

# Item 21

And Other Short True Stories

(Taken From My Blog)

Bruce A. Borders

BORDERS

PUBLISHING

The following stories are true accounts from the life of

Bruce A. Borders.

Taken from the blog at

<http://bruceabordersbooks.weebly.com/blog.html>

Copyright 2011 - 2012

Bruce A. Borders

Cover Design Copyright 2012

Bruce A. Borders

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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### Table Of Contents

1. Fire Season  
2. The Toybox  
3. Item 21  
4. Sobriety Test  
5. Leftovers  
6. The Lazy Workaholic  
7. A Lesson Burned  
8. The Way I Figured It  
9. My Thanksgiving  
10. Selling A Tree House  
11. Driving To Canada  
12. No Help Wanted  
13. And I Lived To Tell About It  
14. It's A Family Thing  
15. Waiting  
16. Sink Or Swim  
17. Do I Know You?  
18. Is It July Yet?  
19. Technically Speaking  
20. The Weekend  
21. A Vicarious Vindication  
22. Bicycle Wreck  
23. The Windy Wind  
24. Buried Treasure  
25. Nothing New  
26. Fire Drill  
27. Backing Up  
28. Making History  
29. Tall Tales  
30. Digging To China  
31. Torture Chamber  
32. Mowing The Lawn  
33. Power Nap  
34. What Goes Up  
35. The Zoo  
36. Out Of Gas  
37. Doing My Research  
38. Island Getaway  
39. Home  
40. But We Need The Rain  
41. Pet Peeves  
42. Kids Do Dumb Stuff  
43. Losing Things On The Road  
44. My First Job  
45. Moving Out  
46. Playing With Fire  
47. A Picture's Worth A Thousand Words  
48. Down In The Dumps  
49. The Amusement Park  
50. Electrical Education  
51. Strangely Normal  
52. Pick Up The Tools  
53. High Crime Area  
54. The Collector

55. Making My Own Road  
56. Read, Read, Read  
57. Electronic Age  
58. My Wife Doesn't Know Me  
59. How Much Am I Making?  
60. To Do List  
61. Dogs Versus Cats  
About The Author  
Books by Bruce A. Borders

## Fire Season

09-26-2011

Smoke to the west. No black ominous billows, just a brownish tinged haze mixed with dingy white puffy clouds rising into the clear blue summer sky. A brushfire most likely, or maybe grass. Winds are particularly light at 5 mph. No cause for alarm, fire fighters will have the blaze extinguished in short order.

This is the fourth fire this week within sight of my house. The others were put out in less than a day causing no major damage, rather remarkable considering the high wind area and extremely dry conditions. This is all typical for the arid climate of the central Oregon high desert, but this year has been fairly mild with relatively few fires. The surrounding landscape is only slightly marred with the grayish black sooty remains of sparse vegetation.

And now, the September air is turning cooler reminding us that the fall rains will be returning soon, marking an end of the fire season, a.k.a. summer. The good news is that we've all survived with our personal property mostly intact. The bad news is winter is on its way, which means snow – and lots of it. The frozen white crystals will cover the ground, blanket the sagebrush and juniper trees and decorate the distant mountain ranges, creating a picturesque scene of majestic grandeur.

Admittedly, the snow is pretty but snow brings its own set of problems - the cold, the slick roads and resulting wrecks, the roof cave-ins, and avalanches, which can potentially destroy entire areas in an instant. Yet, despite its foreboding and destructive nature, snow is a necessary evil. It provides the high desert with a vital water supply for the coming summer months in a region prone to draught. Aside from the usual benefits of drinking, cooking and cleaning, we're gonna need the water – to put out the fires!

## The Toybox

10-02-2011

Every kid needs a toy box. My grandson is in an immediate and dire need of one. With an abundance of nearby family members, including; aunts, uncles, parents and grandparents, who routinely convert a certain portion of their paychecks into an endless array of various fascinating gadgets and playthings, the lack of a toy box is becoming increasingly problematic - at least for his parents.

The trouble is toy boxes are expensive. The unsuspecting shopper could easily shell out a $150, or more, for a piece of plastic that will typically break in six months or so. Ah, but I'm not an unsuspecting shopper. I used to be a carpenter. I can build one. One that will last for years, preferably until my grandson and any future siblings are grown. How can I be confident it will last that long? Because such a toy box exists in my son's room. I built it nearly 18 years ago and it's still in as good of shape as it was the day I brushed on the last coat of varnish. (Despite my three children's, best attempts to destroy it).

So, for the past week I've been busy, measuring, cutting, drilling, screwing, and gluing. I've managed to make quite a mess in the kitchen, which incidentally, also doubles as a workshop from time to time. The center island makes a perfect workbench. My wife is no doubt very impressed by my ingenuity! Or not.

Slowly, due to leaving everyday to go to my actual job, which always seems to interfere with the important things I want to do, a toy box emerged. Today I fashioned the hinges onto the lid and added some red-oak stain. Tomorrow I'll start the final step of making it shine. Not bad for week's work.

A quick tally of the receipts shows the project coming in at just under $100. That's great news! It means there's money left over. Money that will, of course, be put to good use - to purchase more toys!

## Item 21

10-10-2011

I'll admit it - I'm forgetful. I can't remember to do everything I'm supposed to. Or anything sometimes. I forget basic things like eating and combing my hair. Consider me the absent-minded professor – minus the professor aspect. When going to work, I leave my cell phone at home at least three days a week. If I'm lucky, I'll miss it before driving too far and circle back to the house. I like to tell myself that I'm just being responsible – keeping an eye on the neighborhood. My neighbors probably think I'm only a few days away from being committed.

Some have suggested my absent-mindedness is just another sign of growing old, like graying hair or aching joints and muscles after those rare times when I can't avoid manual labor. But, as my Mother would tell you, it's nothing new. When I was younger, she could send me to do only one thing at a time or I'd forget the rest. My wife now says the same thing. So, if nothing else, at least I'm consistent.

Yet, strange as it may seem, I have an excellent memory. It works great for facts, numbers, names, dates, or to remember the proper sequence of steps for various complex procedures. These sorts of things seem to latch on to some cell of my brain and stay – without me really even trying. This was cool when I was in school. Now? Not so much. No longer does the need exist to memorize anything. I rarely take tests and never recite anything other than songs, which I don't think count because nobody knows the songs I know. So, the tidbits of trivial information plastered to the walls of my brain are mostly useless. Even my kids don't ask me much anymore – they prefer Google.

Recently, my wife wrote down a list of what she needed from the grocery store. It seemed like a splendid idea, except I forgot the list - a fact I realized after I'd reached the store. Sure, in this digital age, I had several options; I could call, text, or email – all of which would mean fessing up to my forgetful nature, once again. But wait! I had seen the list. (My mind instantly kicks into gear.) Now I can use that part of my memory that works! But has it been too long? What if I forget something? My wife (and kids) would never let me hear the end of it. Not after telling them for years how good my memory is for that sort of thing.

"I know there were 21 items," I mused aloud. Asking for a pen and paper from the bewildered cashier, who apparently thought everybody made their shopping list _before_ coming to the store, I quickly began scribbling. Soon the list was complete – almost. Twenty items were scrawled on my paper. I frowned and shook my head. "That's strange," I thought. This had never happened before. I decided to start my shopping, hoping the last item would come to me along the way. It didn't.

I made it almost all the way home. Turning onto my street, I felt the car's engine cough, then it spluttered and died. And that's when I remembered. Item 21 was not a grocery item at all. I was supposed to fill the car up with gas.

My wife was kind, sort of. She just rolled her eyes and smiled. An hour later, the car was back in the driveway and full of gas.

I'm sure after reading this story; you will all have a good laugh at my expense. That is, if I remember to post it.

## Sobriety Test

10-17-2011

Flashing red and blue lights in the mirror. Just what every teenage boy wants to see – especially when he's on a date!

The officer, hard-faced and stern, marched up to the driver's window, reciting the usual "License and registration" spiel. Then, "Do you know why I pulled you over?"

Now, for a young and cocky adolescent male, there are a lot of possible answers to that question. Although, most of them are likely to increase the odds of getting a ticket. The fact the boy's girlfriend was along probably helped stifle what would otherwise have been a mouthy response. Instead, he offered a simple, "No."

"I observed you weaving and making contact with the yellow line," the deputy explained. "Have you been drinking anything tonight?"

The eighteen-year-old was rather surprised at the question, since he hadn't been drinking that night or any other. "Uh, yeah, Dr. Pepper."

Not amused, the deputy asked the driver to step out of the car, and though it was phrased as a question, the teenager knew it was not a request. Opening the door, he noticed the officer leaning close to smell his breath. Then began a prolonged regiment of sobriety tests; a flashlight in the eyes, following the officer's pen back and forth, standing first on one foot – then the other, and walking down the white line on the road.

"How many of these tests do I have to pass before you figure out I'm not drunk?" The teenager's inherent sarcasm was starting to creep back in.

