Not Out Of The Woods Yet

This past weekend, I had an opportunity to help my brother cut down a few trees. We spent most of the day on Saturday cutting, de-limbing, and cleaning up the mess—well, part of the mess, there’s still more to do. And more trees to cut.

I used to do things like this quite frequently and with no lasting effects. My dad and I used to spend a lot of days cutting and hauling wood—and most of the time, due to fire restrictions we couldn’t even use a chainsaw. Never seemed to bother me. But that was before I’d spent nearly a quarter of a century driving a truck. Truck driving, while somewhat stressful at times, can’t really be considered work. Not manual labor type work anyway. Needless to say—but as always, I’m going to say it anyway—I’m a little out of shape when it comes to actual work.

But, I’m too stubborn to let that get in the way. It just isn’t in my nature to NOT do something. Besides, I couldn’t very well let my brother do all the work. I guess I could, but that would kind of defeat the purpose of going to help him.

So after a long day of real work, when I arrived home, my wife asked me how my day went. I was ready with an answer. “This stuff was a lot easier in my twenties.”

She laughed and agreed that it probably was. She was nice though, and didn’t say that perhaps if I did this kind of work more often it wouldn’t be so hard on me. Although when I mentioned it, she seemed to agree with that also. And that’s why next Saturday, I’ll probably be going back for more punishment—or, work as it’s also known. ~

Bruce A. Borders is the author of more than a dozen books, including: Inside Room 913, Over My Dead Body, The Journey, Miscarriage Of Justice, The Lana Denae Mysteries, and The Wynn Garrett Series. Available in ebook at www.amazon.com/Bruce-A.-Borders/e/B006SOLWQS and paperback on Amazon, Barnes & Noble and Books-a-Million.

If I Could Only Fly

When I was a kid, maybe three or four years old, I used to wish I could fly. I saw how effortlessly birds flew and thought if they could do it then so could I. My parents told me I wasn’t a bird and could not fly so don’t try it. But, of course, I didn’t believe them. I wasn’t dumb enough to jump off a tall building or anything; I limited my attempts, my experiments, to leaping off porches and flapping my arms. As it turned out, my parents were right, I couldn’t fly, and I eventually gave up on the idea.

Last week, I spent a few days rebuilding a deck. This was a multi-level deck with stairs and railings—you know, the fun kind to work on! I’m not being facetious, I really do like doing carpenter work, and adding a little complexity to the equation just makes it better.

Part of the refurbishing included taking out the stairs, then rebuilding and relocating them. But first, I planned on using them to get everything to the upper portion of the deck. Once that part was mostly finished, I tore down the steps.

So, there I was, in the middle of the project, immersed in my work, and everything was going as planned. The old staircase was gone but having a bit of work left on the upper deck, I climbed up to finish it off. Then standing up, with my back to the steps—or where the steps used to be—I turned to head down. By the time I saw the empty space—and the big drop to the lower level—I was already committed. So, I just jumped.

Guess what? I still can’t fly! But the good news is, at age 51, I’m still able to jump off a deck, land on both feet, and not break anything in the process! ~

Bruce A. Borders is the author of more than a dozen books, including: Inside Room 913, Over My Dead Body, The Journey, Miscarriage Of Justice, The Lana Denae Mysteries, and The Wynn Garrett Series. Available in ebook at www.amazon.com/Bruce-A.-Borders/e/B006SOLWQS and paperback on Amazon, Barnes & Noble and Books-a-Million. 

Wait Just A Minute (Or Longer)

Spent two fun-filled days at Disneyland last week. It’s been a few years since my last visit and it was good to see that the place hasn’t changed much. They still have many of the same rides and attractions they always did. Still the same music playing, the same food, and the same aura of “The happiest place on Earth.” Unfortunately, there are also the same long lines as before. I think that’s the number one activity in any Disney theme park, standing in line. Or, maybe it’s walking.

According to my phone, I walked an average of twelve miles per day. Not that that’s bad, I could use the exercise. But still, that’s a lot of walking. I think perhaps they should install conveyors like the airports have. The conveyors could take everyone directly to the next attraction or, across the park.

Of course, since it’s Disney, the conveyors would have to be theme based with a realistic decor so they wouldn’t look so much like a conveyor. And maybe they could make them go faster—you know, make the conveyors fun, almost like a ride. But then, everyone would want to use them and there’d probably be a line.

I know; they’ll never implement such an idea. The large open areas and sprawling walkways, filled with throngs of people are there by design. This system forces people to walk past all the vendors, shops, and games, which entices them to spend money. It also helps to keep the people spread out through the park so as to decrease the number of thrill seekers waiting in line at the rides.

Of course, they could always add more rides; that too, would decrease the number of people standing in each of the other lines. But then that produces a conundrum. The shorter lines (and less waiting) would probably sell more tickets, which would mean more customers—and that would lead to longer lines. So, I guess it’s a catch-22.

On second thought, maybe I should let Disney worry about managing the operations of their parks. I’ll just stay home—where I don’t have to walk twelve miles every day and there are no lines in which to waste time waiting. ~

Bruce A. Borders is the author of more than a dozen books, including: Inside Room 913, Over My Dead Body, The Journey, Miscarriage Of Justice, The Lana Denae Mysteries, and The Wynn Garrett Series. Available in ebook at www.amazon.com/Bruce-A.-Borders/e/B006SOLWQS and paperback on Amazon, Barnes & Noble and Books-a-Million. 

Just Following The Rules

Home alone. Again. My wife, as she is prone to do, has left me. Not permanently—at least I don’t think so. I guess it remains to be seen though. Supposedly, she’s coming home today after a long weekend for a short vacation.

For now, it’s just the dogs and me. But they’re good company. Kind of. They seem to think it’s my fault their favorite person isn’t here. They’re sort of like my grandchildren who make no bones about it; they like Grandma better. But that’s okay, at least they like me! But as one of them recently told me, “I miss you when you’re gone and I’m a little sad but actually, I don’t like you as much.” Translation: It’s hard to compete with Grandma! I know how he feels. I’m rather fond of his grandma too. And no one can compete with her.

When this same grandchild visited this past Saturday, he was very disappointed that Grandma wasn’t home. And, he informed me that he was very sorry but he would not be visiting again until she was back. “It’s just not the same,” he said.

When I suggested I could come visit him, he shook his head. “Not if you don’t bring Grandma.”

“What if I just show up without her?”

He gave me a frown. “Grandpa,” he said sternly, “You don’t make the rules.”

So apparently, according to the “rules,” I’m not allowed to have visitors or visit anyone. And now you know why I’m home alone. ~

Bruce A. Borders is the author of more than a dozen books, including: Inside Room 913, Over My Dead Body, The Journey, Miscarriage Of Justice, The Lana Denae Mysteries, and The Wynn Garrett Series. Available in ebook at www.amazon.com/Bruce-A.-Borders/e/B006SOLWQS and paperback on Amazon, Barnes & Noble and Books-a-Million.

Free Of Charge

Ever notice how many things are run by batteries these days? Phones, cameras, power tools, doorbells, and; all these gadgets and more, have batteries. And I didn’t even mention all the toys that depend on battery power. Then of course, our cars use batteries too. Almost anything, that does anything, runs on a battery. But this is good because it allows for mobility—and in today’s world, we all need to be mobile.

The problem comes in when these many batteries continually run down. And we go searching for a charger. We charge up the batteries and all is fine. But in a (too) short amount of time, the batteries are low again. And so, we are locked in a constant state of recharge. An infinite loop.

