Bruce A. Borders

Monday, April 2, 2012

Missing History

Never trust the history books. Sometimes they get it wrong. Or, they simply leave out important events altogether.

Take for instance, the year, 1967. Many significant things happened that year, not the least of which was me being born. Yes, contrary to the popular speculation of some (my wife), I was indeed born and not hatched.

Sorry, I get sidetracked easily. Back to my point.

Among the notable events of 1967 are: the Apollo Missions, the first heart transplant, the first Superbowl, and as I already mentioned, my birth. I may be biased but I view the latter as the single most important event of the year. (It’s okay, I’ll understand if you don’t see it quite that way).

On the darker side, other events of the year include: the Six Day War, Colorado becoming the first state to legalize abortion, and the forming of the Department of Transportation. 1967 was also a year marked by nationwide race riots.

All this I knew. In preparation for this post, and to see what other stellar events occurred that year, I turned to the history books, which these days are on the Internet. Visiting a well-known online encyclopedia website, I learned that 1967 was the year of the first live, nationwide satellite TV production, the first ATM (then called an automatic cash machine), Sesame Street made its debut, the pocket calculator was invented, and the first Boeing 737 took flight.

I found these somewhat trivial facts to be interesting and impressive. Yet, strangely missing was anything that occurred on April 3rd of that year. I refined my search. The results?

“No significant events for this date.”

Really?

I checked several other websites. All of them agreed – nothing worth mentioning occurred on April 3, 1967. Hmm. Are they all in cahoots with my wife, or what? I was sure that’s the date I was born. Just to make certain, I dug out my birth certificate, and there it was in black and white. I was born on April 3, 1967. For some odd reason, that earth-shattering event has been overlooked; omitted from the historical record! I’m shocked! Appalled! How could this have happened?

Shrug. Sigh. It just goes to show, you can’t trust the history books.

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, March 26, 2012

Backing Up

Unlike some truck drivers, I actually like backing up. The smaller the space and the more difficult the situation, the better. I just like the challenge. However, that wasn’t always the case. When I first started driving a truck, the first place I was sent served to create a lot of frustration and left me wondering why I ever decided to become a truck driver.

I’d arrived at my delivery destination just after sunup on a bright summer day. The dock I was supposed to back into was an inside recessed dock with no lights. Lights may seem unnecessary since it was daylight but, for those of you who may not know, the bright sun outside makes for a very dark hole inside. The end of the trailer disappears once it goes through the door. In effect, I was backing into a building blindly. To make matters worse, there was no room to get the truck and trailer lined up straight with the dock before backing up. And with the many smaller buildings, machinery, and piles of supplies all strategically placed in the way, I had to negotiate a virtual maze – with little room to spare. Somehow, they expected me to get the trailer backed into the dock and have it end up straight. But, as the guard pointed out, I was a “professional” driver.

I’m sure the dockworkers, and everyone else who gathered to watch, were not at all impressed by my lack of proficiency at my job, but they didn’t say anything. They all waited patiently until I’d finally gotten the trailer into position so they could unload it. Both their silence and patience were remarkable considering it took over an hour before I was done.

Of course, with practice, backing up became much easier and before long I looked forward to what the next challenge would be. After 10 hours or so of highway driving, backing into tight places was a welcomed change of pace.

With the driving job I have now, I don’t do much backing, usually only once a day. The nice thing is I don’t have to put the trailer into a particular spot, I can choose from any number of open slots. Some drivers might instinctively pick the easiest ones but I like to look for the most difficult. It provides something to test me and keeps me in practice.

Over the years, I have kept a mental list of some of my favorite backs. Generally, to make the list there needs to be not enough room and multiple turns involved. A real life labyrinth – in reverse. Yes, I do like backing up.

More than a year after that first backing fiasco, I was again sent to the same warehouse where I’d made my first delivery. For a long time, I’d wanted to return and was glad to finally have the chance to see if it was really all that difficult or not. To see if the months of practice of backing through small alleys and into docks made for much smaller trucks had paid off.

Conditions were nearly the same when I arrived – a bright, sunny, summer morning, the same obstacle course to maneuver through and a dark building to back into. The same guard was on duty and I recognized many of the same dockworkers. I hoped none of them remembered me. That dream was short lived as one of them instantly smiled and asked if I’d had any practice since I’d been there. I laughed and said, “I guess we’ll see.”