Not answering, the deputy began asking his own questions. And becoming increasingly annoyed, the boy couldn't resist purposefully being vague. Where have you been? - On a date. Where did you go? - For pizza. Did you have anything to drink? - You already asked that.

Non-pulsed the officer continued. "Why were you weaving? Was something distracting you?"

_Hello? Didn't you see the girl sitting beside me?_ Thinking better of his response, the boy pointed toward his date. "I was just talking to her."

After more than half an hour, the officer was finally convinced alcohol hadn't been a part of the couple's evening and let them go.

The scene I've described above was my first date with the girl who later became my wife. Had I been arrested that night my life would no doubt be far different now. I don't mean because I might have married someone else, I don't think I'd have had the chance to. I'm quite certain that if I'd been drinking and driving with his daughter in the car, my future Father-in-law would have killed me. Now that's a sobering thought!

## Leftovers

10-24-2011

Who invented the concept of leftovers anyway? I suppose the idea is a good one, it saves time and makes perfect economic sense, particularly at today's grocery prices. But really, the whole thing is simply not practical – at least when it comes to my household.

Sure, it sounds easy enough; place the uneaten food into little containers with matching lids and then save them in the refrigerator. In the next day or two, reheat the pre-cooked items in the microwave, set the cold dishes back on the table and _voilà_ – another home-cooked meal at no additional cost! Brilliant! But, it never works.

See, at my house, once the food goes into the refrigerator, that's where it stays until it has morphed into an inedible psychedelic version of its former state. Only when it has sufficiently become discolored and acquired a rancid odor is it removed. All the term "leftovers" means in my home is an opportunity to air out the house – and more dishes!

If we could just bring ourselves to throw the food away in the first place, we'd save a lot of time and money. But something in our psyche won't let us. Forbids it, actually. Why? One possible explanation is that my wife and I were taught not to be wasteful. So, we dutifully scrape our leftovers into the little containers with matching lids and then stack them in the refrigerator. This we do in order to satisfy the "waste not, want not" code that is so ingrained in us. Then, we promptly forget about it until either we run out of little containers with matching lids or the putrid smell calls us to action.

By going through these motions, we feel justified when it all gets dumped into the garbage. As if sending the food for an extended stay in the cool confines of the refrigerator and allowing it to slowly rot and mold before we throw it away is somehow more noble than discarding it the day it was cooked.

Maybe we just learn not to cook so much. That seems like a feasible plan, right? It would save time and money and a lot of hassle. The problem is, if we did that, there would be no leftovers, and then what would we do with all those little containers and matching lids?

## The Lazy Workaholic

10-31-2011

In the past, I've been accused of being a workaholic, but the truth is I'm sort of a lazy person. I don't want to do any more work than necessary, because that consumes time that could be spent doing something else. There simply isn't enough time to do everything that needs doing - at least not all at once. On any given day, I have no less than a million things waiting, competing for my time. Okay, I may have exaggerated slightly, but that _is_ how it seems. All of these things are in cahoots - their sole objective being to keep me from what I really want to do, which is to write. Write songs, write books, articles, poems or just about anything, oh, and now blogs – my latest venture.

Everything under the sun tries to hinder my efforts. There are bills to pay, car repairs, computer and phone issues to take care of, dogs that are sick, a house to maintain, lawn care, errands to run, problems at the bank, problems at the store, and a hundred other chores, and of course my regular "day job."

Some of these things are associated with writing and seem to be legitimate: research, re-writing, typing, and proofreading, web-design, and promotional endeavors, (for articles and books). Then there is the long list of things specific to writing songs: recording, mixing, and uploading multiple files to various outlets and forums. Add to that the endless forms to fill out and file; copyrights, registrations, submissions, performance rights forms, digital rights forms – I think you get the picture. It is an ongoing, full time job just to keep up on all of the legalities of writing.

The point is all of this extracurricular activity takes time. Time I could spend, well, writing. So, in order to maximize my writing time, I look for the easiest, quickest, and most efficient method to get things done – like I said I'm lazy. I'm always searching for a new way to save time on just about anything – as long as it works, because I absolutely despise doing things over. That is a total waste, limiting the time I could have used to do other things like, well, write.

When I finally do get down to the writing, I become so immersed in my project that the rest of the world fades into obscurity. I have to make a to-do list to ensure that things necessary to survival actually get done, and even then, sometimes they don't. Just ask my wife, who puts up with my idiosyncrasies of neglecting important tasks and reminds me when I need to eat or maybe fix a broken sink so we can have running water. She'd probably be more inclined to dismiss the whole workaholic characterization, going instead with lazy. And that's okay. I am lazy. I have to be, or I'd never get any work done.

## A Lesson Burned

11-07-2011

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 oof´- duh, is a mild expression of disgruntlement or surprise, and to this day, I never start fires with gasoline!

## The Way I Figured It

11-14-2011

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.

## My Thanksgiving

11-21-2011

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!

## Selling A Tree House

11-28-2011

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.

## Driving To Canada

12-05-2011

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.

## No Help Wanted

12-12-2011

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.

## And I Lived To Tell About It

12-19-2011

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.

## It's A Family Thing

12-25-2011

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.

## Waiting

01-01-2012

It should come as no surprise to anyone that I'm a rather impatient individual. Waiting, while at times necessary, is usually because something, or someone, is not working as efficiently as they should be. That's when waiting drives me insane. I like to have things progress in a steady and productive manner. Waiting isn't productive in the least. So, waiting has become one of my pet peeves.

When it comes to computers, I have a love/hate relationship with the digital wonders. The affectionate side is obviously because they allow me to do things I otherwise would be unable to do, or at least make those tasks easier to accomplish. But as for saving time, which they are purported to do – well, that's where the aggravation aspect comes into the picture.

I'm sure most people can relate. We wait on computers for a substantial portion of our lives. We wait for programs to download. Then we wait for the programs to install, configure, authorize, and validate, etc. And then we wait for the program to open, to load, and to start. When that's done, the program attempts to read a file, and of course it may need to do a virus scan so, again we wait. And this is just the beginning. We wait on uploads, downloads, to optimize files, to convert files, and compress files, and save files. We wait for connections, transfers, and we wait on searches. Sometimes we don't even know why we're waiting, we're just waiting. I think most of my waking hours these days are occupied with a single activity – waiting. And that's what makes me frustrated.

I'm sure programmers, way back at the start of the computer age, knew that all this waiting would be a problem. So, they invented an abundance of terms for it, some technical and others not so technical, to distract us. After all, computers are presented as these magnificent marvels that can compute and perform thousands of calculations quickly and accurately. Computers were supposed to save us so much time. They don't. I often hear the clock ticking as I'm waiting on yet another program function to complete.

I know I should learn to just be more patient – and I will someday. Right now, I don't have the time. I guess you could say I'm waiting.

## Sink Or Swim

01-09-2012

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!

## Do I Know You?

01-16-2012

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.

## Is It July Yet?

01-23-2012

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?

## Technically Speaking

01-30-2012

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 prosthetics – 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.

## The Weekend

02-06-2012

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!

## A Vicarious Vindication

02-13-2012

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.

#### Bicycle Wreck

02-20-2112

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!

## The Windy Wind

02-27-2012

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.

## Buried Treasure

03-05-2012

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.

## Nothing New

03-12-2012

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.

## Fire Drill

03-19-2012

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.

## Backing Up

03-26-2012

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.

## Making History

04-02-2012

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.

## Tall Tales

04-09-2012

I guess I've always been a cynic. Skeptical. A realist. I just never bought into tall tales. Horses don't talk, pigs don't fly, and vampires don't exist.

In first grade, for a class project, we all got to help bake a gingerbread man. All the students were assigned specific duties. My job was to stir the batter.

Of course, the teacher had set the stage the day before by showing us the film of the gingerbread man, so we all knew the story of how it came to life and ran away. But me, I didn't buy it.

After placing our gingerbread man in the oven, we returned to class. An hour or so later, we went back to the kitchen to eat our freshly baked gingerbread man – or so we were told. When we got there, it was missing. The teacher had us all search the kitchen with no sign of it. Then, she suggested that it must have come to life and run away – just like in the film.

Yeah, right, I thought. How gullible does she think we are? I didn't say anything – yet. But after traipsing from the kitchen, through the cafeteria and gym, searching the Administrative offices and teacher's lounge, I started voicing my opinion. She didn't pay any attention at first, so I may, or may not, have gotten a little louder. My intolerance for the wild goose chase was more than skepticism of the tall tale - I like gingerbread, I'd helped make this gingerbread man, and I wanted to eat it.

As the class moved outside, to search the playground, the teacher pulled me aside. She said she knew gingerbread men do not really come to life, but that I needed to play along for the sake of the other children. I think I must have rolled my eyes or something at this point, because she added that it was just a fun game and entertaining film – like Pinocchio.