I’m not sure about the rest of you but I get pretty tired of every device I own always needing to be charged. I know, if I’d just stop using them so much they wouldn’t require charging quite so often. But that’s not likely to happen—for me or anyone else. We’ve all grown accustomed to using our little gadgets. But always looking for a charger or taking the time required to charge things can be a little annoying. I think it’s time to come up with a better way.

I said all that to say this: The other night I needed to make a call and I wasn’t sure how long the call would last; possibly a half an hour or so, I was thinking. My phone’s battery was low so I thought I give it a few minutes to charge before making the call because I like to be mobile. I have a habit of roaming while on the phone. Back in the day before cell phones, I used to have a twenty-foot cord on my phone so I wasn’t tethered to one spot while talking.

I gave it about ten minutes while I did a few other things, and then went to see how much battery power I had—and it hadn’t changed. The phone hadn’t charged at all. That’s when my wife pointed out that the charger wasn’t plugged in to the wall. She was rather amused I think. Me, not so much.

I did get to make the call—eventually. And as it turns out, it took only about four minutes; I wouldn’t have even had to charge the phone at all. Not until later anyway.

Oh, and one more thing. You may be wondering why the charger was unplugged. Well, that would be due to my wife needing the outlet—to charge her tablet. ~

Bruce A. Borders is the author of more than a dozen books, including: Inside Room 913, Over My Dead Body, The Journey, Miscarriage Of Justice, The Lana Denae Mysteries, and The Wynn Garrett Series. Available in ebook at www.amazon.com/Bruce-A.-Borders/e/B006SOLWQS and paperback on Amazon, Barnes & Noble and Books-a-Million.

On This Day In 1988

September 24th. I’m feeling a little nostalgic today. That’s just a fancy way of saying, I feel old. And a bit puzzled.

I’m trying hard to figure out how it’s possible that thirty years have passed since the birth of my oldest daughter. Thirty years since my wife and I became parents. Thirty years that seem nothing more than a blur. Not that I don’t remember the day. I do. Very clearly.

I recall every little detail: the car ride to the hospital, the nurses and doctors, the room my wife was in, the monitors being set up, and of course, the actual birth; seeing our baby, hearing her cry, holding her, feeling her heartbeat and her breathing. Then there was the calling of everyone for the birth announcement, the visitors, and the excitement. I remember it all.

The problem is all of the years between then and now. That’s what seems like a blur. Sure, I can recall specific incidents, certain days here and there. A lot of them actually. But over all, the years have just gone by almost unnoticed. And that’s sort of sad, and the reason I’m feeling nostalgic—I’m trying to remember as much of the thirty years as I can.

But it seems the life that used to be, somehow got lost in yesterday. Somehow, my baby went from being a newborn to an adult, married with kids of her own—almost in the blink of an eye. And my thirty years of memories are condensed into little snippets, all jammed together.

I guess what I’m trying to say is thirty years should have taken a lot longer than it did. I should have more memories to show for that amount of time. Seems like there should at least be thirty years’ worth. But then, what do I know? I’m just the guy who can’t remember much. ~

Bruce A. Borders is the author of more than a dozen books, including: Inside Room 913, Over My Dead Body, The Journey, Miscarriage Of Justice, The Lana Denae Mysteries, and The Wynn Garrett Series. Available in ebook at www.amazon.com/Bruce-A.-Borders/e/B006SOLWQS and paperback on Amazon, Barnes & Noble and Books-a-Million.

To Make A Short Story Long

Dishes. I don’t like dishes. Wait, that’s not true. I do like dishes, especially when they have food on them. What I don’t like is DOING the dishes. That’s not all that uncommon, I realize. I’m guessing there are very few people who actually enjoy doing dishes.

Thing is, we have a dishwasher; load, add soap, turn on. That’s it. Not difficult. Doesn’t even take much time. And I still don’t like doing the dishes.

Maybe it’s because, like other household chores such as: laundry, dusting, or cleaning the floors, it’s a never ending job. Dishes at my house seem to multiply on their own. Dirty dishes anyway. But clean dishes are a problem too. The clean ones are always in the dishwasher, waiting to be put away, which usually gets done about two minutes before loading it with the next load.

With only two people in the house, you’d think that wouldn’t be very often. You’d be wrong. Between my wife and I, we ran three loads of dishes this weekend. Yep, three loads for two people, in two days. The last load just finished washing—or drying, to be more accurate—and already there are more dishes in the sink, waiting to be washed.

I guess I just don’t understand how two people can mess up that many dishes. I’d like to blame it on visiting grandkids or something but it seems to happen even when they haven’t been here. It’s like the dishes climb out of the cabinet of their own accord, somehow get remnants of food stuck to their surface, and then jump into the sink. I’m fairly well convinced we could go on vacation for a month and every dish we own would be piled in the sink when we returned home.

We’ve tried paper plates and plasticware. We’ve tried eating out. Our dishes didn’t notice; just redoubled their efforts. It would seem then, the only way to win this battle is to get ride of the dishes. Having no dishes means nothing to wash—ever. Brilliant idea, I think. And in fact, I’m already working on it.

Side note: My wife says I like to ramble a lot when I write. “Just get to the point,” she says. Okay. I will. But I still think my so-called rambling makes a far better story than simply writing, “I broke a glass the other day.” ~

Bruce A. Borders is the author of more than a dozen books, including: Inside Room 913, Over My Dead Body, The Journey, Miscarriage Of Justice, The Lana Denae Mysteries, and The Wynn Garrett Series. Available in ebook at www.amazon.com/Bruce-A.-Borders/e/B006SOLWQS and paperback on Amazon, Barnes & Noble and Books-a-Million.

A Whole New Ball Game

I did something this past weekend that I’ve never done before; I attended a soccer game. Probably not anything new for some of you but I’m more of a football kind of guy. I’ve never had an occasion, or reason, to go to a soccer game. Not only that, I’ve never even played soccer.

Although I was involved in many sports in school, and after; not only football, but basketball, baseball, track, volleyball, tennis, and even golf, (I know, to categorize some of those as a sport is a little presumptuous) back in my day, soccer was not even on the list of possibilities. Sure, the school did have soccer balls but we used them to play kickball or dodgeball, sometimes basketball, but never soccer.

But the world has changed. These days soccer is one of the most popular sporting activities for kids—or so I’m told. I’m not exactly a kid anymore so I have no firsthand knowledge on the matter. But my grandson is, a kid that is. And this weekend was his first soccer game. And that’s why I found myself attending a soccer game for the first time in my life.

It was interesting, and it looked like they were having fun. Still, the game seems a little foreign to me. I kept thinking the kids would probably have a lot better time if I gave them a football!

Okay, if I’m being honest, which I am, they didn’t really need a football. They all seemed to be enjoying the game, as did the spectators, including me. But there was one major problem; they don’t keep score. How are we supposed to know who won the game? I know, they’re just kids but I’m from that by-gone era when we didn’t sugarcoat everything; didn’t try to coddle kids, or worry about damaging their self esteem—and we certainly didn’t equate losing with winning. There is definitely a difference. Is it fun to be on the losing team? The answer, obviously, is no, it’s not. But losing does tend to make everyone try harder the next time. Because everyone, including kids, wants to win. If there’s no chance of winning, then why try? Why play the game?