While they all waited, I got the truck into position and backed into the building, relying on feel when the back of the trailer disappeared. This time, in less than three minutes, I was ready to be unloaded. Apparently, at some point during the year, my truck had drastically shrunk. No one applauded or anything, but judging from their faces, I’d say they all were happy I’d learned to like backing up.

Monday, March 19, 2012

Fire Drill

I’ve always had a proclivity for getting into trouble – even when I technically did nothing wrong. As a result, I made more than my fair share of trips to the Principal’s Office in my school days. The first time was in Kindergarten. Yep, I started early.

It was the first fire drill of the year. The fire alarm sounded and the teacher, Mrs. Dietrich, lined us up at the door. I was next to last with my friend Doug behind me. After we all were ready, the teacher opened the door and told us to follow the person in front of us. Then we filed out the door into the hall. Things went well until we reached the main hallway. With two classes each of Kindergarten through third grade, a lot of kids filled up the place, all of them bigger than me - and taller. Pushing and shoving the students mingled together and not being able to see over anyone, I got lost among the crowd. My friend and I were left standing still in a hall full of people, all seemingly going different directions.

Knowing there was no way to find my class, I said to Doug that if the building was on fire the most important thing was to get out, not find our classmates. He agreed. So, we fell in line with the nearest class and followed them out the door. Several minutes later (longer than usual I discovered), the bell rang to let us know we could return to our classrooms. Feeling proud of ourselves for solving our problem and finding our way safely out of the building, my friend and I returned to our class. The instant we walked in, we knew we were in trouble. The look on the Mrs. Dietrich’s face told us she was upset before she even spoke. When she did speak, it was to tell us to report to the Principal’s Office immediately. We did, but all the way, I was wondering what exactly the problem was. We had gotten out of the building. And, we had returned safe and sound to class.

Arriving at the Principal’s Office, he enlightened me. We suffered through a short lecture about how the school was responsible for our well-being and how when we weren’t present for roll call with our class it was cause for alarm – and not just a fire alarm. Mrs. Dietrich had reported us as missing and that was the reason for the extended stay outside. He said if this had been an actual fire, we could have endangered the lives of the firemen who would have had to come look for us. I think the idea was to either make us feel bad or scared - perhaps both.

Always willing to argue the finer points of logic, even at age five, I finally spoke up. I explained that we’d become lost and couldn’t see over the bigger kids. And that since we couldn’t find our classmates we’d followed the other class outside. I also pointed out that this wasn’t an actual fire so, even if we hadn’t gotten out of the school we would have been safe. The Principal wasn’t impressed. I then played my trump card. If my teacher had reported us as missing because we weren’t present for roll call, why hadn’t they immediately figured out where we were when the other teacher reported two extra kids with her class? I still remember the look on the Principal’s face as he told us to return to class.

I heard later that the other teacher had gotten in a little hot water for not discovering us with her group. It hadn’t been my intention to get her in trouble – just to get me out of trouble. Still, I was a bit amused by it all. Over the years, I was sent to the Principal’s Office many more times, some deserved some undeserved. Thanks to the practice I’d had in Kindergarten, I argued every single time – usually successfully. The last time I made my grand entrance was my final year of High School. I had taken the liberty of retrieving some personal property from the trash. Personal property that the teacher had thrown away. It wasn’t even mine but I didn’t think the teacher should have taken the perfume from the girl so I marched right into the teacher’s lounge and took it back.

How was I able to get inside the teacher’s lounge? It was easy; I waited until everyone else was outside - for a fire drill.

Monday, March 12, 2012

Nothing New

When I was in the third grade, my teacher told us that nothing new could be invented because all the frontiers of science had already been explored and exhausted. She said all we could do was to make variations of things, which already existed, like a different flavor of pop or potato chips, or a new style of car. As far as actual new products however, my generation would have none.

Clearly, she was delusional. Aside from the obvious electronic products such as computers, cell phones, I-pad or Kindle, GPS, pagers, and a slew of other gizmos, there is a long list of items that we didn’t have. There was no such thing as software, MP3’s, CD’s, or DVD’s. We didn’t even have VCR tapes or cassettes, although 8-tracks were popular at the time.