The mention of Pinocchio was rather ironic, I thought, since the point of that story was to teach kids the perils of lying. Apparently at the time, I was still young enough to not be too mouthy, because I didn't say what I was thinking.

After continuing our pointless search through the basement, the janitor's area, and several classrooms, we finally wound up in the library. I knew we'd find our gingerbread man there because I could smell it. Besides, there were no more places to search. Naturally, we had to wait a little longer, looking through all the shelves of books, the card catalog, tables, and the librarian's desk, before the teacher "found" our little man on top of a bookshelf. Then, with all the students following, she carried it back to the classroom, where finally, we got to eat our gingerbread man.

A few days later, I forgot to turn in my spelling assignment before going home. The next morning the teacher asked me about it. With a straight face, I told her, "I did turn it in."

Shaking her head, the teacher said, "It's not here."

Looking her in the eye, I continued the game. "I think I know what happened. My paper came alive last night and ran away. Maybe we should look for it. We could have the whole class help search."

You know, turns out I'm not the only one who doesn't believe in tall tales.

## Digging To China

04-15-2012

Everyone knows that China is roughly on the opposite side of the Earth as America, a little to the north, I know. Did you know you can't actually dig a hole to get there? I do. I tried. Admittedly, it was a feeble attempt – and short lived. After only an hour or so, I gave up – not something I'm comfortable with doing, then (at six), or now. Frustrating though it may be, I keep trying whatever it is I'm attempting to do. In my view, to give up is guaranteed failure. My attempt of digging to China was different though.

For some reason, my brother and I were mad at each other and had been told to leave the other one alone. To keep from arguing, we apparently thought it'd be a grand idea to dig holes in the ground. I don't know what his intent was, but mine was definitely to dig to China. Not that I wanted to visit the place – I just wanted to get away from my brother.

At some point, as brothers are prone to do, we got over our disagreement - or forgot what we were arguing about – and noticed we'd both dug a substantially sized hole. We had two holes a few feet deep, and about ten feet apart. My brother suggested we stop digging down and start tunneling to connect the holes. That sounded good to me but it would mean I'd have to abandon my plan of digging to China – and I'd already made a lot of progress! Hey, a three-foot deep hole is quite an accomplishment at that age!

Then my brother pointed out that it was several thousand miles to China, through a very hot center of the Earth, I'd never be able to accomplish it. Reluctantly, I gave up on the notion.

It took the rest of the day, but we did manage to connect the holes with a tunnel big enough to crawl through. It lasted only a few days, before, being boys, we destroyed it.

A few months ago, I heard a report that some company had come up with a plan of drilling a hole through to the Earth's core in order to utilize the inner magnetic field, thereby connecting all the continents. Theoretically, it would be a modern-day transatlantic cable with the entire world hardwired together. A constant connection, uninterrupted by solar flares or any of the other numerous and common causes of outages. The idea was to allow American companies a more reliable means of communication with their overseas factories – mainly in China.

Sadly, the report said, officials with the company had ultimately decided to scrap the idea, stating the plan was entirely unfeasible. Imagine that! They should have asked me before wasting all their time and money. I could have told 'em, you can't dig your way to China.

## Torture Chamber

04-22-2012

Don't worry, this is not political. Just a story based on firsthand experience.

In recent years, there's been a lot of talk concerning whether or not America engages in the torture of prisoners of war – or of anyone for that matter. The short answer is no. As a country, America does not officially practice the sadistic rituals of torture, per se. Usually.

The question then becomes, what qualifies as torture?

Torture chambers do exist in America, many of them. They can be found in virtually every city across the country. Prisoners of war are not the victims, but ordinary American citizens. I have seen several of these houses of pain, and though the look varies slightly from one to the next, each shares a number of features in common. These torture chambers do not engage in ripping out fingernails, they do not practice cutting off fingers, and they do not waterboard their subjects. But what they do is perhaps more sinister, evil and vile, more painful.

Generally, these places are small rooms, painted white. In the middle is a foreboding chair, the kind you'd see in an Alfred Hitchcock movie. The rooms are equipped with running water and electricity – old stand-bys and vital in any torturing endeavor – as well as several modern gadgets designed for the sole purpose of imposing pain. A vast array of knives and other primitive tools capable of inflicting sheer torment are arranged within easy reach of the administrator of the establishment.

The administrator, a smock-clad fiend, wielding various instruments of pain, is the dispenser of the torture. Usually a male, he is the sole arbiter of his victim's fate. Yet, he is not alone. One, and sometimes two or more of his cohorts, under the watchful eye of the master, work in concert to deliver as much physical trauma as possible.

In nearly all cases, these torture chambers make it a point to refrain from killing their subjects, choosing instead to cruelly prolong the agony, leaving their victims to suffer the effects for days, weeks, and occasionally, even extending to months.

As I said before, I've experienced these torture chambers firsthand. I know the horrors that take place in them. In fact, I was recently a reluctant victim. Thankfully, I survived - my trip to the dentist.

## Mowing The Lawn

04-30-2012

I used to like mowing the lawn. Good thing, too, 'cause I started when I was four. Yep, four. And yes, I mowed by myself. Back then, we didn't have those kill switches that stop the mower when the handle is released either. And I'm pretty sure the mowers were heavier then too – at least they _seemed_ to weigh more.

My legs were too short for me to reach the top of the handle, I couldn't even reach the middle cross bar, and so I used the sides of the handle. It was all I could do to make a lap around the yard. But, I did it. Then, it was my brother's turn for a lap. That's the way we mowed the lawn, taking turns so the job wasn't overwhelming for a short little kid of four. Yeah, it was hard – but it was fun, and besides, I was helping – doing something worthwhile.

These days, anyone who has a four-year-old mowing the lawn would probably be in trouble for _something_ I'm sure. In this modern over-protective culture, I guess we no longer want kids to learn how to work – or do much of anything. And of course, we certainly can't _over_ work them, that would be just horrible – yeah, right.

As for me, I'm glad my dad taught me to mow and then let me do it - on my own – even at age four. Why? Well, a lot of reasons. As I've previously mentioned, I learned how to be productive, to work and get things done, how to stick with a job until it's done, etc. It all came in handy about three years later when I started mowing lawns for other people – and getting paid!

Up until a few years ago, I'd mowed lawns every year since my dad first had me pushing the mower, in what was most likely a very inefficient pattern, around the house. And while I no longer thought it was exactly fun, I didn't mind. Then one day, my son took over the mowing. Now, I haven't mowed a lawn in quite a number of years, and I can't really say I miss it. Not that it's hard work necessarily, but it takes time, and my time is a limited commodity. There is always plenty of other things I could be doing.

But, as they say, all good things must end. Next week, my son turns eighteen and will soon be moving away. That means, "guess who" gets to mow the lawn? Hmm. And to think I used to like mowing!

Power Nap

05-06-2012

When I was about 10 or 11, I had an affinity for practical jokes. While we usually tend to focus on the "joke" aspect, we shouldn't discount the practical side of practical jokes. They can actually prove quite useful, I have discovered.

I'm sure everyone has heard of power naps, a short period of sleep that quickly rejuvenates the body – truckers have practiced the concept for years to avoid falling asleep at the wheel. The results are remarkable. Unfortunately, they are only temporary. But, as I learned, the effects _can_ be greatly extended. At the time of this story, I'd never heard of power naps, but apparently my dad had.

My dad, a preacher, and Pastor of a rather small church, also worked a full time job. Typically, his job turned into more than a mere forty hours a week. Combined with the Pastoral duties it meant his workweek was usually pretty long. As you can expect, he operated on little sleep. And from time to time, he needed to catch up in his rest.

One particular day I remember, he was scheduled to speak at a church over 100 miles away – a little more than a 2-hour drive. He got off work shortly before 5 p.m., rushed home and got ready to leave. Deciding to take me along, to help him stay awake, we left the house with only a few minutes to spare. We'd been on the road for just under an hour when my dad started having trouble keeping his eyes open. No, sadly, he didn't let me drive, although I did offer! Instead, he pulled over to take a short nap. "Wake me up in 15 minutes," he said.

I said, "Okay." I already had a plan that I thought should keep him from falling asleep the rest of the trip. Waiting until I was sure he was sleeping, I ran the clock on the dash ahead about an hour. I looked across the car at his watch strapped on his arm, wondering how I'd ever re-set it without disturbing him. Then, I remembered he'd been having trouble with it not keeping time – losing time, in fact. Perfect for my needs so, I left it alone. I did set my own watch to match the clock in the car. This was long before the days of cell phones or the numerous other gadgets we now have to instantly keep us informed of the correct time – we didn't even have a radio station for him to listen to.

Letting him sleep for the 15 minutes, I suddenly shouted, "Dad! Wake up! We're late!"

Well, he woke up. Looking at the clock, we were back on the road without wasting a second. It took about five minutes for him to check his watch. I said nothing while he fretted over the time discrepancy between his watch and the clock, wondering which one was right. Then, I did try to help. Showing him my watch, I said, "Mine has the same time as the clock."

