The Journey by Bruce A. Borders

From the author of Over My Dead Body - a new ebook - The Journey. A 15-year-old runaway embarks on what he thinks is the road to freedom. He learns that The Journey to adulthood is more than merely miles traveled.

https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/BruceABorders

It's A Family Thing

A lot can happen in 25 years. Take me for instance; 25 years ago, I was a single guy living in an 8 x 25 trailer. One person to consult or consider on any decision, one mouth to feed, one back to clothe, one gas tank to fill – you get the idea.

Then, I got married and that’s when things began to change. Suddenly, there twice as many to take into account, twice as many to feed and clothe. Double of everything, including bills. True, there were also two incomes, but that is a false sense of assurance. There’s a line from an old song that says, “It costs three times as much for two to live as cheap as one.” I can certainly relate. Yet, it was a good trade off. Two are better than one, at least when it comes to family.

Aside from the financial aspect, the changes brought by an additional person are evident in many other ways as well. (Apparently, an 8 x 25 trailer isn’t nearly big enough for two people). Two cars were now needed. And, it took twice as long to take care of the everyday household tasks and run errands. The number of people multiplied by two equals twice the responsibilities, but twice the fun too.

Then our family started growing more. We had kids. (No, not baby goats; children for those of you who are particular about that sort of thing). First one child, then another, and then another. With the addition of each child came more changes and responsibilities; more places to go, more activities in which to be involved, a bigger house, and more things in the house. Our amassed collection of belongings seemed to grow almost exponentially. My wife would tell you it’s mostly my stuff – junk as she calls it – because I keep everything. That’s partly true, I don’t usually get rid of anything, I might need it! But a substantial portion of the things in our house is not mine.

As the kids grew older, the nature of the items underwent a transformation from toys to more useful things like bicycles and then cars – definitely a lot of cars. At times, the fleet of vehicles parked outside my house seemed to suggest I’d gotten into the used car business.

A few years ago, we gained a son-in-law and last year our first grandbaby! While these didn’t add to the size of our household, the impact is seen in other ways. The dinner table is considerably more crowded when everyone shows up for a meal, and if we go out to eat, we require something more than a table for two. No doubt we’ll soon have to start making reservations in order to guarantee seating for everyone.

This past week, we welcomed the latest addition to the family, our second grandchild! If history is any indication, the future likely holds more of the same, to which I’m gladly looking forward. I have this curious desire to see how big the family can become. Will we need to rent a convention center or some such building just to have a family meal together? Alright, maybe not, but who knows? A lot can happen in 25 years.

Bruce A. Borders, author and songwriter has over 500 songs and 9 books. Over My Dead Body, his latest ebook, is available on Apple I-Pad®, Amazon Kindle®, Barnes & Noble Nook® and Sony Reader®. For more information, visit http://www.bruceaborders.com or http://overmydeadbody.jimdo.com.

And I Lived ToTell About It

I think it must be a prerequisite of being a child to periodically scare one's parents half to death, along with as many other people as possible. I know my kids were no exception - and neither was I.

For example, when I was six years old, one of my favorite activities was riding a minibike my dad had bought for my brother and me. A red Honda 50 with automatic gears - no clutch for my small hands to struggle to operate. This particular minibike however, had an annoying propensity to kick out of gear of its own volition - usually at the most inconvenient time. Normally, this amounted to little more than aggravation; all it took was a slight bit of pressure from the left foot and the gears were engaged again. I'd ridden the minibike many times, knew the drill and always seem to control the bike - but remember, I was only six years old.

One bright sunny day, my parents and some of their friends were outside watching as my brother and I took turns riding around our "track." The track consisted of a few trails through the trees and hills. One of those hills was rather steep and long - about 25 feet high and close to twice that long. For me, the hill was much more fun to climb than to come down, and I usually didn't. That day, for some reason, I wound up at the top and decided to ride down. Just as I straightened out the handlebars, the minibike did its thing, kicking out of gear, sending me free wheeling down the hill. With nothing to hold it back, my speed quickly increased. At that moment, I had several options; I could brake, put it back in gear, or since it was quite a ways to the street, I could've turned in either direction. I did none of those. Instead, I froze, my hands stuck firmly on the grips, staring and riding straight ahead. Later, I was told that everyone had been shouting instructions, but I heard nothing.

I can only imagine the helpless feeling my parents must have had as they watched me racing toward the busy street - and unable to stop me. As for me, I remember a strange feeling of being along for an unwanted ride to my doom and being powerless to do anything about it. I also remember a blue car going by in front of me as I neared the street. What I didn't see was the old man in the red pickup coming from the other direction. As the minibike hurtled across the road, the driver of the pickup had little time to react. Before he knew what was happening, I was directly in front of him. My parents, along with everyone else, thought I was about to become a greasy spot on the road. But, somehow I made it. The truck missed me by only inches. I shot on across the street, jumped a ditch on the other side, and slammed into a fence, which put an end to my wild ride, rather abruptly.

