Bruce A. Borders: March 2013

Monday, March 25, 2013

Broken Bones

There are people who claim that you cannot really tell if a bone is broken without having a doctor tell you. I beg to differ. I’ve had several broken bones and it is usually rather obvious. To quote an old Johnny Cash song, “I Was There When It Happened, So I Guess I Ought To Know.”

My first experience with broken bones was my head - which may explain a lot. Actually, it wasn’t that traumatic - it definitely did hurt, but I lived. I was only three at the time, I think. Thanks to a bed frame assaulting me, (might have had something to do with my brother and I playing tag in the house) my scalp was split open. No, my brains did not fall out - of that, I’m fairly certain.

I suppose that should have been a sign - a forewarning of things to come. About three years later, I was sitting, minding my own business, watching a baseball game, when an errant throw sent a ball smashing into my nose. I can assure you that nose cartilage is no match for a baseball. I still have a scar to prove it. Over the years, my number of broken bones grew. The list includes; both kneecaps, a couple of toes and fingers, my wrist, and a few ribs, and others. Nowhere near Evel Knievel stats, I realize, but more than enough for me. I never went to the doctor to have any of them set, my dad took care of most of them, or I just wrapped them up. They all seem to have turned out pretty well.

So, how do I know the bones were actually broken? Well, other the familiar dull aching pain, and limbs or digits not functioning properly - or not at all, as the case may be - I did get some proof later in life. I was visiting a chiropractor, due to most of the vertebrae in my neck and back being out of place, which is quite painful in itself, in case you are wondering. After a few x-rays, the doctor came to me with a rather perplexed look. He said, “Although they all have apparently healed up just fine - did you know you’ve had several broken bones?”

Well, I may have been in a lot of pain, but that didn’t mean I’d lost my ever-present cynical nature. I gave him a frown and said, “Um, yeah Doc, I was there for every one of them.”

Bruce A. Borders, author and songwriter, has over 500 songs and more than a dozen books. Over My Dead Body, The Journey, and Miscarriage Of Justice, his latest books, are available on Apple I-Pad®, Amazon Kindle®, Barnes & Noble Nook® and Sony Reader®, Kobo, Diesel Books, and Smashwords. Now also available in print at many online retailers or at www.bruceabordersbooks.weebly.com. The popular Wynn Garrett Series Books are now available on Barnes And Noble® at http://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/?series_id=867526 See Bruce’s Smashwords Profile at www.smashwords.com/profile/view/BruceABorders

Friday, March 22, 2013

WLC BookBuzz "Suspenseful Storyline With a Twist" MISCARRIAGE OF JUSTICE by Bruce Borders | World Literary Cafe

Monday, March 18, 2013

Clean Your Room

My Mother had a lot of sayings when I was growing up. One of her favorites was “Clean your room.” I may have just cleaned it the day before, or the week before perhaps, but she’d still insist that I needed to clean my room. I did have a habit of just throwing things wherever seemed convenient. To me, the room was never that messy. But then, I sometimes have selective eyesight.

I think, being a kid, I probably complained about it a lot. Not that I was lazy or anything, but I had so many other things to do. Important things, like; ride my bike, play with the dog, read a book, or even watch grass grow - anything but clean my room.

One day, when I had a lot of pressing issues and things to get done, I thought I’d outsmart her. Instead of taking the time to clean my room the proper way, I shoved everything into the closet and under the bed. And by everything, I mean not only all the toys but even the stuff on top of the chest and my headboard, and off the dresser. The room looked spotless!

About 5 minutes after she’d sent me to clean, I went back downstairs, prepared to get on with my day.

“Did you clean your room already?” My Mother asked with a doubting look.

“Yep. All done,” I told her, trying to scurry out the door.

My Mother, however, being wise to my ways, decided to have a look before I went outside. I followed along behind her, thinking she would certainly be pleased with the job I had done. Never in a million years did I expect her to go directly to the bed and look under it - but that’s exactly what she did! And then she walked to the closet!

Needless to say, I spent the next several hours re-cleaning my room - the correct way this time. And the whole time, all I could think of was; how had she known? So much for outsmarting her!