Figuring his watch was dead, he devoted his full attention to the fact we would be late. I waited until we were almost to the church before setting his mind at ease.

Funny thing, later that night, he drove all the way back home without once thinking of stopping for a nap.

These days, I drive past the place we stopped, six times a day. By my last time, I'm usually tired. But just thinking of that incident from 35 years ago always wakes me right up. See? I told you I'd found a way to extend the effects of a power nap!

## What Goes Up

05-14-2012

It's an age-old adage, "What goes up, must come down." Sometimes it's hard to apply this to real-life situations, especially for someone who's new to a certain job.

A few years ago, when I was an over-the-road driver, another driver and I were dispatched to a mountainous area with steep passes, up and then down. The other driver was fresh out of driving school – in his first year of driving truck. Now, runaway trucks are nothing to laugh at and can be quite dangerous, but the trick is for the driver to control the truck and not the other way around. The general rule of thumb for descending steep grades is to use the same gear and go the same speed as when climbing the grade, braking only occasionally. Overuse of the brakes will cause them to heat up and not work. Trust me, you don't want to be going down a mountain pass in an 80,000 truck with no brakes.

We were halfway down a 5-mile grade when I noticed the other driver had grown strangely silent. I checked my mirror and he was still there, but seemed to be gaining on me rather quickly. I asked if he was all right, and in a stressed voice, he said he wasn't; that he couldn't slow down. Instantly, I knew what had happened. Although I'm sure they told him in truck-driving school not to ride the brakes, that's what he had done. I asked if he'd ever driven in mountains before and he told me he hadn't. He seemed near panic as he added that he'd never even seen mountains before. He'd gotten scared at the top when he saw what we had to go down. Wanting to make sure he went slow enough, he'd used the brakes way too much.

At that moment, I wasn't too thrilled that he was behind me. I had nowhere to pull off and I certainly wasn't going to speed up just to get out of his way. Lucky for me, the guy still had enough wherewithal to steer the truck around me. Lucky for him, no oncoming traffic was approaching. Also lucky for him, the rest of the hill was straight and he rode it out. There still was nowhere to stop and we climbed the next grade. At the top, there finally was a pull-off. His brakes should have cooled enough by then but I wanted to make sure before we started down again.

I made a thorough check of the brakes and they were fine – the driver, not so much. He had no desire to get back in the truck. I did manage to convince him to continue on, by telling him I'd let him know on the CB what gear to use, how fast to go, and when to brake. Since both trucks were just alike and we were hauling the same weight, all he had to do was follow what I did. We started down and I talked him through to the bottom. We continued this way, up and down, me giving instructions, for the next 100 miles or so.

Finally, as the steep grades flattened out, we came to a town. Parking at a tiny truck stop, I could smell the brakes on the other truck. Apparently, he'd still been a little overzealous with them, which he readily admitted, saying at the bottom of every grade he'd started losing his brakes again.

The guy was still shaken and sweating profusely. Walking straight to a payphone, he called the company, and quit. The dispatcher did eventually convince him to drive the truck back to the terminal.

I talked to the same dispatcher a few hours later and he wanted to know what had happened with the other driver. "He needs to relax and not use the brakes so much," I said a little sardonically.

The dispatcher replied that some people have a hard time getting used to driving a semi-truck in mountains but they usually do get the hang of it. "They just need a little time."

"Okay," I said, but I wasn't convinced. Easy for him to say, he hadn't been the one in front of a runaway truck. "I'd rather they learn before following me down a mountain," I said.

Oh, did I mention this was my first year of driving truck too? Okay, to be fair, I should point out that I grew up in mountains – and I was quite familiar with the practical application of the saying, "What goes up, must come down."

## The Zoo

05-21-2012

Last weekend, my wife and our daughter took the grandkids to the zoo. They were kind and asked if I'd like to join them. (I think they may have just wanted a driver). At first, I said no, but then after thinking about it, I decided to go. I hadn't been to the zoo in years and then there was the part about being with the grandkids so, I went. I probably should have stayed with my original choice.

The zoo was pretty much as I remembered, fewer animals than they used to have but they still had the usual assortment – bears, lions, tigers, elephants, and my all-time favorite, the monkeys. Some would perhaps suggest that's due to a primal kindred spirit. However, contrary to this popular opinion, I am not, and have never been, a monkey. I just like to watch them. When I was a kid, I could stand for hours, laughing at their antics.

Seeing the animals at the zoo and spending the day with the family was nice but, and here's the reason I maybe should have stayed home, visiting all the animals requires some walking. A lot of walking. An inordinate amount of walking.

I can handle short walks. From the house to the pickup isn't bad, a casual stroll through the yard is not too strenuous, even trudging to the mailbox is okay. But the ten-mile trek they sent us on at the zoo is for the birds – 'cause they can fly! Me, I can't fly. So, I had to walk. It was a winding trail, back and forth, up and down, and all around. Yet, in looking over the map they had given us at the gate, most of the walking would have been completely unnecessary. The exhibits were all arranged fairly close together, but instead of connecting them with a simple path from one to the next, we had to follow a roundabout trail all over the countryside. I suppose the idea is to create a sense of realism, to make it seem as if we were really in the jungles of Africa or on Safari in the Outback of Australia. That might have worked except for the paved path, steel cages, and the thick glass we had to look through to see the animals. Sort of gives it away.

I think it'd be better to forgo the fake setting in favor of a centrally structured design - get a big open space and build all the exhibits around it. Or, better yet, why can't I just go sit down on a bench and have the people at the zoo bring the animals by for me to see? Let the animals do some walking for a change!

Okay, I'll admit I may have overreacted a bit or maybe exaggerated the situation slightly, but there _was_ an awful lot of walking involved. Too much walking for me – I'm a truck driver not a pedestrian. I don't have that much energy. Next time, while everyone else wanders all over creation, I'll just go watch the monkeys.

## Out Of Gas

05-28-2012

The pump price of gasoline these days has had me thinking back to when I was a kid – during the so-called gas crunch of the seventies. Of course, there was no actual gas shortage then, as evidenced by the fact that over thirty years later, we're using more of the stuff than ever. Back then, I remember thinking that if we really were running low on the supply of crude oil, why were they still manufacturing and selling cars that ran on gas?

Even though there was no legitimate shortage, by limiting distribution, a shortage was created – stations only received a certain allotment of gas and when it was gone, customers were out of luck. This led to the infamous long gas lines in the seventies. If you are too young to remember, this went on for months. It was during this time that my family took a trip from Oregon to Missouri, as we did nearly every year. The difference was that usually, there was no gas shortage problem. Most of our journey that year was uneventful, except for one minor incident.

At the time, gas stations throughout the western United States were not nearly as plentiful as they are now. Gas stops had to be planned well in advance because it might be hundreds of miles to the next station. Not filling up where you should could lead to being stranded in the middle of nowhere.

On the way to Missouri, we'd driven well into the evening and the tank was running low. Knowing that once we'd left the area we were in, there'd be no more gas for quite a distance, my dad was earnestly looking for a place to fill up. But, all the stations were closed. So, with no other choice, he parked at a station and we waited, our family of four all in the car, hoping that the next morning we could be on our way.

I'm sure it was a little nerve racking and upsetting to my parents. Losing time and the uncertainty of not knowing if we'd be able to get gas the next day was no doubt a bit disconcerting. But I didn't mind at all. It was kind of fun! A surprise makeshift camping trip! (I was a kid remember and didn't think much beyond the present.) Besides, they were still selling cars so, what was there to worry about?

We did get gas the next morning and continued on our way with no other problems. And a few days later, we made the return trip home just fine. But the whole thing did provide me with a nice story to think back on when gas prices start skyrocketing and I hear someone on the radio blame it on the short supply of crude oil.

I know now, the continual talk of gas shortage is done for a strategic purpose. And on purpose, by those who are in charge of determining our gas price – whoever _they_ might be. It's the same old thing time after time. They use anything they can to raise prices at the pump, particularly during the summer months and the holidays. It's always due to a supposed shortage – this refinery is having problems, that one is closed for repairs, or some tanker collided with something in the ocean and has sprung a leak – any excuse will do. It's a little different scenario than the seventies, but still the same premise. I still don't believe there is any gas shortage. And for good reason. On my way to work today, I drove past three huge car lots. I noticed that all of them were still selling cars.

#### Doing My Research

06-04-2012

It's no secret that writers have to do research – lots of research. No one could possibly have all the facts and figures just rolling around in their head waiting for the right moment to be written down – at least it's not that way for me.

That's why the Internet is so great and makes writing less complicated and faster than it used to be. Once, research entailed spending hours at the library, sifting through volumes of material. It was definitely a lot of work. Now, the same amount of research can be accomplished in a matter of minutes – online. However, there is a small caveat to this – just because it happens to be on the Internet, doesn't make it true. But, that just means there are a few rules to follow, things like, use only reputable sites, verify any information with multiple sources, and don't run with a story until you the information is accurate. (I can think of several well-known reporters who would have done well to take this advice).