The driver of the pickup was so shaken; he pulled over to the side of the road and just sat there for a while. Everyone else was plenty excited too - except me. I was greatly relieved that it was over! And I had no desire to get back on the minibike. Lucky for me, although my dad was obviously unsettled and apprehensive, he insisted I go for another ride - right away. Reluctantly, I did and sort of regained my confidence. Eventually, I was back to riding as if nothing had happened. Almost. To this day, I have never ridden anything down that hill. Scaring my parents was one thing, scaring myself was quite another. I don't think it's supposed to work that way.

Bruce A. Borders, author and songwriter has over 500 songs and 9 books. Over My Dead Body, his latest ebook, is available on Apple I-Pad®, Amazon Kindle®, Barnes & Noble Nook® and Sony Reader®. For more information, visit http://www.bruceaborders.com/ or http://overmydeadbody.jimdo.com/.

No Help Wanted

Everything is easier with help - or so I've been told. Dividing the workload leads to increased productivity, right? Not necessarily. Sometimes it's faster, and easier, to forego the help. Or maybe it all depends on who is helping.

Back when I lived in Wyoming, my dad and I used to make regular fall trips to the mountains to cut wood for the winter. On one such excursion, we took along another guy who had volunteered to help.

Due to the high fire danger level, chainsaws were banned, so we opted for the old standby of yesteryear, the crosscut saw. For those of you too young to remember, or not familiar with this type of saw, I'll explain how it works. A crosscut saw is typically 7-8 feet long with a handle on both ends. Using it is a two-man endeavor. One guy pulls, keeping pressure against the tree, while the guy on the other end holds just enough pressure to keep the blade in place, allowing his arms to extend with the motion - but not pushing. Then it reverses. The second guy pulls while the first one relaxes. Back and forth, this continues as the sharp teeth on the 8-inch wide blade do their job. While not as efficient as a chainsaw it does work remarkably well - but only if both men have at least a small amount of coordination.

Arriving at our favorite tree-cutting site early in the morning, my dad and I cut down eight or nine dead evergreen trees. After clearing the branches from the trunks, we sectioned them into 8-foot logs. Then, we loaded the logs into the pickup and my dad left for town to unload them, leaving me and the other guy to cut another load while he was gone. At least that was the idea.

The two and a half hours he was gone should've been ample time to have another load ready - with time to spare. Should've, would've, could've - wasn't.

That's the day I learned some people just aren't cut out to use a two-man saw. The guy tried, really tried, but it just wasn't in him. I'd pull, and he'd pull, or push hard, bending the saw, which doesn't work either. After several frustrating attempts to explain the concept, I realized that having help that day might not have actually been much help. When my dad returned, we had just one small tree cut - and I'd had to finish that one off with a bow saw. (A one-man saw that requires no help).

The guy felt bad so we allowed him to redeem himself by clearing the branches off the trees as we cut them down. We soon had another load ready to haul and took it back to town. We made several more woodcutting trips, that year and others, but I don't remember ever taking anyone along to help again.

The saw we used has long since been retired but recently, we found a new use for it. This past weekend, while visiting my parents, I painted a picture on the blade, an oil painting of a mountain scene with evergreens, similar to the place where we once used it to cut our firewood. The rustic antique is now hanging on the wall in my parent's home, a picturesque reminder of days gone by. Yeah, I reminisced a little while I painted. The project did take a fair amount of time - and yes, some work - but no, I didn't have any help.

Bruce A. Borders, author and songwriter has over 500 songs and 9 books. Over My Dead Body, his latest ebook, is available on Apple I-Pad®, Amazon Kindle®, Barnes & Noble Nook® and Sony Reader®. For more information, visit http://www.bruceaborders.com/ or http://overmydeadbody.jimdo.com/

Driving To Canada

It’s been said if you drive a semi for a year, you’ll have a lifetime of stories to tell. If that’s true then I’d better get started telling my stories because I’ve been driving a truck now for 16 years.

One of the first things a driver learns is that the show must go on. Hot freight can’t wait. When you’re hauling upwards of a million dollars in merchandise, people start to get a little antsy if the truck doesn’t show up when expected.

One miserably cold winter day, I picked up a load in Des Moines, IA and headed north to Winnipeg. Canada! Not really the place I wanted to go in the dead of winter. Stopping to sleep awhile in Fargo, North Dakota, I got up to leave at six o’clock the next morning. The temperature was  -42 degrees and the wind was howling. Just in case you are wondering, yes, that is cold! The State Police were advising no unnecessary travel. Great! But then, they always say that - it’s not really an indication of the road conditions. And it doesn’t matter. Unless the roads are closed, the trucks will be rolling.

There were five of us that left a few minutes past 6:00 - all headed to Winnipeg. I was fourth in line. It wasn't snowing but the wind made it seem as if we were in a blizzard. Visibility was down to just a few feet. We drove at speeds of 15 – 25 mph, keeping the truck in front of us in sight and maintaining contact with the CB. The driver of the lead truck was a local guy who knew the road well, having driven it every day for 20 years, but even he was having trouble keeping his bearings. Every overpass was drifted nearly shut and we drove in the center of the road, hoping each time we plowed through a drift that no hidden cars were stuck there. It wouldn’t have been just one truck that wrecked; it would have been all five.