Okay, enough of my ranting. As I’m sure you’ve guessed, just because they (the proverbial “they” from the Land of Anonymity) don’t keep score, doesn’t mean I don’t. I do. And did. And my grandson’s team won!

And just so you know, I successfully refrained from yelling “Touchdown!” for the entirety of the game! ~

Bruce A. Borders is the author of more than a dozen books, including: Inside Room 913, Over My Dead Body, The Journey, Miscarriage Of Justice, The Lana Denae Mysteries, and The Wynn Garrett Series. Available in ebook at www.amazon.com/Bruce-A.-Borders/e/B006SOLWQS and paperback on Amazon, Barnes & Noble and Books-a-Million. 

Just In Time For Winter

About seven weeks ago, right in the dead of summer, the air conditioner on my pickup stopped working. The air conditioner itself was fine but the temperature control couldn't be adjusted. And of course, it wasn't stuck on the cool setting.

Normally, a non-working air conditioner wouldn't be much of a problem; I don't use it much anyway. But, I'm not really fond of heat blowing out of the vents either - not when the outside temps are in the triple digits.

Trouble is, I was busy. So, I didn't fix it. For seven weeks I've been driving with heat blasting on me. Even with the windows down, it was quite warm! 

I finally got around to working on the pickup this past weekend. The job took about an hour and a half - to take the dash apart, diagnose the problem, devise a way to fix it, and put it all back together. And yes, in case you're wondering, it works!

No more driving around sweating! Or feeling faint! But then, it's now September and the need for air conditioning is quickly fading. Soon I'll be needing heat instead!

Still, I'm glad the air conditioning is working again; I might want to use it - next summer!  ~

Bruce A. Borders is the author of more than a dozen books, including: Inside Room 913, Over My Dead Body, The Journey, Miscarriage Of Justice, The Lana Denae Mysteries, and The Wynn Garrett Series. Available in ebook at www.amazon.com/Bruce-A.-Borders/e/B006SOLWQS and paperback on Amazon, Barnes & Noble and Books-a-Million.

Does This Kind Of Thing Happen To Anyone Else?

After a long day of working, manual labor, which as a truck driver I’m not used to, I came home looking forward to relaxing for the evening. But, having no soda pop in the house (I know, that’s like a cardinal sin) I journeyed to the grocery store. All I wanted was to get some pop and return home. But, of course, things are never quite that easy.

I put a carton of Dr. Pepper and one of Sprite in the cart. The price on the shelf said they were on sale for $4.99. Yet, at the register, both rang up for $6.99. This is nothing new, at least for me. Price discrepancy is a regular thing when I go shopping. I used to think it was due to incompetence but then one day I realized the discrepancy is hardly ever in my favor. So, the only logical explanation is that the store advertises a lower price than they charge, hoping no one will notice. But since it happens a lot, and I pay attention to these sort of things, I do notice. Usually. And I did this time. As you might imagine, I don’t really have a lot of patience in these instances, although I usually do start with at least a smidgen.

When I tactfully (I think it was tactful, but I was a little tired) pointed out that I was being overcharged, the cashier politely informed me that I needed to buy two cartons in order to get that price. Almost as politely, I said the price on the shelf didn’t say anything about buying two, just that the price was $4.99.

The cashier, with her politeness ebbing somewhat, grabbed the newspaper and flipped to the page where it showed an in-store ad for Coke and Pepsi products (a single ad listing both). The 24-packs were on sale for $4.99, and it did say, Must Buy Two but then next to that it said Mix and Match.

I’m pretty sure all the politeness was gone from my voice when I slowly pointed to the items in my cart, “One, two.”

Thinking she’d realize that one plus one does indeed equal two, I was a little surprised when she asked, “Is Sprite a Coke or Pepsi product?”

“Not that it matters, since it says mix and match,” I said, “but Sprite is a product of the Coca-Cola Company.” Then, not being able to resist, I ran my finger along the words on the top of the carton, the words that read, “a Product of the Coca-Cola Company.”

“Oh,” the lady says, as if it was the first time she’d heard of such a thing.

There was no time for feeling smug though, since I knew what was coming next.

“And is Dr. Pepper a Coke product?”

Remember how I started this post? I’d had a long day and just wanted to get something to drink and go home. Instead, there I was wasting time in the store. So as you might guess, my patience was quickly fading. With a sigh, I said, “No.” And then in an attempt to speed up this process, I said it’s not a Pepsi product either but it is distributed buy Pepsi in our area, so it qualifies as a Pepsi Product.”

Thinking that would be the end of it, or hoping anyway, I pulled out my debit card, ready to pay. But the saga continued. “So, you would need to get another Pepsi product and another Coke product in order to get the $4.99 price.”

“Mix and match,” I said dryly, thinking I was going to have to explain the concept. Then I figured out the best, and quickest, way to end the standoff. “I’ll go get the price tag from the shelf.”

I’m not sure what it was, the disgusted look on my face, the roll of my eyes, or maybe she knew what the tag said all along. Whatever it was, she suddenly relented and the total I owed instantly dropped by $4.00.

That was a lot of work for four dollars, I thought to myself—especially when I was already tired. But four dollars is four dollars. And it was my four dollars! Turning to leave, I noticed the lady in line behind me had a carton of Coke and a carton of Pepsi. Good luck, I thought. But she must have been listening in on my encounter with the cashier. “Are these on sale for $4.99?”

“Yes,” the cashier said—politely; then went on ringing up the rest of the lady’s items. And that was the end of it!

Is it just me? ~

Bruce A. Borders is the author of more than a dozen books, including: Inside Room 913, Over My Dead Body, The Journey, Miscarriage Of Justice, The Lana Denae Mysteries, and The Wynn Garrett Series. Available in ebook at www.amazon.com/Bruce-A.-Borders/e/B006SOLWQS and paperback on Amazon, Barnes & Noble and Books-a-Million.

Sure As Shooting

A couple of months ago, my wife went to visit our son while I stayed behind to man the fort at home. (Which really means I stayed home to take care of the dogs). While there, my son took his mother to a shooting range where she had the opportunity to fire an M4 fully automatic rifle. And I was jealous! Sort of. I wrote a blog post about it and said I needed to plan another trip myself. (If you missed the post, you can read it here).

Actually, I was happy she’d gotten the chance to go shooting with him but since I’d never experienced firing an automatic rifle, I was itching to schedule my next visit. That trip was this past weekend. And yes, I did get to go shooting! And yes, I shot the M4!

I know, it probably doesn’t sound all that exciting to some, but I liked it. I’d like to say that I was an instant expert but sadly, that is not the case. I did manage to fire two rounds into the ceiling though, thanks to not being able to see through the fogged up glasses. My aim improved dramatically after wiping the glasses off!

I’ve shot many different guns, rifles, handguns, big and small, but all were either single-shot or semi-automatics. Never an automatic. So, this was quite different. And fun! And now I think I need to purchase one of my own. Yes, despite the general misconception, a guy CAN buy a fully automatic rifle; all it takes is a few dollars—a few thousand dollars that is. Twenty ought to do it. That’s not too much to spend on a gun is it? After all, we spend more than that on a car that only lasts a few years, so...

