Loads Of Fun

I really should be folding laundry right now... but I had a blog to write. There are several loads, four I think, just waiting. They’ve been waiting a while so a little longer won’t matter, right? Hope not, ’cause I have a blog to write.

So, why do I have laundry waiting? Well, because my wife didn’t do it. Seriously. But then again, neither did I. (I’m not really that mean of a guy). While my wife does do most of the laundry, she is a busy woman. Very busy. Sometimes, (a lot of the time, actually) other things are more pressing than the laundry. So, I try to help. Not just with the laundry but other chores as well. Not nearly as often as I should, but occasionally—when I think of it anyway. Hey, I’m a busy person too!

This past weekend was busier than usual for us; we had three parties to attend, birthdays and retirement, as well as other things to do, so not all of the household chores got done. So, here it is Sunday night, it’s just the two of us, she’s sleeping and I’m the only one up. Well, me and the dogs but so far, they haven’t offered to help. So, I decided I would fold the laundry, all four loads. But first, I needed to write a blog.

But then, now that I think about it, perhaps I shouldn’t fold any of it at all. Because my wife did have some time that she could have spent doing it. Instead, she chose to, well, play games apparently.

My son was visiting this weekend and he brought along some laundry. He does his own, he just takes advantage of the opportunity to use our washer and dryer when he visits because Laundromats are expensive. He had a few loads that were done but not folded—being a normal guy, he doesn’t see any reason to fold the laundry—and while he was out visiting friends, my wife “helped” him out. Now, I mentioned he does his own laundry. That is by choice; he doesn’t really want his mother to do it. In fact, he would actually prefer she NOT do it. So, just to bug him a little, and being a typical mom, she folded his clothes.

Yes, he was duly agitated when he returned and saw his basket with the neatly folded clothes. “Mom folded my laundry,” he said with a shake of his head and just a hint of disgust. “Why would she do that?”

“She’s your mom,” I said.

That didn’t satisfy him and seeing our overflowing baskets, I could almost read his mind as he wondered why she would fold his clothes and not hers and mine. For a minute, I thought he might dump the clothes and unfold them but I’m sure he realized that would be pointless. Although, he did make sure to tell her what he thought about it.

Of course, his complaints fell on deaf ears. Well, not entirely deaf ears. She did smile and laugh. I think it made her happy to fold his clothes again, even if it did irk him.

I considered telling him he would understand when he was a mom but somehow I don’t see that happening. I think it’s more likely my dogs will start helping with the chores.

Okay, blog’s done. I’m off to fold the laundry now. ~

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, 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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The Broken Window

Has anyone besides me ever gotten into trouble for something you didn’t do? Probably. But for me, it seemed to be a habit because it happened a lot - still does from time to time. Just recently, I was blamed for tearing a hose off the fuel pump at my job - until they actually looked at the surveillance camera footage and saw it wasn’t me. (Would have been nice if they had checked that first). When I was a kid it wasn’t always that easy to prove my innocence but usually, I did find a way to get out of things without suffering any ill consequences, as in the following story.

I was nine or ten years old at the time. An apartment building was being built across the alley from my house. A neighbor friend of mine and I loved to ride our bikes in the piles of dirt. One day, when we’d stopped for a rest, I picked up a dirt clod and threw it through one of the open windows. No glass had been installed yet and we didn’t see any harm in tossing a few more dirt clods through the window hole. A little more dirt on the dirt floor inside couldn’t hurt anything.

We soon grew tired of throwing dirt and went back to riding our bikes. That might have been the end of it except some other kids had seen us and decided throwing dirt clods looked like fun. For the next few days the other kids took it upon themselves to move as much dirt from outside the apartments to the inside, one dirt clod at a time. Then one day, when we all got home from school, the windows had been installed. Of course that fact didn’t at all deter the neighboring kids from their fun and it wasn’t long before one of the windowpanes was broken.

Before the shattered glass had settled to the ground all of the other kids were long gone. My friend and I had done nothing wrong and so we stayed. The next day after school, we again went to ride our bikes on the mounds of dirt. And then suddenly, there were four or five men who appeared out of nowhere - and they were mad! One of them, evidently the boss, was yelling and cussing at us, asking us why we’d broken out the window. It did no good to tell him we weren’t the ones responsible, he didn’t care what we had to say. He’d talked to someone across the street and they told him we rode our bikes there everyday. We were going to have to pay for the window, he said. Then he added, that he wouldn’t call the police if we’d tell him where we lived.

I may have been only a kid but I was no fool. Remember I said getting in trouble for things I hadn’t done was sort of a habit of mine? Well, that habit had taught me at least one thing and I knew better than to tell the guy where I lived. He wanted to talk to my parents, and that wasn’t going to happen - not if I could help it! But neither did I want to lie to the man. So, my friend and I just took off riding as fast as we could - away from the construction site and in the opposite direction from our houses.

Returning home an hour or so later, we half expected to be greeted by a cop car - but there were none. Neither of our parents mentioned it so apparently, the guy hadn’t figured out where we lived. In a few weeks the apartments were finished and we never saw the man again. For once, I had won! I wasn’t sure exactly what I had won since I hadn’t been guilty in the first place, but it was nice to feel as if I’d gotten away with something.

The whole reason I’m telling this story is that I was reminded of it the other day while driving past those apartments. I was slightly amused to see that a window was broken. The same window. Great, I thought, as my smile faded and I quickly drove away. I wonder if I’m going to be blamed for this?

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

The Fine Art Of Plagiarism

I should preface this blog with a disclaimer. As a writer, I’m not a fan of plagiarism. I don’t want other people plagiarizing my work and neither do I wish to plagiarize another author. In fact, I’m quite certain that plagiarism is ultimately more work than coming up with something new and the results are usually not favorable. There is really no art to plagiarism, except if you happen to be a cynical kid in school and not afraid to risk getting into trouble. That’s where my story comes in.