So, now the time saved is lost due to double and triple checking everything. Ironic isn't it, that we never seem to be able to actually get more time. Still the research process is much easier, and far more comfortable. I'd much rather spend my research time relaxing in my easy-chair in my own house than to endure the hassle of sitting in the uncomfortable chairs at the library.

But then, there are all the warnings about spending too much time on the Internet to consider. Somebody's always telling us what detrimental health effects it can have, no exercise, eye strain, a sore back, carpal-tunnel syndrome, poor blood circulation, etc. They make it sound bad.

So, what's the point of all this? The point of this blog? Nothing really – except, well, it's nice to be a writer. I have an excuse. If I happen to spend an excessive amount of time on the Internet – just remember, I'm doing "research."

## Island Getaway

06-11-2012

This week marks the twenty-fifth anniversary for me and my wife. We celebrated the event by taking a trip - a weeklong trip. Sounded like a great idea when we planned it but, well, let me start at the beginning.

We got up Saturday morning at 6:30, (that's _way_ too early), had breakfast, and then rode with our daughter to the airport. We checked in, made it through security, and boarded the plane, all without incident. So far, so good, right? Then, things went south.

A Boeing 767 transported us 1000's of miles to the middle of the Pacific Ocean where we are now stuck on an island. Stranded. Marooned. Isolated from the rest of the world. I have now gone literally hours without Internet service!

So far, we've managed to find shelter and enough food. No tidal waves have come swooping over the island either. We were lucky and managed to locate all of our luggage - and it was intact! Even better news is that the natives haven't tried to kill us so evidently, they're not cannibals. In fact, they've treated us very nice - almost like guests on their island. They seem to think life is great here, but then, they live here. To me, it seems a bit more like a real life episode of Gilligan's Island! I'm just not sure which character I'm playing - hopefully not Gilligan. I'd like to think the professor best represents me, and I do have some evidence to support that - after all, I did find a way to connect to the Internet! Maybe I need to work on a way to get us off the island and back home. I'll let you know if I make any progress.

Actually, we are having a great time in Hawaii. The weather is nice, sunny and 85 degrees. The place is not overrun with people, which is good for someone who doesn't like big crowds, and I don't have to go to work! The food is delicious and our room on the 20th floor provides a great view.

Still, being thousands of miles from home on an island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, is a little distressing for home-loving country boy. But I believe I have arranged for us to be "rescued" and taken back to the mainland next week. Maybe in twenty-five years, for our 50th Anniversary, we'll try Alaska.

## Home

06-18-2012

I'm a person who likes to stay at home. I've never particularly enjoyed visiting places and have no desire to travel to foreign countries. I like it at home. Yet, here I am, writing my blog in Hawaii. (Yes, I know that Hawaii is the 50th state and part of the USA - technically. However, in reality, it is the closest to a foreign country, as I want to get).

The reasons are many; I'll list just a few of them. First, the people here don't speak English much, but Hawaiian, or Japanese, or Chinese, or some other language I can't understand. Second, trying to find the way to anywhere touches on the edge of insanity. There are very few things marked, streets and addresses follow no sort of logic. At times, you can see where you want to go, but getting there is next to impossible, especially with the constant parade of traffic and the swarms of pedestrians. Third, asking the locals for information or directions produces a blank stare, followed by a few sentences of useless information totally unrelated to what you needed to know. Or, they might say nothing - just point down the street - which may, or may not be the right direction.

The Hawaiian Islands are supposedly modernized but they aren't quite as advanced as I'm accustomed to. For instance, the idea of debit cards hasn't quite made it here. Most businesses do not process them as debit, but credit cards. They have trouble with such concepts as time - no one is in a hurry at all, and walking on the right side of the walk – they seem to prefer using the left side. And, while they do have Wi-Fi and the Internet, the connection speed leaves much to be desired - and you have to pay for it. But then, not much is free here. Prices are not only exorbitantly high, they are insanely outrageous. At $10 a gallon for milk, $7.50 for a small box of cereal, or over $8 for ice cream, one quickly realizes it's cheaper to simply starve! Unfortunately, an entire week of starvation is not an option.

To most people, Hawaii is considered a tropical paradise, and in many ways, it is. Temperatures are around 85 degrees, it seldom rains, there are plenty of beaches and resorts with an abundance of water sport activities, the food is generally pretty good - as long as your wife doesn't decide to sample some of the questionable local eating establishments and the unsavory cuisine, that is (we tried the Kalua pulled pork - a word of advice - don't), and the scenery, with the aqua-blue ocean, the pristine beaches, the mountains with the waterfalls and scenic overlooks, is all beautiful. Yet, I have all of this where I live - and a lot cheaper! We could've saved ourselves a few thousand dollars and just stayed home!

Okay, I'll admit it's not as bad as I make it sound. My wife and I both had a great time in Hawaii for our 25th anniversary. We visited many interesting places including, Pearl Harbor, Waikiki Beach, The Dole Plantation, The North Shore, and Diamond Head Crater. The weather was nearly perfect the entire week and we were treated very nice. In short, we enjoyed our vacation. But after surviving an extremely long week on this island, we are ready to go home. And since I'm a person who likes to stay home, I think I'll stay there awhile!

## But We Need The Rain

06-25-2012

Taken and adapted from the book, Holy Terror, by Bruce A. Borders.

I live in the desert on purpose. The reason is simple – I don't like rain. Never liked it, never will. In fact, I'd prefer that it never rain at all. Our water supply could be provided by the summer run-off of mountain snow. But apparently, I don't get to decide such matters, as one look out the window will attest. Yes, it's raining, and has been quite a lot this year. At the rate it's going, this normally arid climate will soon be reclassified from desert to rainforest.

I'm convinced that the rain is slowly driving me crazy. The cold temperature. The soggy ground. The damp air. I try to stay busy doing everything I can that needs done – inside. But a guy can only take so much. I've considered moving to the Sahara, where it hasn't rained for around a hundred years – but given my luck, it would rain the first week after I'd arrived. Rain seems to follow me wherever I go.

I've also contemplated offering my services for sale – a modern-day rain man. I wouldn't even need a forked stick, all I'd have to do would be to show up. Then again, it probably wouldn't work. If I actually wanted it to rain, there'd be a drought – sort of inversely raining on my parade.

Yes, rain is definitely one of my many pet peeves – my apologies to anyone who actually likes the stuff. And it appears that, there are quite a few people who do like it, even where I live. (I often wonder what they're doing living in the desert if that's the case). When I complain about the wet weather, I constantly hear them telling me, "But we need the rain."

Actually, we don't.

Rain, and the supposed dependency on rain, is highly over-rated. The existence of deserts and the nomads who have long thrived in those dry climates are proof – life can be sustained without rain. True, farmers like the rain – yet, they're never satisfied. No matter how much precipitation falls, invariably, someone will utter the phrase, "But we need the rain." I seem to hear it two or three times a week.

I have a pretty good idea the last thing Noah heard from outside the ark was a gargled gasp of, "But we need the rain." Then, they all drowned.

Apparently, people haven't changed much.

## Pet Peeves

07-02-2012

I have a lot of pet peeves – a lot of things bug me. I know, a pet peeve is supposed to be _the_ one that irks you more than any other, but I have a hard time deciding on just one. So instead, I keep a running list. It has grown quite large over the years. The list includes; slow drivers when I can't pass, people getting my order wrong at a restaurant, anything resembling rock music, waiting in long lines when I'm in a hurry – and of course, I'm always in a hurry. Also on the list: shaving with a dull razor, high prices of practically anything, winter – in its entirety, and running out of ink – even though I have three printers in my office. As you can see, the list covers a broad spectrum of subjects. It's quite long and there seems to be no common thread other than these things really bug me. I once thought of making one of those tear-away calendars – one with each day of the year. Each sheet would proclaim a different pet peeve for the day. I soon discovered that wouldn't quite cut it, 365 days just isn't enough! Perhaps a five-year calendar would work better?

At any rate, now that summer is here, and being that I'm a truck driver, you can probably guess what currently tops my list – road construction, miles and miles of road construction. In itself, the construction wouldn't be so bad – _if_ the road actually needed repairing. The problem is, most of the construction going on is to replace a perfectly good highway. I think they're just fabricating jobs and wasting money. I've driven the same stretch of road for more than fifteen years, this summer marks the fifth time they've resurfaced the same portions of that road. Then, to make things worse, the construction brings about another of my pet peeves – slow drivers. I don't mind that they slow down a little, but when the posted construction zone speed limit is 50 mph, and I routinely follow people through it at 30 mph, or even slower, I get a bit antsy.

To my credit, to date, I have not used the 95,000-pound semi to push anyone out of my way! I'll admit it sounds tempting and could easily be done - but no, I just take a breath and add the driver to my list. And then add another half an hour or so to my day, arriving home much later than I should have – you guessed it, another pet peeve. Then, that cuts into my time at home – just one more of my pet peeves.