On second thought, I could just make another trip to see my son and we could perhaps go shooting again. Probably a smarter choice since that wouldn’t cost anywhere near twenty thousand dollars! But then, it’s just money. It’s not like I’m going to need it for anything else. Well, maybe to pay my bills... and buy food... and gas... and—it looks like I’ll be headed to my son’s house again. ~

Bruce A. Borders is the author of more than a dozen books, including: Inside Room 913, Over My Dead Body, The Journey, Miscarriage Of Justice, The Lana Denae Mysteries, and The Wynn Garrett Series. Available in ebook at www.amazon.com/Bruce-A.-Borders/e/B006SOLWQS and paperback on Amazon, Barnes & Noble and Books-a-Million. 

Melancholy

Sad times at my house. We had to have our dog, Ricochet, put down this week. And after ten years of owning this collie, we were quite attached. As you may know, I LOVE dogs, but at times like this I tend to think it’d be better if I didn’t like them so much.

I’ve had other dogs, even other collies, but this one was the most gentle and nicest dog I’ve ever known—by far. She was great with the grandkids, even when they mistook her for a pony or thought she was their personal pillow, or anything else they could dream up for her to do. Whatever they did, she didn’t mind, I think she just loved the attention.

Although the last year was very hard on her, she never complained—other than moaning in her sleep—just went along with things the best she could. Her ailments were many, she couldn’t digest food very well, had trouble getting up, lying down, walking, and lately, even breathing. She was going blind and losing her hearing, as well as her sense of smell. And then few weeks ago, she started having seizures. It seemed like each week she was developing more issues. So, it was definitely time—but that doesn’t make it any easier. We’d put it off for quite a while, probably longer than we should have, but then we realized that was more for our benefit and not hers.

This wasn’t the first time I’ve lost a pet and it won’t be the last because we still have two dogs keeping us company. I think it gets harder with each one. Part of the reason, I think, is because not only is there a sense of loss from the one dog but it dredges up memories and feelings from the past and we get to feel the sadness of losing the other dogs all over again. Or maybe it’s due to my age, I don’t know. Whatever the reason, my wife and I have agreed, no more dogs. We just don’t want to go through that any more—and yes, we are acutely aware there will be two more to deal with at some point. A LONG time in the future, hopefully.

Note: I hope it’s all right that I took a break from my normally humorous posts to share some of my mournful sorrows from the past week. R.I.P. Ricochet. ~

Bruce A. Borders is the author of more than a dozen books, including: Inside Room 913, Over My Dead Body, The Journey, Miscarriage Of Justice, The Lana Denae Mysteries, and The Wynn Garrett Series. Available in ebook at www.amazon.com/Bruce-A.-Borders/e/B006SOLWQS and paperback on Amazon, Barnes & Noble and Books-a-Million.

Not-So-Green Energy

About twenty years ago, the landscape in north central Oregon began to be decorated with windmills. Not the traditional type of windmill that you see at an old farm but giant industrial windmills with turbines around 100 feet in length. These windmills were supposed to be the new age of electricity production, replacing the “outdated” methods of generating electricity: hydroelectric dams, coal plants, and nuclear facilities.

At the time, I was rather unimpressed. They looked kind of ugly and with as many as they were putting up, you couldn’t look any direction without seeing several of them detracting from the majestic scenery Oregon is known for. Back then, I read an article, which stated that such windmills were nothing more than a feelgood attempt to cajole people’s ecological tendencies. The highly visible eyesores drove home the point that our generation was being more responsible by going with clean energy.

But, with the cost of production, transportation, installation, and routine maintenance, (not to mention the amount paid to the landowner) it could take approximately twenty-five years for a windmill to break even. Trouble is, the life expectancy of the windmill is also about twenty-five years. So, the entire effort is a wash, and that’s a best-case scenario.

There are other inherent problems as well: sometimes it’s too windy to operate the windmills, they do not produce enough to power—unless you have a hundred or so of them running, which is why we have more windmills than trees, and since that type of electricity can’t be stored, the windmills do not operate on a continuous basis—only when the power they generate can be immediately used.

They do have one redeeming feature, namely, as previously mentioned, landowners are paid very well to host the windmill. So, people in the area, as long as they are landowners, have done fairly well since the big white monsters have taken over. And of course, that has translated to a boost to the local economy. As a result, most people have a favorable view of the windmills, or at least not a drastic negative view. However, that may change soon.

The other day, we had a fire that began along the road to my job. That’s nothing new; we have fires a lot. But this particular fire, which burned out a mile and a half of railroad tracks, including a couple of trestle bridges, was caused by, you guessed it, a windmill.

According to eyewitness accounts, a windmill began to spark, and then started throwing a shower of fiery sparks. These descended to the ground where the dried weeds were waiting to catch fire. Thankfully, the fire was extinguished with nothing besides the railroad property being lost.

While the railroad is already busy repairing the rail line, and trains should only be down a few days, the bigger issue that people are starting to realize is, we have thousands of these windmills, all aged roughly the same, which now apparently seem to pose a fire hazard—in a very dry climate. That’s not a good combination.

Okay, I know this post missing my usual lighthearted humor with a slight twist of irony. Let me try to remedy that. Although I hate to revel in anyone's misery, there is a certain satisfaction derived from the recent events. See, normally, in the course of my job, I can expect to wait on a train once or twice a day—sometimes ten minutes, sometimes half an hour or more. They pull back and forth, changing cars, sometimes stopping only a few feet from clearing the crossing, then going the other way before again stopping a few feet short—all with no regard for traffic. It's very annoying, especially when they could go a few more feet, and sometimes literally inches, to let traffic pass while they are hooking or unhooking. It wouldn’t even cost them any more time. So, as I said, although I hate to revel in anyone's misery, and although I’ve always held the view that the windmills were a rather useless endeavor, I haven't had to wait on a train for a few days! ~

Bruce A. Borders is the author of more than a dozen books, including: Inside Room 913, Over My Dead Body, The Journey, Miscarriage Of Justice, The Lana Denae Mysteries, and The Wynn Garrett Series. Available in ebook at www.amazon.com/Bruce-A.-Borders/e/B006SOLWQS and paperback on Amazon, Barnes & Noble and Books-a-Million.

An Exciting Week

It’s been an interesting and eventful week. First, my town made the national news due to a major fire. Not a good way to make the news but then most news isn’t exactly good news. Thing is we have fires a lot, being that it’s hot and dry here most of the summer. But a fire usually doesn’t make it any farther than the local news.

Speaking of hot and dry, we finally got some decent weather; temperatures in the triple digits, humidity in the single digits—just the way I like it! I know, I know. Most people are not happy with that kind of weather, but as a guy who absolutely detests winter, I love it when summer actually arrives.

Toward the latter part of the week, I came upon a roll over accident on the freeway. A pickup towing a camping trailer blocked the road for a few hours as both were on their side and across both lanes. I was not affected by the road closure since it was on the opposite of the freeway than the direction I was traveling. But I did go by and see it, just minutes, or maybe seconds, after it happened. I saw other drivers rushing to help the driver of the pickup get out.

Speaking of driving, after nine months of the semi I normally drive being in the shop, I got it back last week. Interestingly enough, it went into the shop, back in early November, to have a radio installed. That was completed in a day or so, however, for nine long months the truck developed one major problem after another. Every time the mechanics would fix something, another issue showed up. The good news is it now runs great! The bad news is, the radio doesn’t really work like it’s supposed to. But I guess that’s to be expected, life being full of the irony that it is.

Moving on to the weekend, I was commissioned, or drafted, or shanghaied—actually, I think I was just asked and I agreed—to put a floor into my grandson’s bedroom. And that brings me to the most exciting thing about the week.