All day long we drove like that; single file, no one getting in a hurry, content to follow the guy up front who sort of knew where we were from time to time. Strangely, we never encountered another vehicle all the way to the Canadian border. We thought that was a little odd, but then figured maybe everyone else was smarter that we were. Normally, the entire trip from Fargo to Winnipeg would’ve taken only four hours, but dusk was settling when we arrived at the customs gate.

The Canadian customs agents were preparing to leave when we pulled up – and they were perplexed by our sudden appearance. How had we managed to get there? Apparently, all roads in North Dakota had been closed since 6:30 that morning. How nice! It would’ve been even nicer had someone told us. At least it explained why we’d seen no traffic all day. In the fastest customs processing I’d ever experienced, the agents told us to keep moving. Winnipeg was still another 100 kilometers (about 62 miles), and they didn’t want us to be stranded outside the city.

Conditions hadn’t improved and it was past 8 p.m. when I delivered my load. I then made fast tracks to an already crowded truck stop. By now, all the roads out of Winnipeg were closed and the truck stop, with room for about 60 trucks, was jammed with more than 300 rigs. For the next two days, the truck stop was home, while the wind continued to blow. Depending on which thermometer you looked at, the temperature was somewhere between -50 and -60 degrees Fahrenheit. (It seems that even thermometers have difficulty in extreme cold). The locals insisted it wasn’t all that cold. I decided they’d lived in the frigid climate so long their brains had ceased to function. My own was in serious danger of freezing up, but somehow it still managed to fire on all synapses – just slower than normal.

Finally, two days later, the wind stopped and the sun came out, warming the ambient temperature to a balmy -30 degrees! For a brief moment, I thought I was on a tropical vacation. As soon as the roads were open, 300 trucks rumbled out of the truck stop – mine included. Heading east, on Canada’s only freeway, I picked up a load in Dryden, ON and finally turned south, crossing back into America! Late that night, I made it home safe and sound.

So, what was I hauling to Winnipeg that was so vitally crucial to the survival of society that I had to lose two days of my life stuck in Canada? Magazines. Tabloids to be specific. Yep, people need their gossip.

Bruce A. Borders, author and songwriter has over 500 songs and 9 books. Over My Dead Body, his latest ebook, is available on Apple I-Pad®, Amazon Kindle®, Barnes & Noble Nook® and Sony Reader®. For more information, visit http://www.bruceaborders.com/ or http://overmydeadbody.jimdo.com/.

Selling A Tree House

When is the most opportune time to have a tree fall on your house? Probably not four hours before you are to sign the papers to sell it. This I know from experience.

We were all packed, the U-haul loaded and ready to move. We had spent one more night in the house, on sleeping bags in the living room, and this was our rather rude awakening. It sounded like a freight train had hit the house, so I should have been relieved to find it was only a tree. Yet, as I walked outside, relief wasn’t quite how I would describe my demeanor. Imagine the scene: a grand old Elm tree (my neighbor’s tree) sprawled across the yard and extending onto the roof, completely obscuring one side of the house. Of course, it happened to be the side with the electrical connections. Splintered branches, and smaller limbs with leaves were everywhere. That might have been okay if we were Swiss Family Robinson, but we weren’t.

After crawling and climbing through the jumbled pile of entangled branches to inspect the damages, I breathed an audible sigh. We had been lucky. Aside from the superficial scrapes on the paint and a few minor gouges to the siding, the only real damage was the electric meter and weather mast. Both had been ripped off the wall and lay under the tree, twisted and bent, with frayed electrical wires waving in the wind. We were without electricity, but no major repairs would be needed. Even the three windows on that side of the house had managed to remain intact. Still, knowing we were supposed to sign the papers in a few hours, the fallen tree presented more than enough anxiety.

The first call I made was to the insurance agent. Typical of insurance companies, the response I received served only to further my angst. This was an act of God, I was told, and being the neighbor’s tree, we would have to collect any expenses incurred from said neighbor, or perhaps his insurance company. The neighbor proved less than accommodating in this regard. Incidentally, we shared the same insurance company, and the agent made it clear they wouldn’t be paying. This is the same insurance company that one year earlier had forced us to have two similar trees removed from our property due to the liability they posed if they were to fall on a neighbor’s house. Against my nature, I decided to not press the issue and take care of the fallen tree myself. In less than three hours the moving van would be taking us two thousand miles away and I didn’t want to be involved in a long term dispute from that far.

Calling an electrician, I arranged for a new meter and weather mast to be installed. Surprisingly, the total came to only $137. Then, calling a friend, who needed the wood, the cleanup was taken care of. This was over the protests of my neighbor. He seemed to think that since it was his tree, he should get the wood. I was as accommodating as he had been, with a simple, “I don’t think so.” The chainsaw was already running, which made it a little difficult for him to argue, or maybe I just didn’t hear him.