You see my problem? How one thing leads to another? Pretty soon, a cascading of pet peeves is released. As they pile up, my list keeps growing. It's getting hard to keep track of them all.

I suppose I could just quit my job – and eliminate over half the items on the list in one shot. But, not having any income and eventually, no vehicle and no house (or much of anything else), my list would again balloon, and probably be larger than it is now. I guess the only thing I can do is complain about it.

Perhaps I should revisit the idea of a calendar. Is there such a thing as a ten-year calendar? That might do it. Writing everything down and then tearing off the paper might even prove therapeutic. My wife says far too many things bug me. Maybe so. She's usually right about that kind of stuff. Hmm. Where is my list?

## Kids Do Dumb Stuff

07-09-2012

Kids do dumb stuff sometimes. Not an earth-shattering statement, I realize. Doing dumb things is part of growing up. And the great part is that everyone alive is either a kid or once was a kid – so everybody can relate – whether they want to admit it or not. Some don't, but I will.

I can't remember if I was six or seven at the time, but the rest I recall quite well. A friend and I were walking from my house to his – just across the street. As we crossed the road, we noticed a car approaching in the distance. For some reason, we both suddenly stopped walking and faced the oncoming car with arms stretched out like we were daring the driver to hit us.

At the same instant, we both realized that the white car coming toward us was a state patrol vehicle. "Cop!" we yelled, and made a mad dash for the bushes surrounding his house. Then, staying out of sight, we retreated behind the shed. Our efforts to escape were futile, however. A few seconds later, the officer pulled into the driveway and went to ring the bell. My friend's Mom listened as the cop explained why he was there and then she came looking for us.

For the next several minutes, we were treated to a lecture about how dangerous our behavior was. I remember thinking, _Does he really think we're dumb enough to stand there and wait until the car runs us over?_ Apparently, he did, because when I asked him, he repeated how dangerous it was and said that we could've been killed. Eventually, the cop left. My friend's Mom didn't really say a whole lot – just shook her head. I guess she figured we'd learned our lesson.

But, remember what I said about kids doing dumb stuff?

It continued to bother me that the cop actually thought I'd simply stand there in the street with a car coming and not move – long before it had a chance to hit me. I'm not sure who I was trying to prove it to, certainly not the cop, who I never saw again, but several months later, I decided to try it again. Not wanting to get my friend in trouble, this time, I was alone. I chose a darker colored car, but other than that, everything was much the same. Same street, same place. And at about the same distance, I realized the approaching car was a county cop! Twice in a row! What were the odds?

No, I didn't get in trouble again. Why? Let's just say that one kid can effectively disappear a whole lot easier than two.

## Losing Things On The Road

07-16-2012

In my daily travels along the Interstate, I see a lot of junk strewn alongside the road. I'm not talking garbage or trash people have thrown out, but things that until they fell out of a vehicle moving at 70 mph, were perfectly fine. Now supposedly, its bad luck to lose something out of a vehicle while driving. Well, duh! You don't have your stuff anymore – that's not exactly a stroke of good fortune!

It's amazing though, just how much people lose. I've seen everything from clothes and purses to dressers and beds; from suitcases and lamps to toolboxes and ladders. Once, I even saw a busted up piano. Something tells me it probably no longer played.

I often wonder what these people were thinking when they set off down the road without tying or strapping down their possessions securely. Maybe they just didn't care. Or, in the case of heavy objects like a refrigerator or piano, they didn't want to have to unload it. Me, I like my stuff and I'd like to keep it, so I tie it down. Besides, replacing things is rather expensive.

Perhaps the most interesting thing I've seen on the side of the road was a mirror. A big mirror. The kind that hangs at the end of some grand hallway in a fancy estate. What was especially fascinating about the mirror is that it wasn't broken. The edges of the wooden frame were a little banged up but other than that, there it was, defying all logic, leaning up against the guardrail, the glass gleaming brightly in the afternoon sun. A shinning example that even the most predictable outcomes can sometimes be very unpredictable. How does a mirror fall from a moving vehicle, land on the hard pavement, roll to a stop up against a solid surface, and not shatter into a million pieces?

Just luck, I suppose.

## My First Job

07-23-2012

Remember the small, neighborhood grocery store? The kind where, when you walked in, it was like visiting a friend's house? Where everyone knew your name and treated you like family? These days, the giant supermarkets have replaced many of the neighborhood grocery stores. They may have more of a selection but something seems to be missing.

As a kid, I lived next door to one of those friendly hometown grocery stores. I'm sure there are probably 5000 laws, or so, against this now, (in 1970, we didn't have all the dumb laws to make everything illegal) but at age three that store provided me with my first job. Yes, I started working a little young, although it wasn't exactly a strenuous job, not a child labor camp kind of deal. Twice a week, on freight day, I went to work.

After the truck driver, Tiny, - yes, I still remember his name - delivered the freight, and all the product had been put away, it was my job to take all of the boxes to the shed out back. A pretty easy job for the most part, except that some of the boxes were bigger than I was. Okay, _most_ of the boxes were bigger than I was. But, I managed. I flipped them upside down, over my head and carried them, one at a time. I was later told it was a little comical to see – a cardboard box with two feet sticking out of the bottom, walking itself out of the store and around the building to the shed. The job took no more than a half an hour and for this I was paid 25 cents - 50 cents per week!

When the owners sold the store I thought that'd be the end of my job but then, I was hired by the new owner. (I suspect the previous owners might have had something to do with that). But, as is usually the case with new bosses, the job changed a little. More duties were added. Instead of just piling the boxes in the shed, I had to break them down and stack them in the corner by the door. And, once all the boxes were out of the store, I had to sweep the floor. However, with the added work came a raise! Double my previous wage; 50 cents per day and, my first benefit package – a candy bar and soda pop when the job was finished!

The store is gone now, and the house is gone; replaced by a huge shopping center, with a giant supermarket. They call it progress. Probably no one remembers the little boy who used to carry boxes with only his feet showing. The good news is that in the last forty plus years, I've progressed too. And while driving truck isn't that much more difficult than carrying boxes, I do manage to earn a bit more than a dollar a week!

## Moving Out

07-30-2012

I remember the day I moved out of my parent's house. Eighteen years old and ready to face the world. I loaded everything I owned in a green 1973 Impala and drove 2000 miles away. It felt good to be on my own and, for better or worse, I was the master of my own destiny.

I won't try to convince anyone that I was actually grown up, or mature - too many people are still around who knew me then. I did have a job and paid all my bills, but I was still a kid. The good news is, I learned an awful lot of stuff that can only be acquired through experience. And the bad news is, I learned a lot of stuff that can only be acquired through experience.

In less than a month, my son will be leaving for school. Moving out, and living on his own. Aside from making me feel old, I have rather mixed emotions about the whole thing. On one hand, I'm glad for him. He has a great opportunity, and is a responsible person, I'm sure he can manage. On the other hand, he will be moving a long ways away. That wouldn't be so bad except that I know he'll have to learn some of the same stuff I learned - and through experience. That's what has me feeling somewhat apprehensive.

I should be used to this by now. My two older children moved out a few years ago, so I should be all practiced up and able to handle this one with no problem. Yeah, right. My daughters didn't move that far away, and I'm still around if they need me. (Which they rarely do, but its okay to pretend, right?) The difference this time is I'm afraid my son may be a little too much like his father.

That could be a good sign though. After all, I made it - and for the most part unscathed. Yet, I'm sure that won't help when a few weeks from now my son loads up all his belongings and set off down the road. But, on the bright side - at least I'll know how my parents felt the day I left home.

## Playing With Fire

08-05-2012

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

## A Picture's Worth A Thousand Words

08-12-2012

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

## Down In The Dumps

08-19-2012

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

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

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

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

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

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

## The Amusement Park

08-26-2012

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

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

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

## Electrical Education

09-03-2012

I had a strong fascination with electricity when I was a kid – still do; only now, I also have a healthy respect for it. After I learned the hard way its not really something to play with.

I was six years old. My parents had gone away on a trip, leaving my brother and I with some of their friends to watch us at our house. As anyone knows, it's much easier to get away with things you normally wouldn't be able to do when your parents aren't around. I should have been content with that but no; I chose to take the opportunity to attempt to electrocute myself. That wasn't my intention - that's just the way it turned out.

In my dad's toolbox, I found a short piece of bare wire, about eight inches long, with an alligator clip attached to one end. I took the wire to my room, not really knowing what for at that point. But, I figured there had to be something exciting I could do with it. There was.

In my room, I had a small metal wall heater located about four inches from a plugin. For some reason, I thought it'd be a good idea to attach the alligator clip to the heater and then insert the other end into the plug. I guess I wanted to see what would happen. What happened was, the instant the wire made contact, I got a severe jolt, as blue and orange sparks flew. But that wasn't the worst of it. My little miniature arc welder welded the alligator clip to the heater and the other end to the plug. And then it melted the skin on my forefinger and thumb together around the wire.