They’d just moved into the house and when I showed up to work on the floor, my grandson came bursting through the door to tell me all about the place. “Did you see the most exciting thing?” Then, without waiting for an answer, he said, “Come on, I’ll show you. It’s so exciting.”

I followed, wondering what it was that had him so, well... excited. All the way to his bedroom, he kept up his exuberant banter. When we reached the room, he stopped and said “Are you ready?” Again, without waiting for an answer, he went right on. “Tada! Here it is!”

“It” turned out to be a door. But not just any door. This door was one of those that is split in the middle, allowing you to open the top half separately. Or, as I was showed, you can lock them together and make it a single unit door. Also, as I was told, it was the “most exciting thing in the whole house.”

I agreed, it was pretty exciting. And then I set to work on the floor. Funny thing about that. One of the first steps to replacing the floor was to take the door off. I don’t think my grandson was impressed! I guess you could say he was no longer excited.

I did get the floor done and just so you know, the door is now back in place! Exciting, I know. ~

Bruce A. Borders is the author of more than a dozen books, including: Inside Room 913, Over My Dead Body, The Journey, Miscarriage Of Justice, The Lana Denae Mysteries, and The Wynn Garrett Series. Available in ebook at www.amazon.com/Bruce-A.-Borders/e/B006SOLWQS and paperback on Amazon, Barnes & Noble and Books-a-Million.

The Shores Of Missouri

Years ago, back when I was in kindergarten, my teacher used to read the class a short story now and then. (Probably every day but I don’t really remember for sure). One day she read about a family that took a weekend trip to the ocean. It was a nice little story that centered on all the fun activities the family did: swimming, boating, beachcombing, looking for seashells, etc.

But me, contrarian that I was—yeah, even way back then I was a little cantankerous—focused only on the part of the story that made no sense. Right at the beginning, the story said that after packing their bags, the family got into the car and drove about an hour before reaching the beach. That would be fine I suppose, but I lived in Missouri and I knew it was a lot longer trip to the ocean than just an hour. I said as much after the teacher had finished reading.

I remember the teacher sort of laughed and explained that not everybody in the world lived in Missouri; that some did indeed live an hour from the ocean. What’s more, she said, some people actually lived on the beach.

I was unconvinced. Nowhere in the story had it said they didn’t live in Missouri, and as any five-year-old knows, if something isn’t explicitly stated, it must not be true. Besides, I thought, who would live on the beach anyway?

True to my already established nature of not letting things go, I kept insisting that the story was wrong. Finally—just to shut me up, I now realize—she told me I was right and the book must have had a misprint. That would never satisfy me now, but it did then and I dropped it.

But recently, it all came rushing back. I was waiting in line at the store, and overheard a slightly annoyed guy telling his antsy kids that they needed to settle down and learn to be patient. They’d be to the ocean in about an hour, he said.

Problem is, the town we were in is a good three hours from the ocean. So, unless he planned on driving like Mario Andretti, an hour just wasn’t going to cut it. Now, I know the guy was probably just giving them a little spiel to make them think it wasn’t going to be a long ride—and it appeared to be working—but me, being me, couldn’t resist pointing out that an hour was a very low and ultimately inaccurate estimate. Okay, I didn’t use those words. What I actually said was, “You ain’t going to make it to the ocean in an hour, not from here.”

I’m sure the guy appreciated my commentary. Or, not. After telling his kids to go wait in the car, he asked, “So, how long is it going to take?”

Normally, I would answer such a question with, “Depends on how fast you drive.” But, since I’d already sort of alienated the guy, I told him it would be about three hours, give or take, depending on traffic.

“Great,” he replied, though I could tell he really didn’t think my answer was all that magnificent. I got the distinct impression he wasn’t exactly enjoying this trip so far, and apparently it hadn’t even started. Then, he added, “Should have never moved.”

Moved from where? That’s what I was wondering but I didn’t say anything.

As it turned out, I didn’t have to because he answered it anyway. “We used to live on the beach.”

I kind of laughed, which probably wasn’t well received, but I was thinking, “Apparently, my teacher was right.” ~

Bruce A. Borders is the author of more than a dozen books, including: Inside Room 913, Over My Dead Body, The Journey, Miscarriage Of Justice, The Lana Denae Mysteries, and The Wynn Garrett Series. Available in ebook at www.amazon.com/Bruce-A.-Borders/e/B006SOLWQS and paperback on Amazon, Barnes & Noble and Books-a-Million. 

Driving My Life Away

Last Friday, I completed twenty years of driving truck at my current job. Just in case anyone is wondering, that’s a LONG time. How long? Well, Clinton was President when I started working there. Google did not yet exist. Neither did YouTube. Or Facebook. Or Twitter. And while cell phones existed, most people did not have one. Same goes for the Internet.

A lot has changed at my job since I first started driving there. The most notable change is that most of the people who worked at the place are now gone. Out of the more than a hundred employees in 1998, only a handful are left. And yet, the job is still pretty much the same; I drive, and drive, and then drive some more. I’ve logged nearly three million miles since that first day. And that’s just in the semi, which doesn’t count the 130 miles I commute.

I’ve been asked how I can stand to drive so much and the answer is simple; when I went to work there, I didn’t set out to drive three million miles, or even one million. I just drove, one mile at a time—for a few hours at a time. The hours turned to days, the days turned to weeks, then to months and years. Easy, right?

Of course, I was a lot younger back then, twenty years younger to be exact. Good thing the job isn’t hard, huh? No matter what some people claim, driving a truck is really not something that takes a lot of effort. The most difficult part of the job is staying awake, which does seem to be a little tougher the older I get.

Speaking of staying awake, I’ve noticed it’s far easier to do if I get more sleep. My typical four to five hours per night, which is what I’ve slept most of my life, just doesn’t cut it anymore. So, I think I’ll wrap up this post and maybe go to bed—since in a few hours it’ll be time to start year number twenty-one at my job. Yay! ~

Bruce A. Borders is the author of more than a dozen books, including: Inside Room 913, Over My Dead Body, The Journey, Miscarriage Of Justice, The Lana Denae Mysteries, and The Wynn Garrett Series. Available in ebook at www.amazon.com/Bruce-A.-Borders/e/B006SOLWQS and paperback on Amazon, Barnes & Noble and Books-a-Million. 

Making Time

Driving a truck for thirteen or fourteen hours per day, Monday through Friday, means Saturday is usually a busy day for me. Correction, Saturday is always a busy day for me. Trying to keep everything caught up around the house is a full-time job; one that I generally spend just one day doing.

So, when my wife asked if I wanted to join her in taking four of our grandchildren to the carnival, I declined. It’s not that I don’t like carnivals or the rides, because I do. It’s not that I don’t like my grandchildren either, because I do. But I was busy.

Then, she suggested that it may be helpful to have me there to keep the kids corralled. I realized it might be a difficult job alone since some rides require small children to be accompanied by an adult. Kind of hard with that many kids, especially if the youngest one or two are too small to ride a particular ride. So, I acquiesced.

The first thing I noticed at the carnival was how many people weren’t there. Here it was, a Saturday afternoon, great weather, not hot or cold, little to no wind—and hardly any crowd at a normally crowded event. Not that the attendance level bothered me, it meant less time waiting in lines and more time enjoying the rides—not to mention less of an opportunity for the grandchildren (and me) to grow impatient and then frustrated and irritable.