Later, we signed the huge stack of papers and I couldn’t tell you what most of them said – except one that I found fascinatingly ironic. It seems that by my signature, I certified there to be, among other things, no known structural damage or electrical problems. Now, I’m a straightforward and direct kind of guy, and in my usual matter-of-fact approach, I said, “Other than the huge tree that fell on the house this morning, I can’t think of anything.” The look on the faces of the buyers and loan officer was priceless.

“Was there any damage?” they wanted to know.

“Oh yeah,” I said. “It ripped the weather mast and meter off the wall and currently, there is no electricity.” After explaining the situation in further detail, they all agreed to proceed with the closing.

On second thought, the timing of this incident couldn’t have been any better. A tree fell on our house, but all of our stuff, was packed safely in the U-haul. None of our electronics had been affected by the surges and sudden loss of power. And then, four hours later, with the simple stroke of a pen, the whole mess became someone else’s problem.

Bruce A. Borders, author and songwriter has over 500 songs and 9 books. Over My Dead Body, his latest ebook, is available on Apple I-Pad®, Amazon Kindle®, Barnes & Noble Nook® and Sony Reader®. For more information, visit http://www.bruceaborders.com/ or http://overmydeadbody.jimdo.com/

My Thanksgiving

            Thanksgiving 1986. My wife (girlfriend at the time) and I, along with her sister, had traveled to Wyoming to visit my parents for the holiday. We made the wintry trip fine, had a good time, and ate way too much of my Mother’s delicious southern cooking. Facing a 16-hour drive home, we’d planned to leave early Sunday morning, which would get us back in time to catch up on some sleep before Monday morning. Due to an evening snowstorm, we decided to allow a little extra time and took off about 11 p.m. Saturday night.

            The snow was light and didn’t present much of a problem – at first. The further we traveled however, the worse the storm and the roads became. By 4 a.m., we’d barely made 150 miles. The freeway was covered with more than a foot of heavy, wet snow and I was down to driving 30 mph. The 4-wheel drive Subaru (my Father-in-law’s car) performed very well in the less than desirable driving conditions and I had resigned myself to the fact that I’d get little to no sleep before work on Monday morning.

            Traffic was almost non-existent, though occasionally, a semi would pass, temporarily blinding me in a swell of blowing and swirling snow. Each time one appeared in my mirror, I’d let off the gas, letting the truck go by more quickly, eliminating most of the whiteout. Starting up a small grade as one truck was passing, I waited for the billowing cloud to disappear. As soon as it did, I noticed the truck driver in front of me having problems; his truck and trailer were sliding back and forth, jack-knifing; first in one direction, then the other. My first thought was, how am I going to get around him if he blocks the whole road when he crashes? Then, as quickly as it had started, it was over. The driver managed to right his vehicle and take off up the hill. I breathed a sigh of relief. Prematurely, because that’s when my own troubles began.

The criss-crossing of the tractor-trailer’s tires, sliding sideways through the heavy snow had created a chaotic maze of deep ruts and piles of snow. Hitting the first set of ruts, I felt the car slide to the side. Steering into the slide, the car straightened out just in time to hit the next set of ruts. This time we turned around backwards. By now my speed was down to less than twenty, and keeping my foot off the brake and the gas pedal, I hoped to ride it out. That hope was short-lived. With a significant decrease of friction, a car sliding on slick snow doesn’t slow down nearly fast enough. Moving sideways, toward the edge of the road, I could see the only thing between our car and the cliff was a lone delineator. For a brief instant, I wondered if the little metal post would stop the car. Common sense then prevailed and I knew it wouldn’t. Couldn’t. The laws of physics just didn’t allow it. Objects in motion tend to stay in motion.

That’s when I woke up my wife. Until this point, both her and her sister had been asleep, oblivious to the impending danger. “We’re going to wreck,” is about all I had time to say. My wife, on the other hand, found a little extra time – to pray.

            The crash happened in slow motion, or seemed to. We counted as the car rolled; up on it’s top, and then back on the wheels, hoping each time the wheels were on the ground that it would stop. Eventually, it did, but not on its wheels. Three and a half times we rolled with the car finally coming to rest upside down. After a bit of struggling with seatbelts and car doors, we managed to climb out of the smashed up vehicle. Then we hiked the thirty-foot, snow-covered cliff, back up to the road. Catching a ride with a truck driver, who took us into the nearest town, we made a few calls and waited for the tow truck to retrieve the car. Some ten hours later, and after several trips, they were still unable to locate the vehicle, despite the fact that I had given them the exact location. The continuing snowfall had obscured the car from view, they told us. It was almost dark when they finally showed up with the badly damaged car. My Dad, who had come as soon as I called (along with my Mother), helped me refill all of the fluids, and jumping the dead battery, we got the car running. Every panel on the vehicle was dented but it still ran. My in-laws had also come to meet us, along with the Pastor of our church. We all made it home on icy roads without further incident, though I didn’t make it to work until Tuesday.