All these years later, you’d think I would have learned to keep things picked up, but no such luck. I’m a piler. I pile papers, tools, books, clothes - pretty much anything I’m carrying, on the dresser, the table, the counter, the bed, and if all the available space is taken, the floor works nicely. No, my wife is not impressed with my “tidiness” and my piles of clutter. But, after nearly twenty-six years, I think she’s given up.

On the bright side, I don’t have to search through drawers or boxes for things I need, it’s often out in the open, right there on the counter - sort of. Buried halfway down in a pile of papers and other junk could almost be considered “in the open” couldn’t it?

Here’s the odd part of my story. Although my Mother lives three hours away, every now and then - at the strangest times - I distinctly hear her saying, “Clean your room.” And sometimes I do, but usually, I have more urgent matters, like well, anything.

Monday, March 11, 2013

The Paperboy

Anyone who knows me, knows I’m a straightforward, matter-of-fact guy. I don’t like playing games. However, if someone insists on playing games, I’ll usually find a way to win.

Like a lot of Americans, when I was younger, I had a paper route. As far as jobs go, if you can call a paper route a job, it was fairly simple. I spent an hour each day, Monday to Saturday, delivering the papers. I tried not to be one of those paper boys who just threw the papers haphazardly somewhere near the house, choosing to pay attention to each of my customers likes and dislikes. Some of them wanted the paper in the box, some preferred it to be placed inside the screen door, others didn’t want it rolled up, and a few of them had some bizarre requests; like hiding the paper inside their car or under the doormat. I figured it was my job to accommodate them all - and I did.

So far, so good, right? The problem came in at the end of the month. Collection time. The way the system worked was; I received a bill from the newspaper, stating how much money I needed to collect and what amount to forward on to them. The rest was mine. What this meant was any shortages by the customers came out of my pocket. While most customers paid promptly with no objection, a few of them routinely tried to avoid me, or make excuses in order to delay the inevitable. Sometimes it took a week or more to receive all of my money, but with a little persistence I usually did get it. One particular lady however, was a bit more difficult.

From the beginning, it was a chore to collect from her. I learned to be creative in my mission to extract my money from her pocket. No, I didn’t resort to stealing it, if anyone is wondering. I would show up at unexpected times, knock on a different door, or try to catch her outside. This went on for several months with her grumbling each time she actually had to pay for her paper. Then one day she informed me she wasn’t going to pay and to not come asking for it again. I politely (almost) told her she would need to call the newspaper office if she wished to have her subscription stopped, but meanwhile, she still owed me for two months’ papers. Her answer was that she did not want to cancel, but she still refused to pay. Well, I had a simple solution for that. I stopped delivering her paper. I didn’t think it was my responsibility to pay for her to read the news.

A couple of months later, I was informed by the circulation manager that it indeed was my responsibility to deliver her paper - even if she did not pay. I was told we have to keep the customers happy or we would lose subscriptions. Apparently, newspapers owners place more emphasis on the number of subscribers than on their profit. Or not. Turns out, she and the circulation manager were somehow related and he had been delivering the paper to her for the last two months.

“So, if she doesn’t pay can I deduct it from the amount I owe?” I asked.

No, I was told. Collecting was part of my job and I had to pay the full amount on my bill. Furthermore, I was not allowed to stop delivering someone’s paper for non-payment.

Really?

I had a better idea. Taking the papers from my bag, I laid them on the counter and told the manager to deliver them himself. And walked out.

It took three weeks for him to call me. He had been running my route but it was taking up too much time. It seems he couldn’t find anyone who wanted a paper route. He then asked if I would consider taking it back.

“Sure,” I said. “But here’s the deal; I get my money first. I’ll give you a list of those who do not pay and you can deal with them.”

Apparently, the man really was busy because he agreed. For the next several months, at collection time, I made one, and only one, stop at each house - even if the customer wasn’t home. Then, I took out my money and gave the newspaper what was left - along with a list of those who hadn’t paid, just as promised. As I said, I don’t like games but when forced to play, I do play to win.

About two years later, after I’d moved on to bigger and better things, I was talking to a friend who still delivered papers and was happily amused by something he told me. Some of the other paperboys had gotten wind of the deal I’d struck and had demanded the same. Eventually, the newspaper had revamped their billing system. The paperboys no longer collected. Customers were sent a bill each month. And... the best part... if the bill was not paid, their subscription was suspended! After two months of no payment it was canceled!

Now, where had I heard that idea before?