I’ve come up with several more examples as well. I realize some of them are simply variations, but some can only be categorized as new inventions. I remember when Hidden Valley Ranch dressing came out, as well as Diet Coke, Doritos, Pop Tarts, Hot Pockets, Gatorade and PowerAde (We did have Tang), Lunchables, energy drinks and more. And I distinctly recall the day my dad brought home a new candy that almost exploded in the mouth – Pop Rocks.

Back then no one had ever heard of Instant Messaging, texting, e-mail, or video conferencing. If you wanted to communicate, there was the Post Office and a very expensive telephone service. I remember when call forwarding, call waiting and caller ID were fascinatingly new concepts.

There was no direct deposit, no ATM’s, and no debit cards. Stores had no scanners either - they would have been rather pointless. Since barcodes didn’t exist, there was nothing to scan.

We had no microwave popcorn, no microwave oatmeal, soups, or dinners. But then, we really would’ve had no use for any of these – we had no microwave. And there’s more. We had no digital clocks or watches, no hand-held calculators, video games, remote control toys, and no digital cameras – we didn’t even have Polaroid cameras. We did have typewriters, but no word processors. (That may have been a good thing – their usefulness was short-lived with the proliferation of personal computers).

The list goes on. Cars didn’t have front-wheel drive, anti-lock brakes, automatic headlights, automatic locks, airbags, or my favorite – no seatbelts!

DNA was only theoretical science, lasers only existed in physicist’s labs (or in the movies), and a computer with less processing power than I have on my I-phone filled a large room.

I know I’ve omitted a lot of stuff but I think I’ve made my point, which is that a lot of things have come along in my life. New inventions. Life certainly has changed. Yet, some things never change. Not long ago, I heard a guy on the radio, satellite radio; say that nothing new could be invented. That all we can do now is make variations of what is already in existence. Really? Must’ve had the same third grade teacher I had.

Monday, March 5, 2012

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.

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.

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!

Monday, January 30, 2012

Technically Speaking

While doing a crossword puzzle one day, the clue given was “A space between the teeth.” Having worked as a dental technician for more than a dozen years, of course I immediately thought of diastema. Imagine my surprise when I discovered the word it wanted was only three letters. Apparently, diastema wasn’t going to fit.

(For all of you reading this who think I’m a complete idiot, I do know the word is gap. So, I’m not a complete idiot. And for anyone wondering what a dental technician is, it is one employed in the fabrication of dental prostheticis – they make dentures, crowns and bridges, and other dental/oral appliances.)

The puzzle got me to thinking. Thinking back to when I first started working in a dental laboratory. I was fifteen years old and could see no reason for using the technical terms. Just fancy words. The common words were sufficient and much easier to understand. It seemed much simpler to say “between the teeth” than “interproximal area.” And, upper and lower appeared to make more sense than maxillary and mandibular.

But somewhere along the way, I gave in, adapting to the technical terms. Or, maybe I just learned the proper terms are more descriptive and concise, which in the long run make them easier to understand. For example, when referring to the sides of a denture, lingual and labial are clearer, at least to a technician, than the everyday terms of inside and outside (does the “inside” indicate the palatal area or the tissue side).

But, now that I’m a truck driver, an extensive dental science vocabulary serves no purpose.

So, now I wonder why did I need to learn all the technical jargon? It appears to have been a massive waste of time and effort. Sure, I know a lot of strange words, but I can’t use them unless I want to sound like an idiot. (See paragraph two above). People return blank stares if I say things like distal, mesial, buccal, or frenum, and apparently, eyetooth is far more popular than cuspid. In retrospect, I may have been right at age 15. Just fancy words.

The problem is however, it is difficult or next to impossible to unlearn something. Even after being out of the field for over 16 years, I can’t switch back. Something in my head forces me to use the correct technical terminology. On the bright side however, if I ever need to know the clinical term for dry mouth, I’m all set. Doubtful, I know.

I did find a use for some of the terminology recently. No, it wasn’t a crossword puzzle for dental technicians, and it wasn’t a game show where I could win millions of dollars – it was a blog. You’re reading it. Thanks.

Oh, and for whatever it’s worth, the proper term for dry mouth is - xerostomia.