            The next summer, my wife and I stopped to look at the place we’d wrecked. The hill we’d rolled down was steeper than it had seemed at the time. And then we saw quite a chilling sight. About thirty feet down was the small outcropping where the car had landed. It looked barely wide enough for the car, and on the other side was a drop-off, straight down for at least a hundred feet! Not knowing this and unable to see in the dark, we’d walked all around the car. Yet, none of us had fallen off! It was amazing the car had stopped where it did and even more amazing we hadn’t plunged to our death. Perhaps my wife’s prayers had something to do with it!

And that brings me to my point. Every Thanksgiving, I’m reminded of this event and how thankful I am to be alive. That’s My Thanksgiving. Oh, and one more thing. Though I wouldn’t advise this, if you want to find a way to acquire a good used vehicle, at a decent price - roll it down a cliff. We bought the severely dented car from my father-in-law and drove it for another three years!

Bruce A. Borders, author and songwriter has over 500 songs and 9 books. Over My Dead Body, his latest ebook, is available on Apple I-Pad®, Amazon Kindle®, Barnes & Noble Nook® and Sony Reader®. For more information, visit http://www.bruceaborders.com/ or http://overmydeadbody.jimdo.com/.

The Way I Figured It

Apparently, I’ve always been a little stubborn, especially when it comes to learning new things. The conventional method of teaching; repeating the same stuff under constant supervision, just annoys me. I don’t want to take forever to be taught something in small increments. Just tell me what to do, or show me, and I’ll figure it out. I don’t want to keep “learning” it over and over.

Which is why in fourth grade, I made an “executive decision” that all the repetitive schoolwork the teacher assigned didn’t really need to be done. All those endless sheets of math problems, (and English and spelling), were just a useless exercise to me. Social Studies and Science were not included in this self-proclaimed ban on schoolwork because those two subjects didn’t feature the same material repeated again and again. I could learn new things, instead of boring myself with the same lessons. After all, how many times did I need to demonstrate that I knew how to do simple addition and subtraction? There are only a 100 possible problems of each. Even multi-digit problems are reduced to single digit equations, a fact my teacher failed to fully appreciate. Neither did she appreciate my choice to disregard her assignments. Every day she’d hand out our papers and every day I’d throw them in the trash.

This continued for the entire quarter. My teacher tried to get me to cooperate but hey, I was 10 years old! I didn’t need her to tell me anything. After a few weeks of no papers being turned in for my “selected” subjects, she started sending letters home to my parents. She wasn’t exactly the brightest teacher in the world, because she sent the letters with me. Of course, I promptly filed them in the circular file marked “trash.” Then the phone calls began. But those were easily dealt with too since she called after school hours. By that time, guess who was home? I’d answer the phone and hang up. Then, one fateful day, my little scheme came to a sudden end.

I still remember the evening my dad walked into the house direct from the parent/teacher conference. I’ll spare you the gruesome details but as you imagine he was not pleased. In his hand was a bulging manila envelope. Inside were copies of all the papers I’d thrown away. Three months worth of work in Math, English, and Spelling! My dad said I had until bedtime to have all the work done – and it had to be done correctly. He expected a passing grade on every paper. Now, the teacher, I could ignore and defy, my dad was a different story.

I conceded defeat and disappeared to my bedroom with the stack of schoolwork. At 1:00 a.m., I came downstairs with the work completed. I turned it in the next day but was not graded on it until a week later. Apparently, my teacher wasn’t nearly as motivated to grade it, as I had been to get it done. Yes, I did receive a passing grade for the quarter in all subjects, although I was docked several points for all of the incompletes.

Throughout the remaining years of my schooling, I never repeated the stunt but still held the adamant opinion that repetitively doing things I already knew how to do was a waste of time. And I knew that once I got out of school, I’d never do such a thing – who needs to compute simple math problems over and over anyway?

Well, time to end this blog. I have to balance my checkbook.

Bruce A. Borders, author and songwriter has over 500 songs and 9 books. Over My Dead Body, his latest ebook, is available on Apple I-Pad®, Amazon Kindle®, Barnes & Noble Nook® and Sony Reader®. For more information, visit http://www.bruceaborders.com or http://overmydeadbody.jimdo.com.

A Lesson Burned

I’m from Oregon, central Oregon, and the arid climate of the high dessert. But, I did spend some time in Wisconsin, which I shall forever refer to as “doing time.” Actually, it wasn’t all bad and I did learn some things there, like; never eat lutefisk, how to pronounce uff-da, and that gasoline is highly explosive. All right, I already knew the last one, but let’s just say I learned it again.

It started one late August, with two dead elm trees that needed to be cut down, a task that involved some redneck friends, ropes, and pickups driving at high speeds down the alley. Surprisingly, that part all went well! After another friend had taken most of the wood, I cleaned up the yard and made a huge pile of limbs and leaves intending to burn it. Now, where I’m from, that would be unthinkable, especially in the dead of summer, but in Wisconsin, with the humidity and thick, lush, green grass, it’s the norm.