I was in the fifth grade and given a writing assignment - an open writing assignment. I could write about any subject I chose as long as it was original and at least 500 words. We’d just discussed plagiarism in class and due to my devious nature I decided to show off what I’d learned - in my own satirical way.

I began the short essay with a definition of plagiarism (that the teacher had given us) and stressed that it was never a good idea, for a variety of reasons, which I listed. These reasons had also been given to us by the teacher. Then, I moved on to citing some examples. I copied, word for word, a lengthy paragraph from the encyclopedia and commented that to use the paragraph, claiming it as my own, would be a classic case of plagiarism. Furthermore, I pointed out that even to rearrange the words and sentences and then present them in the new order (which I did) would still qualify as plagiarizing another author. In both examples I was careful to point out that I hadn’t written the material.

I then re-wrote the paragraph in my own words and stated that this would be an acceptable method of research and reporting. Ending the paper with a recap of the dangers, pitfalls, and possible consequences of plagiarism, I said such a practice was never okay and should be avoided by all writers.

Out of over 500 words, I’d written no more than a handful of my own. I turned in the paper - and much to my surprise, got an A! Either my teacher was really dense and missed the fact that I hadn’t included much original content at all, or she’d seen the irony of what I’d done. Or perhaps she was glad to see I’d been paying attention. Maybe she appreciated all the thought and hard work that I’d put in to make my point. It did take a lot of work - and time. It would have definitely been easier, and faster, to just write about something else. But, it’s hard to argue with a good grade!

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.

See Bruce’s Amazon Author Page at www.amazon.com/author/bruceaborders or view his Smashwords Profile at www.smashwords.com/profile/view/BruceABorders

Toast For Sale

I’ve never been much of a salesman. Probably because I don’t want to bother people anymore than I want to be bothered myself. I just figure no one needs me to tell them what they want to buy. But that wasn’t always the case.

When I was about six years old, I used to come home from school every day and make myself a couple of pieces of toast. I’d spread the toast with lots of margarine (not butter, I happen to think margarine tastes better) and top it off with a thick layer of my Mother’s homemade strawberry jam. Then, I’d go stand on our front porch and try to sell the toast (as I was eating it) to passing motorists. I’d yell at the top of my lungs, “Toast for sale! Toast with strawberry jam – just twenty-five cents a slice!”

We lived on a busy street and in the few minutes it took me to consume my two slices of toast, I offered my sales pitch numerous times – enough to make myself a little hoarse on occasion. But I had to yell loud otherwise people inside their cars wouldn’t have been able to hear me. Every once in a while, I’d get lucky and catch someone walking by and I could say my spiel in an almost normal voice.

I did this for quite a while. We lived in that house for about three years, and most days I was outside at some point trying to sell my toast. That’s a lot of sales pitches. Yet, in all that time, I never sold a single slice of toast. Amazing, I know. Imagine – no one wanting to buy homemade toast from a six-year-old, grimy kid. The only thing I managed to do was get an awful lot of strange looks from people. A few of them even yelled back, but I could never hear what they had to say – maybe because I was still loudly blabbing away myself.

Eventually, I gave up on the idea of selling toast. As it turns out, homemade toast is not really a big seller. Although…

Years later, I tried to convince my kids one day, that they had to pay me for the toast they’d made. “Twenty-five cents a slice,” I said.

It didn’t work. Guess I’m still not much of a salesman.

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.bruceabordersbooks.weebly.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

Buried Treasure

I think every kid dreams of finding buried treasure. The prospect bears a certain charm of mystery and adventure, not to mention becoming rich. For most kids the chances of actually finding buried treasure are somewhere between zero and none. Unless... Unless you bury the treasure yourself and return later to “find” it.

I must have been eight or nine years old when I decided to do just that. I got a shoebox out of my Mom’s closet and set out to find a few treasures to bury in the box. I threw in some coins, a few dollar bills, and a couple of Army men, along with a wooden whistle I’d carved. There were more supposed valuables, most likely junk, but that’s the items I remember.

I took the time to place everything in plastic bags – Ziploc bags. Everything, that is, except the shoebox. For some reason, it didn’t occur to me that the box might deteriorate. I was only concerned with what was in the box – my treasure. I didn’t want the dirt and water to ruin anything.

Carrying my Dad’s shovel with the box, I walked about a quarter mile up the creek and found a good spot. The place I chose was an equal distance between two large thorn trees and lined up with a huge oak tree across the field. I dug a two-foot deep hole in the soft dirt, set the box inside and covered it over. I figured I’d come back and dig it up in twenty years or so.

I didn’t make it twenty years, more like five. We’d moved from that house but one day I made a trip back to check on my treasure. I walked up the creek to the spot where I’d buried the shoebox – or where I thought it should be. The two thorn trees were hard to find with all the new growth, including many new trees. Most of the trees looked about the same size. To make matters worse, the oak tree across the field was gone. I didn’t give up easily though. I dug several holes in a ten-foot area where I figured my treasure would be, but didn’t find anything. Widening my search, I dug some more. Still nothing. No shoebox. No plastic bags. No treasure. Apparently, the chances of finding buried treasure are not increased by burying it yourself, after all.

I never did find it. Perhaps some other adventurous kid discovered it. Or maybe I just didn’t dig in the right spot. A more likely scenario is that the flooding creek washed it away. Yet, the possibility does exist that my treasure is still there – minus the cardboard box, of course - waiting to be found. Granted, it’s not worth much, but maybe it’ll make some kid’s day when they unearth what’s left of the plastic bagged fortune, because every kid dreams of finding buried treasure. I’d even be willing to point them in the right direction – if only I knew myself.

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