Bruce A. Borders: August 2012

Monday, August 27, 2012

The Amusement Park

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

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

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

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

Sunday, August 19, 2012

Down In The Dumps

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sunday, August 12, 2012

A Picture's Worth A Thousand Words

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sunday, August 5, 2012

Playing With Fire

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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