We had a good time and in about two hours we’d done all there was to do. Amazing how fast things go when there aren’t hoards of people! I think the grandkids were happy that I’d joined them and I was glad I’d gone along. And two hours wasn’t going to upset my Saturday work schedule that much. Sure, I was busy but then, I’m always busy.

Walking back to my pickup, I again was struck by the fact that so few people were there enjoying the day. I still find it strange. But I think I figured out why no one was there. Maybe, anyway. Could it be that most parents and/or grandparents stayed home that day because... they were busy? ~

Bruce A. Borders is the author of more than a dozen books, including: Inside Room 913, Over My Dead Body, The Journey, Miscarriage Of Justice, The Lana Denae Mysteries, and The Wynn Garrett Series. Available in ebook at www.amazon.com/Bruce-A.-Borders/e/B006SOLWQS and paperback on Amazon, Barnes & Noble and Books-a-Million.

Fire Away!

I seem to have misplaced my wife. Tragic, I know. See, I got home from work late Friday night and she was gone. Saw nothing of her Saturday either. Woke up Sunday—still no wife.

Okay, I admit, she wasn’t actually missing. If that were the case, I probably wouldn’t be just calmly writing about it. Well, maybe I would, I do like to write...

Anyway, she was on a planned trip to visit our son for a few days. So, I was here alone for the weekend. But that’s okay, I do know how to function without her—for short periods. Still, I’m thinking I should have gone with her on this trip. Not because I missed her, which I did, but the reason is a bit more... well, I would say selfish but missing her is kind of selfish too so—why don’t I just tell my story.

As most red-blooded Americans, I like guns. Big guns, little guns. Old guns, new guns. I like looking at them, buying them, and shooting them. And I like... well, you get the idea.  My wife, on the other hand, is not really big on guns. She doesn’t have anything against guns; she’s just not into them quite the way I am.

So, if I told you that one of us had experienced shooting a machine gun, you’d probably say it was I and not my wife. But, you’d be wrong. And that’s why I should have joined her on her trip.

See, my son takes after me; he likes guns. Which is why he took his mother to a shooting range that rents out various types of firearms including, machine guns. Pay a “small” fee and you can enjoy a few seconds of spraying bullets with the best of them.

Sunday evening, when my wife returned home, I got to hear all about it. Not that I wasn’t interested, of course. It just seemed odd that she would be telling me about shooting anything. Apparently, firing a machine gun makes quite an impression. I guess. Not that I would know since I haven’t shot one—yet.

On a perhaps unrelated note: I think it may be time to pay my son a visit again! Soon! Maybe the next time I misplace my wife. ~

Bruce A. Borders is the author of more than a dozen books, including: Inside Room 913, Over My Dead Body, The Journey, Miscarriage Of Justice, The Lana Denae Mysteries, and The Wynn Garrett Series. Available in ebook at www.amazon.com/Bruce-A.-Borders/e/B006SOLWQS and paperback on Amazon, Barnes & Noble and Books-a-Million.

As The Eagle Flies

Caution: this is a serious post for once.

When I was a kid, I lived at the base of a hill called Eagle’s Caves. As you can likely figure out, at the top of the hill are caves—where eagles lived. By the time I came along there weren’t too many eagles around but I’m told there used to be a lot of them. Then, sometime in the eighties or so, the few remaining eagles disappeared—from the caves anyway; too many people around, I guess.

My present home is at the bottom of that same hill, only about a block and a half from where I lived back then, in a subdivision known as Eagle Cave Estates. I know, the name makes it sound like I live in a posh neighborhood or something. I don’t. It’s just a fancy name for a subdivision that was built on what used to be a pasture that I used to cut through on the way to the store.

Living here, I’ve often looked up to the caves, searching for an eagle. But in nineteen years, I’ve never seen one. Until yesterday. My daughters had come by for Father’s Day and we were standing outside watching their kids play when my son-in-law noticed an eagle overhead. It was flying very low, which made it easy to identify. As we watched, another bird of some sort came swooping toward the eagle. This bird was smaller, maybe a little more than half the size of the eagle—and apparently, not real bright.

The smaller bird seemed intent on attacking. The eagle, of course, wasn’t real worried about a confrontation. As the swooping bird grew close, the eagle flipped over, its talons stretched out to ward off the attack—or maybe mount a counter-attack. Either way, the not-so-bright bird, seeing those claws, instantly thought better of his ill-advised plan and veered sharply up and away. Soon the bird, whatever it was, was gone.

I guess maybe it wasn’t as dumb as I originally thought! I’m still not sure why the unidentified bird thought attacking an eagle would be a good idea—or that it would even work. But it was fascinating to watch so, smart or dumb, I’m glad we got to see its weak attempt at hunting.

After the short confrontation, the eagle continued on his way, flying high into the sky and it wasn’t long before I lost sight of it. Later however, I saw it again—flying up toward the caves. Then circling in the sky. For a brief moment it was like I was a kid again.

This might have been a one-time occurrence. It’s likely the eagle was merely visiting our neighborhood, maybe checking out where his ancestors used to live. Like a person going back to the “Old Country” just to see where Grandma grew up. Or maybe—the eagles are back! ~

Bruce A. Borders is the author of more than a dozen books, including: Inside Room 913, Over My Dead Body, The Journey, Miscarriage Of Justice, The Lana Denae Mysteries, and The Wynn Garrett Series. Available in ebook at www.amazon.com/Bruce-A.-Borders/e/B006SOLWQS and paperback on Amazon, Barnes & Noble and Books-a-Million.

June 13, 1987

So, this week marks thirty-one years that my wife and I have been married. While that may seem like a long time, it has flown by for me. Time flies when you’re having fun, as the saying goes. My wife may have a differing opinion.

Sometimes I miss the early days; the days when we had less but that meant fewer things about which to worry. Back when life was full of expectancy, of dreams, and, since we didn’t make a lot of money at the time; hope for the future. Now, we’re living in what was then, the future, and things are definitely better. Again, my wife may have a differing opinion.

I think we’ve done a decent job in this grand experiment called marriage; we raised three responsible and autonomous children to adulthood. We’ve managed to build a life together that others refer to as “living the good life.” And, we don’t fight or argue—much. But... my wife may have a differing opinion.

Recently, I heard about a guy who was asking how people could stand to stay married for so long; how they could handle being with the same person constantly; to live with their spouse day after day. My answer is how could you not? There is a certain tranquility and security in knowing that person is there; knowing you can depend on them. Marriage is not a chore: it’s not a drudgery; not boring, monotonous, or tiresome. At least not to me. And hopefully, not for my wife. But then, she may have a differing opinion.

I am very grateful to my wife for allowing me to be married to her—at all, really, but in light of our upcoming anniversary; especially, for thirty-one years. Thirty-one years of ups and downs; good, bad, and in-between, although mostly good. Of course, my wife may have a differing opinion.

Anyway, happy anniversary to my wife. Thanks for putting up with me for this long. I’m looking forward to another thirty-one years! (And I hope you don’t have a differing opinion on that). ~

Bruce A. Borders is the author of more than a dozen books, including: Inside Room 913, Over My Dead Body, The Journey, Miscarriage Of Justice, The Lana Denae Mysteries, and The Wynn Garrett Series. Available in ebook at www.amazon.com/Bruce-A.-Borders/e/B006SOLWQS and paperback on Amazon, Barnes & Noble and Books-a-Million. 

A Know-It-All?

“Grandpa, do you know everything?”