Of course, the burning feeling and continuous surging of electricity caused me to jerk my hand back. The only result of that was my fingers slid smoothly down the wire; I couldn't let go. At some point, I started yelling – probably the very second I felt the first volt enter my fingers. Everyone in the house rushed into my room where my plight was quite obvious. The guy who rescued me said later, he knew that if he'd touched me or the wire he'd have wound up in the same predicament as I. Lucky for me, he also knew what to do.

He quickly removed his thick leather belt, and I thought I was getting a spanking. Instead, he looped the belt around the wire and gave it a quick pull. The relief was instant! No more shocking and burning feeling! Still, one small problem remained; my fingers were still melded together. A little persuasion from a pocketknife and I again had the use of all five digits on that hand.

I still have the scars on my finger and thumb but I don't think I need them to remember the experience. The incident left a rather searing impression on my brain as well and I never attempted a repeat performance. But, I have a son who a lot of people say is a lot like me – right down to his early and unhealthy interest in electricity.

He was three at the time. We were at my parent's house and like his father; he decided plugins were meant to have things, other than a plug, inserted into them – keys in this instance. Unlike his father, he _was_ able to let go but not before creating his own artistic display of fireworks and making a unique set of black marks on the wall. He suffered no long-term ill effects (we think) but never seemed to want to discuss the incident much. However, his interest in electricity wasn't totally dispelled. In fact, this past week, he started Lineman College. Apparently, he too, decided electricity isn't something to play with – he's going to make a career of it.

## Strangely Normal

09-10-2012

People sometimes think I'm a little strange and – well, I'll neither confirm nor deny it. But, _if_ I am, I think I have a pretty good idea why. My teachers. Not all of them, but enough. It's a wonder I'm sane at all considering the odd behavior of some of them.

I'll describe a few – without names of course. See? I _can_ a be nice guy.

Grade school. One of my teachers was a particularly grouchy lady, who made a habit of not paying attention to much of anything. She continually gave us erroneous facts and information and "corrected" our supposed mistakes. Then, she'd get really cranky when anyone (me) pointed it out. A quick example: I had to write a report on a family summer activity, and I chose our vacation to Missouri. In my report, I mentioned several towns we'd visited, including Flat River and Zalma. When my graded report was returned, both of those towns were circled in red with a note that said Zalma was spelled with an 'e' on the end and it was the Platte River, not Flat River. However, had she actually read the report, she would have noticed that Flat River was indeed a town and not a river. As for the spelling of Zalma, a quick check of a map would have told her it was correct. (My parents helped set her straight). This scenario was repeated throughout the year, with me, as well as other students.

Then, there was the teacher who had severe anger issues. The slightest little thing would set him off. His face would turn beet-red, he'd yell and cuss at us, and throw things. A couple of years after I was in his class, he finally lost it and threw a javelin through a kid's neck. For some reason, they didn't let him teach after that.

Another of my teachers used to spend more time in the Kindergarten class and the teacher's lounge than in his own classroom. It seems he was rather fond of the Kindergarten teacher and his wife wouldn't let him bring her home. To be fair, that only lasted a couple of years – until the divorce.

While these may seem a bit odd, they weren't the worst. That distinction belongs to another grade school teacher, a woman we called Mrs. Wacky Wafer. Now, before you start thinking we were being disrespectful or rude, let me just say we had a good reason for giving her that name. The _very_ old lady, who should have retired long before I reached her class, was – well, eccentric. That does sound better than saying she was crazy, doesn't it? She routinely forgot our names, and her name, assigned us the same homework two or more days in a row, and sometimes even forgot which classroom was ours after recess. One day, shortly after lunch, she announced that she had to go talk with the principal for a few minutes – and never came back!

The great part was it usually was easy to convince her that we hadn't had recess yet. In fact, it was pretty simple to convince her of just about anything. And those times when she'd re-assign us the previous day's homework - I just turned in the same paper again! Once, my grade even improved!

After writing this, I'm wondering how I managed to get any education in grade school. And, now that I think about it, I've decided that I'm not the least bit strange after all. Just a normal guy. And, in light of some of the teachers I had, that is definitely strange.

## Pick Up The Tools

09-17-2012

"Put the tools away when you're done using them," – one of my dad's favorite sayings when I was younger. Apparently, my brother and I had a little difficulty with that concept. We'd use his tools to fix our bikes, to work on toys, or to build things, and then we'd forget to finish the job, leaving screwdrivers, sockets, wrenches, hammers (and anything else we dug out of his toolbox) laying wherever we'd been working – usually in the yard. He'd find them the next day, or the next week, or later. Sometimes, they were still usable!

Bigger tools like rakes, shovels, and picks were not immune from our absent-minded approach to tool placement. We'd drop them, and then leave them, moving on to other things.

One day, we decided to use my dad's tools to dig a tunnel under the street, from one side to the other. The street went up a fairly steep hill and the place we set up our operation, the top of the road measured about fifteen or twenty feet off the ground level. We worked more than a single day on our project, weeks in fact. Eventually, we had a sizeable tunnel, big enough for both of us to fit inside and work, standing up. Digging the dirt loose with a pick and then loading it with shovels into a wheelbarrow, we hauled it out.

To help keep our work hidden, the entrance to our tunnel was obscured by some bushes and a large pile of dirt from the excavation of a building site for a new church. The pile of dirt outside grew daily, but apparently, no one seems to notice the exact size of a pile of dirt.

We managed to dig the tunnel, maybe a quarter of the way across the street – and then we moved, leaving everything as it was under the street. Everything included my dad's pick and maybe a shovel or two. A driveway for the new church building is now where the opening of our tunnel was, and after more than thirty years, I think it's safe to assume the street is not going to collapse – at least I hope not. On the other hand, maybe that wouldn't be so bad. I might find my dad's pick! Or, not.

After this incident, (and several others) you'd think I would have learned to put tools away when I was finished with them. But no, I still haven't. I don't generally leave them in the yard though.

This past weekend, I stopped at my parents' house. My dad is building a retaining wall behind his house and while I was there, I went around to take a look at his progress. The wall is coming along nicely, but that's not what captured my attention. There, with a couple of shovels, was a pick. I guess at some point in the last thirty-some years, he replaced it. Although, he might not have it long. Now, I know he wasn't actually done using it when I was there, however, when I saw it, the pick was laying in the yard!

## High Crime Area

09-24-2012

I may have to move. The town where I live is trying its best to become a big city, and not just through a population growth. It seems the crime rate is also rising.

About a month ago, I arrived home from work one morning at my usual time, approximately five a.m. Turning onto my street, I was greeted by a scene of flashing lights from no less than a half dozen police cars. Crime scene tape was stretched across the road just on the other side of my house.

My first thought was, "They better let me into my drive!" After working all night, driving 715 miles, the last thing I wanted to do was argue with the cops about whether I'm allowed to go home or not.

Weaving my way through the cop cars, which were parked haphazardly on the street, I was able to maneuver my pickup into the driveway. No officers said anything, although I did get quite a few long stares.

Waking my wife, I asked what had happened, but she didn't know. Whatever it was, she had slept through it. It took a couple of hours to find out exactly what she'd slept through. Apparently, our neighbor lady, two houses up, had shot her husband and then herself. He lived. She didn't. My wife must be a fairly sound sleeper! Crime scene investigators were on the scene until late that afternoon.

Since that day, there has been a wave of violent crimes including, another domestic shooting death, two men beaten to death on the street – on separate occasions, and most recently, local police officers shot and killed a man who tried to attack them with a knife.

That's an awful lot of crime fatalities for a relatively small community in one month. We've had more than our share it would seem. But hopefully, things will settle down for a while now. I never intended to live in a high crime area!

Okay, I'm not really thinking of moving. I know there are nut jobs committing violent crime everywhere. Moving wouldn't change that. Besides, if I even considered the possibility of moving, my grandkids would probably kill me!

## The Collector

09-30-2012

Being a guy who rarely throws anything away, it's quite natural that I'd be a collector. That has a much better ring to it than hoarder, I think. My career as a collector began early in life, when like a lot of young boys I decided that I needed to collect things – anything and lots of things. Like what, you ask? Priceless works of art and antiques? Not hardly. I'm more of an average guy. My collections were not exactly junk though; I saved things like stamps, coins, candles, and fish eyes. Really! I kept them in a plastic bag on my windowsill. At least until my mother found them. I came home from school one day and no longer had my fish eye collection.

As I grew older, the types of things I collected changed. Belt buckles, hats, Johnny Cash albums, and books. I still have most of my collections, except for the fish eyes, I've hauled them all over the country as I've moved, boxes and boxes of stuff. These days, I don't really collect that much anymore. I have enough junk, I think – at least that's what my wife tells me.

At some point, I'll have to go through and sort all my treasures, I suppose. Maybe see if any of my stamps or coins are worth anything. Because, there is one thing I do still collect – dollars!