Monday, January 23, 2012

Is It July Yet?

22 degrees and raining. Raining hard. Conditions not at all conducive to driving. The winter weather storm warning said driving tonight would be extremely hazardous or impossible.

And where am I? Behind the wheel, of course. Since the notice didn’t mention an offer to pay my bills, I went to work. I am now cruising down the freeway at an astonishing 20 mph! At that rate, my normal run of 700 miles will take 35 hours. I think the Department of Transportation, which limits driver’s operation of a commercial vehicle to 12 hours, might frown on that.

So, I made an executive decision. Instead of my usual two trips, tonight, I’ll be making just one. The shortest of the two. That will cut my miles to around 300. I realize that’s still 15 hours at my present speed but, according to the CB chatter, parts of the road ahead are better. I should be able to get back within the 12-hour timeframe. If not, I’ll stop and wait. After 10 hours off, I can drive again. Of course, in that time the roads may become impassable. With as much snow and ice as we already have, any additional accumulation could mean an even longer wait. And the longer I wait, the worse it could become. A guy can’t win.

So, maybe I should just wait for warmer weather. How long could it take? July isn’t that far away is it?

Monday, January 16, 2012

Do I Know You?

The older I get, the more people I see who look, sound, or act like someone I know. Or, to be more accurate, someone I used to know. Of course, this leads to me studying them intently – as opposed to staring, which I’ve heard is impolite – trying to figure out exactly what it is that reminds me of the other person, or sometimes, who the other person even is.

I’m not sure if this phenomenon is because I know, or have known, a lot of people or a result of my own overactive imagination. Both perhaps.

You can probably see the problems this creates, when complete strangers notice my sudden interest in them. They look back at me like I’m a stalker, or Jack The Ripper. Talk about impolite! Yet, even amid their glaring stares, I can’t seem to let it go. Not until I know who, what, when, how, and why. A little OCD? Maybe.

I’m not completely irrational - yet. So far, I’ve managed to keep my wife and other family members straight. Although, my children do tend to remind me of a younger version of their parents at times. That can be good or bad.

So, if you see me lost in thought, looking right at you as if I don’t know who you are, pay me no mind. I’m not stalking you, and unless I’ve just caught you breaking into my house or something, I have no designs on bringing about your early demise. It may be that you look strangely familiar. And I might simply be trying to decide whether you remind me of someone or if I actually know you.

Monday, January 9, 2012

Sink Or Swim

Seven years old and I couldn’t swim. Pitiful, I know. My dad must have felt the same way because one hot summer day, a Saturday as I recall, he took me and my brother down to the river. It was time I learned to swim, he said.

I don’t know if he could tell it or not but, I was sort of scared. I wasn’t afraid of water in general, just that particular water. I’d heard all kinds of stories about the river with its raging and churning white water rapids and the deep, powerful undercurrents. The fact that these stories pre-dated the building of the dam, not more than a mile from our swimming hole, was lost on me. Sure, the river looked calm enough but all those horrible stories of people jumping or falling in and then being swept away in the current, never to be seen again were still in my head.

Then, my desire to swim overcame my fear and I waded out into the water. I was ready. My dad held a finger through my belt loop, so I could practice without sinking – or so he claimed. After a few minutes of kicking and splashing, I actually started moving forward. And then – my belt loop broke! At that point, it was literally, sink or swim. Usually, faced with such a situation, most people swim. Not me, I sank.

Of course, my dad fished me out of the water, even before I had time to cough or splutter. But, that was the end of my swimming lesson that day. And I refused to go back to that river.

Later, I did learn to swim but not before a few more episodes of sinking. My brother rescued me – probably against his better judgment considering how annoying I could be.

I’m not quite sure why swimming was such an important thing to learn though; it’s been several years now since I’ve gone. Still, knowing how to swim and not going is much better than going and not knowing how. Not being able to swim is kind of a sinking feeling!

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, January 2, 2012

Waiting

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Thursday, December 29, 2011

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

Tuesday, December 27, 2011

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.

Monday, December 19, 2011

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/.

Monday, December 12, 2011

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.

Monday, December 5, 2011

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.

Monday, November 28, 2011

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.

Monday, November 21, 2011

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!

Monday, November 14, 2011

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.

Monday, November 7, 2011

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!