After several unsuccessful attempts to get the brush pile burning, I opted for every man’s fire-starter fuel of choice – gasoline! Circling the perimeter of the twelve-foot high pile of tree branches, I emptied a gallon can and found a match. Standing back a good five or six yards, in expectation of a quick ignition, I “shot” a match toward the pile – a technique I’d learned as a kid that could send a lit match up to 20 feet, sometimes farther. Turns out the match didn’t need to travel nearly that far. In fact, it didn’t need to go any distance at all. Due to the combination of high humidity and gas vapors, the moment the sulfur tip burst into a flame, so did the gasoline, and with a terrific sound. It was a deafening roar that’s best described as a cross between a boom and a swoosh. Later, I was told the blast had rattled the windows two blocks away – like a jet breaking the sound barrier.

For me, the deafening sound wasn’t the only thing of concern. A wall of flame rushed toward me and somehow I managed to close my eyes. I suddenly noticed that the already 100-degree temperature had increased dramatically. I didn’t know it could get that hot outside!

After the initial shock of the explosion, and once the fire had settle down to a slow burn, I made my way into the house. My wife, who had been watching the commotion with a why-did-I-marry-this-guy look, informed me that I no longer had eyebrows and the front portion of my hair was visibly missing. My mustache too, was gone. Some time later, I discovered the hair on both arms had been burned off as well.

The good news is my brush pile was burning nicely! My hearing gradually returned and eventually so did my hair. It’s been years now since I lived in Wisconsin, but I still remember the things I learned there. I don’t eat Lutefisk – rotten fish, uff-da - a Norwegian word, pronounced f´- duh, is a mild expression of disgruntlement or surprise, and to this day, I never start fires with gasoline!

Bruce A. Borders, author and songwriter has over 500 songs and 9 books. Over My Dead Body, his latest ebook, is available on Apple I-Pad®, Amazon Kindle®, Barnes & Noble Nook® and Sony Reader®. For more information, visit http://www.bruceaborders.com or http://overmydeadbody.jimdo.com/.

The Lazy Workaholic

In the past, I’ve been accused of being a workaholic, but the truth is I’m sort of a lazy person. I don’t want to do any more work than necessary, because that consumes time that could be spent doing something else. There simply isn’t enough time to do everything that needs doing - at least not all at once. On any given day, I have no less than a million things waiting, competing for my time. Okay, I may have exaggerated slightly, but that is how it seems. All of these things are in cahoots - their sole objective being to keep me from what I really want to do, which is to write. Write songs, write books, articles, poems or just about anything, oh, and now blogs – my latest venture.

Everything under the sun tries to hinder my efforts. There are bills to pay, car repairs, computer and phone issues to take care of, dogs that are sick, a house to maintain, lawn care, errands to run, problems at the bank, problems at the store, and a hundred other chores, and of course my regular “day job.”

Some of these things are associated with writing and seem to be legitimate: research, re-writing, typing, and proofreading, web-design, and promotional endeavors, (for articles and books). Then there is the long list of things specific to writing songs: recording, mixing, and uploading multiple files to various outlets and forums. Add to that the endless forms to fill out and file; copyrights, registrations, submissions, performance rights forms, digital rights forms – I think you get the picture. It is an ongoing, full time job just to keep up on all of the legalities of writing.

The point is all of this extracurricular activity takes time. Time I could spend, well, writing. So, in order to maximize my writing time, I look for the easiest, quickest, and most efficient method to get things done – like I said I’m lazy. I’m always searching for a new way to save time on just about anything – as long as it works, because I absolutely despise doing things over. That is a total waste, limiting the time I could have used to do other things like, well, write.

When I finally do get down to the writing, I become so immersed in my project that the rest of the world fades into obscurity. I have to make a to-do list to ensure that things necessary to survival actually get done, and even then, sometimes they don’t. Just ask my wife, who puts up with my idiosyncrasies of neglecting important tasks and reminds me when I need to eat or maybe fix a broken sink so we can have running water. She’d probably be more inclined to dismiss the whole workaholic characterization, going instead with lazy. And that’s okay. I am lazy. I have to be, or I’d never get any work done.

Bruce A. Borders, author and songwriter has over 500 songs and 9 books. Over My Dead Body, his latest ebook, is available on Apple I-Pad®, Amazon Kindle®, Barnes & Noble Nook® and Sony Reader®. For more information, visit http://www.bruceaborders.com or http://overmydeadbody.jimdo.com/.

Leftovers

Who invented the concept of leftovers anyway? I suppose the idea is a good
one, it saves time and makes perfect economic sense, particularly at today’s
grocery prices. But really, the whole thing is simply not practical – at
least when it comes to my household.

Sure, it sounds easy enough; place the uneaten food into little containers
with matching lids and then save them in the refrigerator. In the next day
or two, reheat the pre-cooked items in the microwave, set the cold dishes
back on the table and voilà – another home-cooked meal at no additional
cost! Brilliant! But, it never works.