The question came from an innocent-faced four-year-old in response to a rather mundane explanation of how a lawnmower works. Nothing earth shattering, I know, but still intriguing enough to impress a young boy who’d never heard it before.

I was tempted to tell him that yes, I did indeed know everything. I resisted the urge. Besides, kids have a way of growing up and sooner or later, I knew he’d discover the truth. So, somewhat reluctantly, I admitted I did not know everything.

“But you’re 51,” he said as if that is the magical age where all knowledge is attained. Then just to clarify, he added, “You should have learned everything by now.”

“I guess I should have,” I said. “I’ve had plenty of time. But, sometimes I think the older I get, the less I know.”

My grandson gave me a pitying look. “Yeah, my mom told me about that.”

“Told you about what?”

“Old people forget things.”

True. So, maybe I DID know everything at one time—and then forgot it.

I suggested this to my grandson. Deep in thought, he slowly said, “Probably.” Then pausing for a bit, he added, “Not.”

Apparently, he has lost all confidence in me! I should have just told him that I knew everything and we could have avoided this whole thing. ~

Bruce A. Borders is the author of more than a dozen books, including: Inside Room 913, Over My Dead Body, The Journey, Miscarriage Of Justice, The Lana Denae Mysteries, and The Wynn Garrett Series. Available in ebook at www.amazon.com/Bruce-A.-Borders/e/B006SOLWQS and paperback on Amazon, Barnes & Noble and Books-a-Million. 

Tired Old Routine

Am I the only one who gets annoyed with the TPMS on vehicles these days? If you are unfamiliar with the term, TPMS stands for Tire Pressure Monitoring System. It’s the little light on the dash that lets you know if you have a low or flat tire.

In theory, I suppose such a system is a good idea. Although, I’m not sure what was wrong with the old system we had—that being, look at your tires! It’s pretty obvious if you have a low tire—particularly if it’s flat! Or, even if you are driving, a sudden loss of air in one tire (or more) is fairly easy to figure out.

But the powers that be have decided we all need a monitoring system. That wouldn’t be so bad if the thing actually worked properly. But sadly, they do not always do that. For example, my pickup routinely tells me I have a low tire. I used to actually check the pressure, trying to find which one was low—and there weren’t any. So, I learned to ignore the light. Eventually, it goes off. But then a few days later, it’ll come back on. And again, I ignore it.

So, this past week when the light came on, I didn’t really see any cause for concern—not until one morning when I noticed the left rear tire seemed to be awfully low on air. I aired up the tire and went to work. But the next day, it was nearly flat again.

So, I took it to the tire shop. I happened to mention all this to a guy later in the day and he said, “That’s why we have the TPMS, you shouldn’t ignore it when the light comes on.”

Right. I wonder if he’s ever heard of the boy who cried wolf? That’s what the TPMS is like to me. It’s cried wolf so much that I don’t pay any attention when there is a real problem.

I told the guy, “TPMS is pretty much worthless.”

Of course, he didn’t agree.

“Think about it,” I said. “I guarantee that in the days before TPMS, not a single instance can be found of someone not knowing they had a flat—not for very long anyway. And every single flat or blowout still got fixed... eventually.” ~

Bruce A. Borders is the author of more than a dozen books, including: Inside Room 913, Over My Dead Body, The Journey, Miscarriage Of Justice, The Lana Denae Mysteries, and The Wynn Garrett Series. Available in ebook at www.amazon.com/Bruce-A.-Borders/e/B006SOLWQS and paperback on Amazon, Barnes & Noble and Books-a-Million.

Traffic Revision Ahead

Traffic cones are like an obstacle course for truck drivers. Or a competency test. At times, it’s a challenge, to miss them. But it’s kind of fun too. Non-truck drivers generally place the cones on the road and sometimes they leave enough room for a truck to negotiate a turn and sometimes they do not. Usually, it’s the latter.

As a truck driver, when I encounter traffic cones, I like to see if I can get my truck through without knocking any over. Just because I like a challenge. However, once I determine that there simply isn’t enough room, the game changes to something like bowling—it’s time to see how many cones I can take out!

But, if the cones are on the freeway, that’s a different story. Hitting anything, even a small rubberized plastic traffic cone is not advisable. At freeway speeds, those little cones become very destructive. So, I try NOT to hit the cones on the freeway. That doesn’t always work.

Last week, I was driving through the construction. The freeway was down to one lane, with cones set up to keep vehicles out of the work area. But someone had felt it necessary to run over quite a number of cones, scattering them all over the road. By the time they showed up in my headlights, it wasn’t really feasible to stop. I tried to dodge them the best I could but there were too many. A single lane, and no shoulder didn’t help matters any. I ended up hitting at least two of them.

I’d barely made it out of the construction when my warning light and buzzer were going off. I was losing air. After pulling over, I saw that one of the cones had taken out an airline to my brakes. The brake had tried to lock up but all it succeeded in doing was heating up the brake and wheel. By the time I’d gotten stopped, the wheel was glowing red-hot.

I called our mechanic and he came out to fix the truck. In a little over an hour I was on my way. Not bad. In fact, not near as bad as the guy who I assume was the one to originally hit the cones. His car was still there on the side of the road the next day—missing a bumper and a flat tire. Glad I was driving a truck! ~

Bruce A. Borders is the author of more than a dozen books, including: Inside Room 913, Over My Dead Body, The Journey, Miscarriage Of Justice, The Lana Denae Mysteries, and The Wynn Garrett Series. Available in ebook at www.amazon.com/Bruce-A.-Borders/e/B006SOLWQS and paperback on Amazon, Barnes & Noble and Books-a-Million.

Am I Missing Something?

Enjoyed a week long vacation last week. Yay! No exotic destination though. In fact, for most of the week, I just stayed home. Did some work on my fence and deck, along with a few other things.

But as a truck driver, I can’t fathom going more than a few days without some extended periods of driving. On Thursday, my wife and I traveled roughly 300 miles—just to have lunch! Then on Friday, I left my wife home while I made a quick weekend trip to my son’s house in Idaho. And since there are always things to do, I helped him with some of his home-related projects.

My stay lasted through Sunday, which meant I was away from my wife for Mothers’ Day. For the past 30 years or so, I’ve taken her, and usually the kids, out to eat on Mothers’ Day. But this year, I wasn’t home. When I made plans to be gone, I hadn’t realized it would be Mothers’ Day weekend. Thankfullly, one of my daughters was able to step in and take her mother for a nice lunch.

But that didn’t mean I had to go hungry. Nope. On Sunday, my son and I, just the two of us, went out to eat—for Mothers’ Day. Hey, it was still Mothers’ Day! Just because neither one of us are mothers doesn’t mean we can’t have a decent meal!

For some reason though, the manager, who was randomly handing out roses, skipped our table! And we didn’t even get the discount they were offering to nearly everyone else! We still had a good Mothers’ Day though! ~

Bruce A. Borders is the author of more than a dozen books, including: Inside Room 913, Over My Dead Body, The Journey, Miscarriage Of Justice, The Lana Denae Mysteries, and The Wynn Garrett Series. Available in ebook at www.amazon.com/Bruce-A.-Borders/e/B006SOLWQS and paperback on Amazon, Barnes & Noble and Books-a-Million. 

A Balancing Act

So, a couple of my grandchildren learned to ride a bike this past week. They both seemed pretty excited about it—as we all were. It’s hard work teaching, or attempting to teach, such things. Hard on the back to be more specific. Not that I’m complaining because my part was pretty small. Others did a lot more training than I.