Monday, March 4, 2013

Okie Engineering

Note: This is Read-An-Ebook-Week. My books, Miscarriage Of Justice, Over My Dead Body, The Journey, and The Only Bible The King James Version are 50% off at Smashwords. Use Code REW50 at check out. http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/BruceABorders

Okie engineering is the meeting of necessity with an adequate amount of knowledge and ability to make things work. It’s not always pretty but it does serve to get the job done. Sometimes, Okie engineering is brilliant mechanics and sometimes it’s just practical common sense. Either way, it usually saves time and money and comes in quite handy. I use it all the time - and I’m not even from Oklahoma. Fixing broken things without the right tools and without the right parts may not produce a grand masterpiece - but if it works then who cares, right?

Well, the answer to that is: professional people or government inspectors. (I’m not entirely sure the last category counts). Apparently, both groups frown on unorthodox methods of rigging things together, even temporarily.

Several years ago, when I first started driving a truck for a living, I was cruising down the highway late one rainy Friday night. The steady hum of the tires on the pavement was interrupted by my low-air warning buzzer and then the bright red light came on. Almost as suddenly, my brakes locked up. Contrary to popular belief, when a semi loses air, it does not lose the brakes, rather it loses the ability to release the brakes. A complete loss of air means the truck is not going anywhere except very quickly to the side of the road. The nice part was that with the rain, the eight trailer tires slid easily off to the shoulder.

And so, there I was alongside the road, not able to move. It didn’t take long to find the problem. One of the main air lines on the trailer had been cut completely in two. (This was sort of odd considering these air lines are about an inch thick, reinforced hard rubber). I didn’t have much for tools (a Gerber all-purpose tool on my belt) and had no parts. An extra air line would have been nice but then, I would’ve had no way to make a splice anyway. After determining the line had been too loose and swaying back and forth, I saw what had severed it - the spare tire rack.

Returning to the cab, I looked through the junk in my toolbox, hoping to find something I could use. I did. A roll of duct tape. Knowing the tape would never stick to the air line, which was covered with an oily road-grime, I used a can of Coke to clean it, drying the line with a rag. As anyone who’s ever wiped up spilled soda can imagine, that left things pretty sticky. I wrapped a single layer of tape around the line to hold the two parts together - barely. With 120 pounds of pressure that would be going through the line, the duct tape would provide an initial seal but would never hold by itself once the system was charged with air. I soon solved that.

Finding three large paper clips, I used the file on my Gerber to sharpen the ends and pushed them through the ends of the air line. The third paper clip was used to twist all three together. This would keep the two lines from pulling apart but it was still flimsy. I needed something to provide more strength. Spotting a small tree limb from the shoulder of the road, I used the knife on my Gerber to shave it into a splint. Then, attaching the splint to the splice, I covered it all with half a roll of duct tape. I still had eighty miles to go to the terminal and I crossed my fingers as I pulled back onto the road.

The mechanic on duty took a look at my handiwork when I pulled into the shop and I could tell he wasn’t impressed. Shaking his head, he pulled things apart and fixed it the “right” way. “You’re lucky you didn’t have to cross a scale,” he said. “The DOT (government inspectors) would never let that Okie engineering pass.”

It didn’t bother me that he found no use for my repair job. “It worked,” I told him. “And it saved you from going on a service call on a Friday night.”

He didn’t answer.

A few years later - or slightly more than a few, time flies when you’re having fun - I was going across a scale when an ever-observant weighmaster heard an air leak. After finding the leak, he showed it to me - a sizeable hole in an air line. And after he messed with it a while, the hole grew even larger, in fact, it was barely holding together. He told me he would have to put the truck out of service.

Great, I thought. Friday night, just a few miles from home and there I sat. It would be several hours before my company could send a mechanic.

“Looks like you’ll be here awhile,” the DOT guy said as he started filling out the paperwork. “Unless... Can you fix it?”

“Uh, sure,” I answered, recalling that I had a roll of duct tape in the truck. And paper clips. And I still carried my Gerber.

An hour later, I rolled across the scale with the weighmaster outside listening carefully for air leaks. Then, shining his flashlight under the trailer, I saw him shake his head. But, he gave me the thumbs up, and I hit the road.

That mechanic years ago was wrong. Apparently, I can get my Okie engineering past the DOT!