See, at my house, once the food goes into the refrigerator, that’s where it
stays until it has morphed into an inedible psychedelic version of its
former state. Only when it has sufficiently become discolored and acquired a
rancid odor is it removed. All the term “leftovers” means in my home is an
opportunity to air out the house – and more dishes!

If we could just bring ourselves to throw the food away in the first place,
we’d save a lot of time and money. But something in our psyche won’t let us.
Forbids it, actually. Why? One possible explanation is that my wife and I
were taught not to be wasteful. So, we dutifully scrape our leftovers into
the little containers with matching lids and then stack them in the
refrigerator. This we do in order to satisfy the “waste not, want not” code
that is so ingrained in us. Then, we promptly forget about it until either
we run out of little containers with matching lids or the putrid smell calls
us to action.

By going through these motions, we feel justified when it all gets dumped
into the garbage. As if sending the food for an extended stay in the cool
confines of the refrigerator and allowing it to slowly rot and mold before
we throw it away is somehow more noble than discarding it the day it was
cooked.

Maybe we just learn not to cook so much. That seems like a feasible plan,
right? It would save time and money and a lot of hassle. The problem is, if
we did that, there would be no leftovers, and then what would we do with all
those little containers and matching lids?

Bruce A. Borders, author and songwriter has over 500 songs and 9 books. Over My Dead Body, his latest ebook, is available on Apple I-Pad®, Amazon Kindle®, Barnes & Noble Nook® and Sony Reader®. For more information, visit http://www.bruceaborders.com/ or http://overmydeadbody.jimdo.com/.

Sobriety Test

Flashing red and blue lights in the mirror. Just what every teenage boy wants to see – especially when he’s on a date!

The officer, hard-faced and stern, marched up to the driver’s window, reciting the usual “License and registration” spiel. Then, “ Do you know why I pulled you over?”

Now, for a young and cocky adolescent male, there are a lot of possible answers to that question. Although, most of them are likely to increase the odds of getting a ticket. The fact the boy’s girlfriend was along probably helped stifle what would otherwise have been a mouthy response. Instead, he offered a simple, “No.”

“I observed you weaving and making contact with the yellow line,” the deputy explained. “Have you been drinking anything tonight?”

The eighteen-year-old was rather surprised at the question, since he hadn’t been drinking that night or any other. “Uh, yeah, Dr. Pepper.”

Not amused, the deputy asked the driver to step out of the car, and though it was phrased as a question, the teenager knew it was not a request. Opening the door, he noticed the officer leaning close to smell his breath. Then began a prolonged regiment of sobriety tests; a flashlight in the eyes, following the officer’s pen back and forth, standing first on one foot – then the other, and walking down the white line on the road.

“How many of these tests do I have to pass before you figure out I’m not drunk?” The teenager’s inherent sarcasm was starting to creep back in.

Not answering, the deputy began asking his own questions. And becoming increasingly annoyed, the boy couldn’t resist purposefully being vague. Where have you been? - On a date. Where did you go? - For pizza. Did you have anything to drink? - You already asked that.

Non-pulsed the officer continued. “Why were you weaving? Was something distracting you?”

Hello? Didn’t you see the girl sitting beside me? Thinking better of his response, the boy pointed toward his date. “I was just talking to her.”

After more than half an hour, the officer was finally convinced alcohol hadn’t been a part of the couple’s evening and let them go.

The scene I’ve described above was my first date with the girl who later became my wife. Had I been arrested that night my life would no doubt be far different now. I don’t mean because I might have married someone else, I don’t think I’d have had the chance to. I’m quite certain that if I’d been drinking and driving with his daughter in the car, my future Father-in-law would have killed me. Now that’s a sobering thought!

Bruce A. Borders, author and songwriter has over 500 songs and 9 books. Over My Dead Body, his latest ebook, is available on Apple I-Pad®, Amazon Kindle®, Barnes & Noble Nook® and Sony Reader®. For more information, visit http://www.bruceaborders.com/ or http://overmydeadbody.jimdo.com/.

Item 21

I’ll admit it - I’m forgetful. I can’t remember to do everything I’m supposed to. Or anything sometimes. I forget basic things like eating and combing my hair. Consider me the absent-minded professor – minus the professor aspect. When going to work, I leave my cell phone at home at least three days a week. If I’m lucky, I’ll miss it before driving too far and circle back to the house. I like to tell myself that I’m just being responsible – keeping an eye on the neighborhood. My neighbors probably think I’m only a few days away from being committed.

Some have suggested my absent-mindedness is just another sign of growing old, like graying hair or aching joints and muscles after those rare times when I can’t avoid manual labor. But, as my Mother would tell you, it’s nothing new. When I was younger, she could send me to do only one thing at a time or I’d forget the rest. My wife now says the same thing. So, if nothing else, at least I’m consistent.

