I then spent several days observing the behavior patterns of the employees when they arrived to work and as they left. I then devised my strategy.

Before anyone gets the idea that I’m a criminal with a bank robbing history, I should clarify that I did NOT rob the bank. That was not on my agenda. Instead, I used my well thought out plan as material for a report at school. My teacher was duly impressed; first, that my plan might actually work and second, that I would reveal it.

But that was part of my grand scheme. I needed someone else’s opinion before I moved on. The fact that the teacher thought it would work gave me confidence to go to the next step.

Going back to the bank, I walked right over to the Bank President’s desk and asked to talk with him. For some reason he agreed to talk and I handed him a copy of my report. He read the details of how I would go about robbing his bank, at first with an amused smile. Then, the smile faded into a worried frown.

When he’d finished reading, he wanted to know why I’d given the paper to him. After assuring him that I had no intention of robbing his bank, that I was merely pointing out the possibility that existed by identifying the weak spots in his security, I expected him to offer me some kind of monetary reward.

And that’s where my “perfect” plan hit a snag. He didn’t seem to believe the bank should pay me anything. He said they already had a security firm, which took care of preventing bank robberies. Disappointed, I took my paper and left. My idea hadn’t been worth anything. There would be no payoff.

A few days later though, I noticed some remodeling going on at the bank, along with a few additional cameras being installed. There were other changes as well. Each of the changes were things I'd addressed. Of course, I asked the Bank President why he was making the modifications if my idea had been worthless. He said, “I didn’t say it was worthless or that it wouldn’t work; only that we weren’t paying you for it.”

Well, that was rather un-American, I thought! Obviously, my good idea was only worthless to me. So much for the Land of Opportunity - I couldn’t even make a profit off of bank robbery!

Monday, June 10, 2013

Follow The Money

Back in grade school, we watched a film on the journey of a dollar. A camera crew followed a dollar around as it made its way through a little town from one business to the next, from one person to another. Starting with a boy spending the dollar for a toy, people paid bills, or got paid, deposited money in the bank, withdrew money, and bought things at the store. At the end of the movie, the dollar ended up right back with the little boy who had spent it that morning. The same dollar.

The purpose of the film was to teach us about the economy. It did that very well. But I wasn’t concerned with economics - I wanted to try out this idea that I could get the same dollar back later. So, I marked up a few dollar bills and spent them. And then I did some more. And then more.

I patiently waited for my dollar bills to return. And then not so patiently. I started going to the store, purposefully using five and ten dollar bills to get as many ones as I could in change. After a year or so, I decided the film had been faked - and I was never going to get any of my dollars back.

Then we moved to another town and being older, I forgot all about my little project. That is, until I went to the bank one day to cash my paycheck. The teller counted out the money, placing a single dollar on the top of the larger bills. I couldn’t believe what I saw! There on the bill was my name! (That was how I’d marked the bills - by writing my name on them. Apparently, I wanted to make it extremely easy for the government to determine who was defacing the currency).

It had taken more than eight years but my experiment had finally worked! I was pretty excited and hopeful that more of “my” money would show up. Nope. No such luck. And to make matters worse, though I put the dollar away to keep from spending it, I lost it.

Out of the hundred or so bills I marked, that’s the only one I ever got back. So, a little help would be appreciated. If you happen to see any dollars with my name, feel free to send them to me!

Monday, June 3, 2013

My Nickel's Worth

I drink a lot of pop - soda for those of you who live in “that” part of the country. People tell me I should drink water instead, that it’s more healthy. Okay, but the way I like my water is carbonated, with sugar, flavoring, and caffeine. My entire family feels the same way and so, we drink a lot of pop.

As a result, we end up with a huge pile of cans and bottles. For those of you who may not know, in the state I live, there is a deposit on most beverage containers. We pay five cents at the time of purchase and then receive a refund when we return the bottles and cans to the store. In the old days, the cans could be bagged, taken to the store and a bottle boy would count them. It was pretty quick and efficient - and everyone except the bottle boy stayed clean too!

But these days, thanks to everyone always trying to make things “better,” there are machines to count the returns. The cans and bottles have to be hand-placed in the machine, one at a time, in order to be counted. It’s a pain, very time-consuming, and kind of gross. Some people don’t bother, but it’s my money and at five cents a can... Well, sometimes that adds up to a lot of cash. Remember, we drink a lot of pop.

From the time my son was three, returning the cans has been a job he and I did together. (For some reason, my wife and daughters didn’t see much fun in it). Every month or so, we’d load up the pickup and go to the store. He got the money, I just got dirty.

