Bruce A. Borders: February 2012

Monday, February 27, 2012

The Wind Wind

The last five days I’ve spent replacing a sizable portion of the roof on my house and repairing the collapsed fence. All this, thanks to the wind. Chicago may be known as the windy city – but I’ve been there numerous times and it’s not, windy that is, it is most definitely a city. It’s just not that windy. Not compared to the Columbia River Gorge in Oregon. Chicago may have a few tornados but it’s not the norm. In the Gorge, we have tornado-speed straight winds quite often.

I realize there are a lot of places that lay claim to high winds. I’ve seen a good many of them in my travels. Posted signs warn of the danger yet, when I look for evidence, I see none. The trees have branches on all sides – in the Columbia River Gorge, it is not unusual to see trees with branches all pointing in the same direction, away from the wind. And several times, I’ve heard truck drivers talking, convinced the Columbia River is flowing backwards – from west to east – because the waves, caused by the wind, make it appear that way. I’ve seen the wind in the Gorge blow loaded boxcars off the track and loaded semis off the road. Buildings don’t always fare so well either.

A hard blowing wind is nothing out of the ordinary. In fact, what is strange is for the wind to stop. Frequently, wind speeds register 50 mph and more. Occasionally, they top 100 mph. Wind surfers from around the world come to take advantage of the winds in the Gorge. And lately, the hillsides are becoming cluttered with thousands of windmills, converting the wind into electricity. Except, they can’t always run those windmills because it is too windy. Yeah, the wind blows here.

So, it wasn’t too surprising last week when I came home to find my fence down and much of my roof gone. Most of my neighbors’ houses were the same. We’ve all been busy these last few days putting things back in order. Oddly, no one seemed too upset by the incident. It wasn’t the first time and obviously, it won’t be the last. Yet, despite that reality, I like living here and prefer it over any other area. Every region has its own potentially dangerous phenomenon; snow and ice, fire, earthquakes, hurricanes, tsunamis, etc. I think I’ll take the wind.

I finished up the fence today and the roof is waterproof once more, I hope. The yard is all cleaned up and everything is back to normal. Normal being waiting for the wind to knock something down again.

Bruce A. Borders, author and songwriter has over 500 songs and 9 books. Over My Dead Body, and The Journey, his latest books, are available on Apple I-Pad®, Amazon Kindle®, Barnes & Noble Nook® and Sony Reader®, Kobo, Diesel Books, and Smashwords. For more information, visit http://www.bruceaborders.com/. See Bruce’s Amazon Author Page at www.amazon.com/author/bruceaborders or view his Smashwords Profile at www.smashwords.com/profile/view/BruceABorders

Monday, February 20, 2012

Bicycle Wreck

Did you ever have your dad knock you off your bicycle? On purpose? I did. Really! Without warning – just boom - he knocked me right to the ground.

I suppose I should explain.

At the ripe old age of six, I made an executive decision that I needed a new bike. I had a bike already, and it was pretty new, but it wasn’t a ten-speed. I needed a ten-speed.

I saved my money for a whole year and shortly after my seventh birthday, purchased a brand new, orange ten-speed for $67.00 – a lot of money for a kid in the seventies.

I’d had the bike less than a week when my brother and I, along with my dad, went for a bike ride. They were a little ways ahead because I was still struggling with operating the gears and my short legs didn’t seem to fit the 26-inch frame. I know, a smaller frame would’ve been better but, that bike was the one I wanted – the others were not orange. For some reason the color seemed to matter a lot.

My dad and brother had stopped to wait while I figured out how to work the gears and then hurried to catch up. Not wanting to stop, once I’d gotten started, I thought I would just go around them and they could follow. But, right at the moment I reached my dad, his hand shot out, literally knocking me off the bike! I went crashing to the ground, as did my brand new bicycle.

I do remember a surprised and worried look on his face. And before his hand sent my flying, I do remember him saying something. Something. I didn’t know what. Apparently, the what (I later learned) was for me to stop. But, seeing I wasn’t paying attention to him, or the car on the road – the one I was about to ride in front of – my dad pushed me in the opposite direction. I ended up in the dirt and my bike continued on a little further, coming to rest on a rock. I was not hurt, just a little dirty – far better than if I’d been run over by the car!

The only damage to the bike was a six-inch scratch on the frame. Right on the top. Right where I could always see it. And that was good. It served as a constant reminder to look before riding into a road. After all, my dad wasn’t always going to be around to save me by knocking me off my bike!