Before either of them had mastered the task, we were working on their skills one day and as we took a short break, I decided to take one of the bikes for a little spin. The grandkids looked at me in utter disbelief. “Grandpa knows how to ride a bike?”

“Well, yeah,” I said. “Why is that so strange?”

One of them—the youngest one, a four-year-old—answered without hesitation. “Because you’re old.” Nothing like coming right out and saying it! I could tell the other grandchild agreed but he was too nice to actually say it.

I stopped riding and told them, “Well I wasn’t always old, you know. And I learned to ride a bike when I was a kid.”

“But that was a long time ago!” The oldest one was still content to let the younger one do the talking, but both of them wore the look that said they couldn’t believe I could really ride a bike.

“It definitely was a long time ago,” I agreed.

Neither one said anything for a minute or so, then the youngest says, “And you still know how?”

“Of course I do. Did you think I’d forget?”

He nodded.

I said, “Well, that’s the thing about riding a bicycle, it’s like, well, riding a bicycle.” Figuring he’d never heard the saying, of something being compared to riding a bike, I thought I’d maybe have to explain my statement.

But before I could, the ever-philosophical four-year-old, with just a hint of disgust said, “Grandpa, riding a bicycle isn’t LIKE riding a bicycle, it IS riding a bicycle.”

“You’re right,” I told him. I again started to explain I was just using the saying to be silly and tell him what it meant.

He interrupted. “It means when I learn how to ride a bike, I won’t forget.”

Um, yeah. That. Sometimes I wonder if my grandkids really need me for anything. Well, maybe to help them learn to ride a bike, I guess. ~

Bruce A. Borders is the author of more than a dozen books, including: Inside Room 913, Over My Dead Body, The Journey, Miscarriage Of Justice, The Lana Denae Mysteries, and The Wynn Garrett Series. Available in ebook at www.amazon.com/Bruce-A.-Borders/e/B006SOLWQS and paperback on Amazon, Barnes & Noble and Books-a-Million.

The Party You Are Trying To Reach...

Back in the day—always thought that was a saying old people used—before the advent of cell phones, it was much harder to keep tabs on someone’s whereabouts. That was important because you had to know where the person was before you called them. The alternative, of course, was to call around looking for them.

Which is what I was doing one day as I tried to find my dad. I’d called every place I could think that he could be with no luck. No one had seen him. I waited a bit and started the call list over again. Still no luck.

The reason I was looking for him is because I needed a ride. I had to be to a school function, my bike had a flat tire (I was out of patches) and I didn’t feel like walking all the way. But after no luck in finding him, I finally decided that if I were going to get there, I’d have to walk.

So, I grabbed my stuff and headed out the door. Then, seeing the shed door open, thought I’d better close it before I left. I walked over, starting to close the door—assuming I’d left it open—and there was my dad. He was working on something, I don’t really remember what.

I told him I’d been looking for him and said I’d called everywhere.

“Not everywhere,” he said. “You didn’t call here.”

“No,” I admitted. “But I was using our phone and you weren’t there.”

Apparently though, he’d been home all along. He’d been outside, when I was getting ready. And then, as I went out to find the flat on my bike, he’d come back in—through a different door obviously. Then, we’d missed each other again, as I came inside to make my phone calls.

A cell phone sure would have made things a lot easier for me that day. Or, maybe not. Not long ago, I was trying to get hold of my wife. I dialed her number, only to hear her phone ringing in the next room. No, she wasn’t home; she’d just forgotten her phone—which happens rather frequently. It was sort of déjà vu feeling as I started calling around... ~

Bruce A. Borders is the author of more than a dozen books, including: Inside Room 913, Over My Dead Body, The Journey, Miscarriage Of Justice, The Lana Denae Mysteries, and The Wynn Garrett Series. Available in ebook at www.amazon.com/Bruce-A.-Borders/e/B006SOLWQS and paperback on Amazon, Barnes & Noble and Books-a-Million.

Can't You See?

Am I the only one who finds the new LED light bars annoying? The ultra-bright lights, which are great for the driver but not so great for everybody else, are showing up in increasing numbers these days. Why is that a problem? Because these lights are BRIGHT! Blindly so. But I doubt those who have them mounted on their vehicles care what I think.

I wouldn’t mind so much if they used the lights for off-road adventures or at least if they’re going to run them on the road, turn them off when meeting traffic. I’m all for being able to see better but it would be nice if the drivers going the other way could see as well. It seems no one wants to do that.

The other night, I met a pickup with 2 such light bars, one in the grille and one mounted to the top of the cab. AND, the driver was making full use of his LED foglights as well. You’d think with all of that light there would have been no need for the regular headlights but those were on too.

So, it was a little surprising with the road lit up the way it was that the driver of the pickup didn’t see all of the signs that said the lane was ending or the orange and white striped construction barrels. Well, I suppose the driver did see them—eventually. But not before smashing a into a few.

I watched the scene unfold with a slightly amused grin. Traveling in the opposite direction, I didn’t have long to look but I did notice—with satisfaction—the bright illumination on the other side of the freeway suddenly went dark. My grin then turned to a chuckle—score one for the construction barrels! I’m not usually a fan of construction barrels (or construction, for that matter), but in this case, you could say I was rather de-lighted! ~

Bruce A. Borders is the author of more than a dozen books, including: Inside Room 913, Over My Dead Body, The Journey, Miscarriage Of Justice, The Lana Denae Mysteries, and The Wynn Garrett Series. Available in ebook at www.amazon.com/Bruce-A.-Borders/e/B006SOLWQS and paperback on Amazon, Barnes & Noble and Books-a-Million.

I've Been Everywhere (Almost)

Took another one of those quizzes on Facebook—yeah, I know they use them to get people’s data but I don’t care. I don’t put things on Facebook that I wish to keep private so it’s not really a problem.

This particular quiz claimed to be able to determine in what state I’d been born and/or raised based on my answers. Not that they could “guess” but that they would “know,” it said. I was instantly interested because usually these things have a little difficulty assigning me to any specific location. This is due to the fact that I’ve lived in several states and spent a lot of time visiting other states. In fact, I’ve visited most of the United States—except for one small region. I’ve picked up habits and acquired speech peculiarities along the way. And although I tend to exhibit the western influence more than any other, I’m a conflation of many places.

So, I took the quiz; answered all the inane questions that seemingly had nothing to do with where I’d been born or raised. But that’s the idea, I think. Out of the 35 questions, there were only a couple I couldn’t answer accurately—a lot less than normal—so, I just picked the answer that most closely approximated my real answer.

After finishing, I waited while the app did its thing. When I got the results, they were again very sure of themselves, stating unequivocally that I was undoubtedly from New England.

Well, I thought, that’s really remarkable how they came up with that. Out of all the places I’ve lived and been; all the traits I’ve picked up, somehow they managed to zero in on New England—the one region of the country I’ve never even visited. I think they may need fine-tune their quiz, just a bit. ~

Bruce A. Borders is the author of more than a dozen books, including: Inside Room 913, Over My Dead Body, The Journey, Miscarriage Of Justice, The Lana Denae Mysteries, and The Wynn Garrett Series. Available in ebook at www.amazon.com/Bruce-A.-Borders/e/B006SOLWQS and paperback on Amazon, Barnes & Noble and Books-a-Million. Bruce A. Borders is a proud member of Rave Reviews Book Club.

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