Yet, strange as it may seem, I have an excellent memory. It works great for facts, numbers, names, dates, or to remember the proper sequence of steps for various complex procedures. These sorts of things seem to latch on to some cell of my brain and stay – without me really even trying. This was cool when I was in school. Now? Not so much. No longer does the need exist to memorize anything. I rarely take tests and never recite anything other than songs, which I don’t think count because nobody knows the songs I know. So, the tidbits of trivial information plastered to the walls of my brain are mostly useless. Even my kids don’t ask me much anymore – they prefer Google.

Recently, my wife wrote down a list of what she needed from the grocery store. It seemed like a splendid idea, except I forgot the list - a fact I realized after I’d reached the store. Sure, in this digital age, I had several options; I could call, text, or email – all of which would mean fessing up to my forgetful nature, once again. But wait! I had seen the list. (My mind instantly kicks into gear.) Now I can use that part of my memory that works! But has it been too long? What if I forget something? My wife (and kids) would never let me hear the end of it. Not after telling them for years how good my memory is for that sort of thing.

“I know there were 21 items,” I mused aloud. Asking for a pen and paper from the bewildered cashier, who apparently thought everybody made their shopping list before coming to the store, I quickly began scribbling. Soon the list was complete – almost. Twenty items were scrawled on my paper. I frowned and shook my head. “That’s strange,” I thought. This had never happened before. I decided to start my shopping, hoping the last item would come to me along the way. It didn’t.

I made it almost all the way home. Turning onto my street, I felt the car’s engine cough, then it spluttered and died. And that’s when I remembered. Item 21 was not a grocery item at all. I was supposed to fill the car up with gas.

My wife was kind, sort of. She just rolled her eyes and smiled. An hour later, the car was back in the driveway and full of gas.

I’m sure after reading this story; you will all have a good laugh at my expense. That is, if I remember to post it.

Bruce A. Borders, author and songwriter has over 500 songs and 9 books. Over My Dead Body, his latest ebook, is available on Apple I-Pad®, Amazon Kindle®, Barnes & Noble Nook® and Sony Reader®. For more information, visit http://www.bruceaborders.com or http://overmydeadbody.jimdo.com.

Every kid needs a toy box. My grandson is in an immediate and dire need of one. With an abundance of nearby family members, including; aunts, uncles, parents and grandparents, who routinely convert a certain portion of their paychecks into an endless array of various fascinating gadgets and playthings, the lack of a toy box is becoming increasingly problematic - at least for his parents.

The trouble is toy boxes are expensive. The unsuspecting shopper could easily shell out a $150, or more, for a piece of plastic that will typically break in six months or so. Ah, but I'm not an unsuspecting shopper. I used to be a carpenter. I can build one. One that will last for years, preferably until my grandson and any future siblings are grown. How can I be confident it will last that long? Because such a toy box exists in my son’s room. I built it nearly 18 years ago and it's still in as good of shape as it was the day I brushed on the last coat of varnish. (Despite my three children’s, best attempts to destroy it).

So, for the past week I've been busy; measuring, cutting, drilling, screwing and gluing. I’ve managed to make quite a mess in the kitchen, which incidentally, also doubles as a workshop from time to time. The center island makes a perfect workbench. My wife is no doubt very impressed by my ingenuity! Or not.

Slowly, due to leaving everyday to go to my actual job, which always seems to interfere with the important things I want to do, a toy box emerged. Today I fashioned the hinges onto the lid and added some red-oak stain. Tomorrow I'll start the final step of making it shine. Not bad for week's work.

A quick tally of the receipts shows the project coming in at just under $100. That's great news! It means there's money left over. Money that will, of course, be put to good use - to purchase more toys!

And now you know why every kid needs a toy box.

Fire Season

Smoke to the west. No black ominous billows, just a brownish tinged haze mixed with dingy white puffy clouds rising into the clear blue summer sky. A brushfire most likely, or maybe grass. Winds are particularly light at 5 mph. No cause for alarm, fire fighters will have the blaze extinguished in short order.

This is the fourth fire this week within sight of my house. The others were put out in less than a day causing no major damage, rather remarkable considering the high wind area and extremely dry conditions. This is all typical for the arid climate of the central Oregon high desert, but this year has been fairly mild with relatively few fires. The surrounding landscape is only slightly marred with the grayish black sooty remains of sparse vegetation.

And now, the September air is turning cooler reminding us that the fall rains will be returning soon, marking an end of the fire season, a.k.a. summer. The good news is that we’ve all survived with our personal property mostly intact. The bad news is winter is on its way, which means snow – and lots of it. The frozen white crystals will cover the ground, blanket the sagebrush and juniper trees and decorate the distant mountain ranges, creating a picturesque scene of majestic grandeur.

Admittedly, the snow is pretty but snow brings its own set of problems - the cold, the slick roads and resulting wrecks, the roof cave-ins, and avalanches, which can potentially destroy entire areas in an instant. Yet, despite its foreboding and destructive nature, snow is a necessary evil. It provides the high desert with a vital water supply for the coming summer months in a region prone to draught. Aside from the usual benefits of drinking, cooking and cleaning, we’re gonna need the water – to put out the fires!