Bruce A. Borders, author and songwriter has over 500 songs and 9 books. Over My Dead Body, and The Journey, his latest books, are available on Apple I-Pad®, Amazon Kindle®, Barnes & Noble Nook® and Sony Reader®, Kobo, Diesel Books, and Smashwords. For more information, visit www.bruceaborders.com. See Bruce’s Amazon Author Page at www.amazon.com/author/bruceaborders or view his Smashwords Profile at www.smashwords.com/profile/view/BruceABorders

Monday, February 13, 2012

A Vicarious Vindication

Revenge is sweet! Now before anyone gets the wrong idea, I’m not talking about forcing someone out a second-story window for breaking your stuff or anything. Although, that can be quite therapeutic. (In my defense, I was ten years old and I didn’t actually push him – he jumped. There may have been some discussion about his only other option being to be propelled headfirst and other contributing factors – still, it was his choice.)

Back to my story. The kind of revenge I’m referring to is more a feeling of validation. An Aha! I win moment.

Age 15. High school. A chess tournament. The tournament included several Christian schools in the area and was held in a neighboring town. I made it to the final round – and lost. The next year, I entered again. This time I beat the guy I’d lost to the year before but then; I lost to another kid – again, in the final round. Two years, two tournaments, two different opponents, but the same result. Then, I learned that the administrator of the school, which hosted the tournament, was some kind of chess genius. Mr. Winters, though at the time I didn’t know his name. Both kids I’d lost to were his students.

I’ve never been one to back down from a challenge so the next year, my last year of high school, I entered the tournament again. This time, I was on a roll. I beat both of the guys who had won the previous years! But, as they say, history repeats itself; I lost in the final round. Once again, the winner was a student of Mr. Winters.

Three years I’d entered the tournament and three years I’d come in second. Three red ribbons. Ribbons that were promptly stuffed into a drawer, never to be displayed. To some, second place might be a fine achievement, to me; it meant I was the first loser. (Yes, I have a slight competitive nature). With no more chances to redeem myself, I tried to look on the bright side – I had at some point over the three years beaten all three winners. In fact, I’d beaten each of them twice. That fact was of little comfort – all three of them had a blue ribbon while mine were red. But, that’s not the end of the story.

Fast forward nearly thirty years. My wife and I enrolled our son in a private Christian school for his last two years of high school. When we met the principal, I thought he looked familiar but couldn’t quite place him. After some discussion, he revealed he’d just recently moved to our town, having spent the last several years as the administrator of a school in another town – the town where I’d gone for the chess tournaments. Then, I knew him. Sitting across the desk was the guy responsible for my red ribbons! (Yeah, I know others were responsible too - namely, me and the three kids I’d lost to). My first instinct was to challenge him to a chess match right then and there – just get it over with. But, I managed to control the urge, though I did tell him who I was. And yes, he remembered me. I asked if he still planned to hold chess tournaments. He said he did. I said nothing but inside I was elated!

I’d taught my son to play chess years earlier – and he was pretty good. He knew the story of my three red ribbons and finding out who his new principal was sparked his own competitive spirit. He entered the tournament that year and did well. Then, deja vu – he came in second.

The following year, his senior year of high school, he once more entered the chess tournament. And again, he made it to the final round. This was it. One last chance. Obviously, he won the game or I wouldn’t be writing about it. I think I was more excited about it than he was. I know what you’re thinking – it wasn’t me that won. Ah, but it was. Vicariously though it may have been.

Mr. Winters told the story at my son’s graduation and after almost thirty years, I felt vindicated. Revenge is sweet! Thanks, Colter.

Monday, February 6, 2012

The Weekend

I drive a truck for a living. And I drive at night. Why? Aside from being a night owl, there is considerably less traffic at night. Less traffic makes my job easier and gets it over with faster since; I’m not waiting on anybody. Usually.

Friday afternoon is the exception. Bumper to bumper traffic. Apparently, everybody in the world needs to be some place else. Me included. The difference is I’m going to work while everybody else is done for the week and headed home. And everybody is in a hurry. The weekend only lasts so long, I suppose.

On my way to work, I see a few people I know – at the store or the gas station. Knowing I still have another day before my weekend, they can’t resist rubbing it in. I guess they like to make sure I know they’re free – and I’m not. That’s okay. Sure, it’s disheartening at times, say on a mid-summer perfect weather kind of day, but it’s not like I’m actually going to miss the weekend. I’ll get to it – just a little later than everyone else. Guess you could say I run behind the rest of the world.

On Fridays, my delayed schedule is not so great. But come Monday morning, I’ll start feeling better about the whole deal. When most people are rolling out of bed with Blue Monday Syndrome, I’ll have until late afternoon to finish my weekend. And, as I run around doing all the last minute things before starting my workweek, there’s not a whole lot of traffic to bother me – everybody else is at work!