But then last summer, my son moved out on his own. I didn’t really feel too motivated about taking the cans in, and they piled up on the backyard deck for several months. This past weekend, I finally decided it was time. (Really, I just needed my deck back).

I picked the right time for the job. One of my daughters was visiting and she and my wife decided to go along to help. I’m glad they did, I’d probably still be at the store feeding the machine. Well, not quite, but even with their help, it took over an hour at the store.

An hour! For three people! An hour of tearing open plastic bags full of dirty, smelly, slimy, disgusting cans and bottles. That’s a LOT of cans and bottles! I went home and took a shower. And then it hit me; maybe I should drink more water!

Monday, May 27, 2013

Some Gave All

I’ve never been in the military. Never wanted to be and so I never joined. I have nothing against the military; it’s just not my thing. A regimented lifestyle is not at all suited to my character, and the military has far too much of it. Besides, I have an attitude. And I’m not willing to change my opinions or behavior simply because I’m told to do so.

However, that doesn’t mean I’m not grateful we have a military. And I’m very thankful for what it has done for this country. As a proud American, I support our troops in any endeavor or mission. Aside from God, we owe everything we have in this country to the dedication and service of our armed forces.

Thanks to them, we still have our freedom. They have protected that freedom. Fought and died for that freedom. Many thousands of soldiers have served this country with honor. All sacrificed, and many paid the ultimate price, so that people like me could remain free. Free to go about our lives as we see fit. Free to pursue our dreams. Free to speak our minds. Free to choose our religion. Free to raise our families in peace. Free to live where we decide. Free to choose our own job. Free to celebrate holidays. Free to be ourselves. And in my case, free to have an attitude.

So, to all of those who serve or have served: Thanks. Thanks for all you do or have done. Thanks for fighting for America. Thanks for keeping this the Land of the Free. And to all those who never returned, and to their families, a sincere and humble thanks. We, as a nation, are forever in your debt.

That sounds so little and insignificant compared to those who gave all - especially coming from a guy who was never in the military. But maybe, in some small way, it will help to know that we are grateful.

Have a great Memorial Day!

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 20, 2013

Experience - The Best Teacher

It’s strange how experiences from our childhood come back to visit later in life. Sometimes that can have an unfavorable effect, other times it may prove quite beneficial. After all, experience is the best teacher - so it’s said.

Thirty-some years ago, I lived out of town, beside a small creek. There usually wasn’t much water flowing in the creek, except during the spring run-off of melted mountain snow. Normally, that only lasted only a month or so and by the end of the summer, the water had dried up.

One summer, late in the year, I got the bright idea to reroute the creek. To change the course of the creek, even for a little ways, would be quite an accomplishment. I was under know delusion that such a chore would be easy, but I did underestimate the amount of work that would be required in my grand attempt to divert the water.

Steep banks lined the creek bed in most places but there was one spot where things flattened out for fifty or sixty feet. I decided that would be the place to create my water diversion and I spent several days moving rocks, dirt, and logs into position. In short, I shoveled dirt and rocks from one side of the creek bank and made a dam by piling it all on a couple of logs I had dragged down the hill. This also created a fairly low spot where I’d removed the dirt and rocks.

Next, I dug a small trench for a few yards downstream. With no water in the creek, it was pretty simple to design a new bed but nearly impossible to predict if my plan would actually work once the water had returned. Then came Fall and the rains started. The dried-up creek started flowing again. I was both surprised and pleased to see the creek now followed the shallow trench I had dug. In the days that followed, as more water came rushing through, the creek started cutting its own channel, extending my trench. Eventually, the water made it back to the original path of the creek - some thirty or more feet downstream. For a few days I was happy with my project; I’d done what I’d set out to do. But being a ten-year-old kid, I soon forgot about it - until Spring.

As the snow began to melt in the higher elevations, the creek started to rise. A lot. One morning, I walked out to find the creek was out of its banks. It had flooded and there was water everywhere! My first thought was, “Oh no! I’m in trouble!” I believed I’d caused the flood.

For a few minutes, I stood staring at the water, wondering how on Earth I was going to get out of this. But then I realized that the excess of water had nothing to do with me or my little experiment. Instead of worrying about being in trouble, I started wondering which direction the creek would take once the water had gone down. Would it revert back to where it had been originally or follow the new path I had designed?

It was almost two weeks before I learned the answer. When the water had receded, I was elated to see that my dam had held! Even better was that the water had widened and deepened my trench. I had done it! I’d successfully changed the course of the creek - permanently!

Not long ago, I saw a listing for a job in the area. It seems a private landowner wanted someone to manage their waterways; to be in charge of diverting water to better facilitate the irrigation of their crops. I halfway considered applying. After all, I do have experience!

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!

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.”