## Making My Own Road

10-08-2012

With over fifty-five million miles of roads in America, there should be a road for anywhere a guy wants to go, right? Well, you'd think so, but that's not always the case. Sometimes a guy has to make his own road.

Several years ago, my wife and I were in Nashville, where I was trying to get onto Interstate 24. Normally, that's an easy thing to do but this day they had construction at the interchange with barrels set up blocking the on-ramp. I followed the detour signs for I-24 south – and ended up going north. Figuring I'd misread the sign, I circled around the cloverleaf and in a couple of minutes, was back where I'd started. This time, I double checked the signs – and followed the same route – right onto I-24 north. Of course, I was complaining the whole time, while my wife seemed convinced that I'd just made a wrong turn – twice. So, we went around again. And again, ended up going the wrong direction. And we weren't alone. The car in front of us and the pickup behind us were driving in circles too – and they had Tennessee plates!

By this time, I was a little more than frustrated. I could see the road I needed to be on but following the signs did not get me there. Admittedly, I don't have a lot of patience – about three-times-around-a-cloverleaf's worth as it turns out. My wife made some remark to the effect that we couldn't get there from here, to which I responded, "Oh yeah?" Sometimes a guy has to make his own road.

Driving partway around the cloverleaf again, I chose a nice level grassy area and turned. Traveling across the median, the other side of the freeway (which was closed), and then crossing some more ground, I angled the car up the hill, merging onto the on-ramp for I-24 SOUTH! There were none of those pesky police officers around so I didn't get a ticket. And while my wife thought I was a little nuts, the guy behind me in the pickup must have thought I had a good idea because he followed.

A few years later, I was driving a semi in a major metropolitan area just blocks from where I needed to deliver. All I had to do, I thought, was make a left turn at the next light and go a short distance. But, due to construction (again!), I was forced to make a right turn instead. The flagger assured me that I could go a couple of blocks down and then go around the block to get back on the road in the right direction. "Just follow the signs," he said.

I did find the signs and the detour like he'd told me – the only problem was, the road went under a bridge marked 9' 4" and my trailer was 13' 6". So, I continued down the road, watching both sides of every crossroad. Low clearance signs were posted on every single one. And then ahead of me, I saw another low clearance sign – I was trapped. But, I didn't panic. I knew what to do.

On the left, was an empty parking lot – just wide enough to turn a semi around. And with several people from the nearby apartment complex watching, I drove the truck up over the curb, making a circle to get back on the street. Unfortunately, a semi weighs considerably more than a car and I left deep tracks across the grass – trenches would be more accurate.

Arriving back to where the flagger was, just in case any more trucks came by, I stopped and told him about the problems with his detour. He was surprised and apologetic, and then wanted to know how I'd gotten turned back around. I shrugged and said, "Sometimes a guy has to make his own road."

## Read, Read, Read

10-15-2012

Ever since I learned to read, I loved books. Not just kids books, lots of books, almost any book – well, except for textbooks. I had a strong aversion to anything school related.

I used to make weekly trips to the county library and check out stacks of books. I had a mission; to read every book they had on the shelves. The library, on the other hand, seemed to want to thwart my efforts by imposing a limit of a ridiculously low number of books any one person could check out at one time, twelve as I recall. Fortunately for me, my school had a library as well. Yes, finding a way around rules and restrictions was another thing I loved when I was a kid.

I came up with a lot of methods to extend my reading time. For instance, after going to bed, when I was supposed to be asleep, I'd use a flashlight under the covers, with the pillow propped up to help shield the light, and I would read until the wee hours of the morning. If my parents came to check on me, the flashlight was instantly clicked off, the pillow allowed to fall, covering the book, and my head came out from under the covers to fall onto the pillow – all in about two seconds.

My cantankerous nature was not limited to just making time to read however. Rules are made to be broken so the saying goes. One day, my third-grade teacher made the mistake of telling the class we were not allowed to leave the school grounds without her permission, and if we tried, we WOULD be caught! That sounded like a challenge to me.

After a couple of days of playing by the gate at every recess – to get the teachers used to seeing me in that area - one Thursday morning, at the first recess, I slipped through the gate, disappearing around the big evergreen bushes. From there, it was simple to make it around the corner unseen. Then, I casually strolled on downtown. At two forty-five, I was standing in line to get on the bus, like normal. The next day, I arrived at school with a dubious feeling of accomplishment. I hadn't been caught, but I couldn't very well point that out to the teacher, or anyone else for that matter. That sort of robbed me of my sense of victory. I had to be content with just knowing that I'd done it and that the teacher was wrong.

Oh, yeah. Just in case anyone is wondering – where does a nine-year-old go while skipping school for over five hours? The library. At least that's where I went. They had a couple of books I hadn't read.

## Electronic Age

10-21-2012

This past week, my daughter's electricity went out for a short period, but apparently, that was still too long. She asked me how people ever managed in the old days. And I replied, they didn't, they invented electricity.

That got me to thinking of all the things we use on a daily basis that require electricity in one form or another. Microwaves, cell phones, computers, refrigerators, stoves, toasters, radios, cars, traffic lights, power tools, lights and heat, washers and dryers, to name a few. We depend on these things and many more just to survive. Electricity powers our daily existence.

Yet, the people who lived in the so-called old days were not nearly as lost as we would be without our modern conveniences. They were not dependent upon electricity like today's society. They had everything they needed; hand tools for working and building things, a horse and buggy for transportation, a fireplace or stove for heat. And the list continues: oil lamps, wood-cook stoves, iceboxes, washboards, etc. Most households these days have very few of those things - if any.

Not long ago, I heard that four out of five homes in America rely entirely on electricity to heat their homes – with no backup. And most of the other twenty percent would last only a few days with their limited supply of wood or fuel oil. So, if the country were to suddenly be without power for any extended period, I think it's safe to say there would be widespread chaos.

I'd like to believe that I'd fare better than most. Having been privileged to live before a lot of these modern conveniences, I think I'd be okay. I don't really need all that stuff to survive anyway. Well, except for my computer. And my phone. Maybe central air and heat. Oh, and a microwave. And running water is nice. Then of course, there's my pickup and...

My Wife Doesn't Know Me

10-28-2012

Wouldn't you think a wife should recognize her husband? Even if they were newlyweds, I would think she would be familiar enough with him that seeing him walking down the street should ring a bell. But, I apparently would be wrong.

Shortly after my wife and I were married, we were visiting a small town in Wyoming. I'd gone into the store and my wife was outside with my mother. When I returned from a different direction than my wife was expecting, it took her a few seconds to realize who I was – although, she'd been looking at me the whole time. Of course, I gave her a hard time about checking out the cowboy she saw walking down the street. (Hopefully, she thought I was at least as good looking as her husband).

I did find it a little odd that she hadn't recognized me. I guess I could chalk it up to the fact that we were in a strange town, or that I wasn't where she'd thought I would be \- or something. Maybe the three or four years she'd known me at that point wasn't quite long enough to recognize me from a distance. Whatever the reason, I really didn't think she was going senile – yet. Several years later though, I began to wonder.

I was driving down the freeway in my semi, when my wife and one of our daughters passed me - my daughter was driving and my wife was in the passenger seat. I'd seen the car coming in my mirror, and when they went by, I waved – and got a blank stare. She didn't know me! I waved again – still no response. And it gets worse. Later, I learned my daughter had told her it was me they were passing and my wife had said she didn't think so.

All right, to be fair, the sun had gone down, and it was getting a little dark. Still, I would think after twenty years or so of being married to me, the woman should recognize her own husband! I realized I have aged, but not _that_ much.

But then, maybe I shouldn't be too critical. Not long ago, I pulled into my driveway and wondered who that was trimming roses in the yard. She looked kind of familiar, I thought, but it was quite a long few seconds before I recognized her. Yeah, you guessed it. It was my wife.

## How Much Am I Making?

11-05-2012

Never agree to do a job without knowing how much you'll be paid - a good principle to live by that I learned the hard way.

I'm not sure how old we were but when my brother and I were in grade school, the lady who lived a block away on the corner hired us to clean up her yard. No big deal – we thought. It was a small yard. "I'll pay you," she said.

So, on Saturday morning, eager to earn some money, we reported for duty. The lady had everything ready - rakes, shovels, trash bags, and a wheelbarrow. After she untied her dog and put it in the house, we set to work, figuring we'd be done in an hour or two.

Not quite.

What the lady had failed to tell us was just how bad the yard was. Aside from the normal yard debris of twigs and leaves, there was garbage – as in household garbage. Apparently, her yard doubled as her own private city dump! It smelled horrible. And, as you can imagine, keeping a dog tied in the yard didn't help matters either. Neither did the multiple cats. Then to add a little more to the mix, a fruit tree (apple, I think) had dropped its fruit on the ground for who knows how long. It all added up to a gooey, slimy, and very smelly mess, anywhere from six inches to a foot deep.

By noon, we were barely half done. Taking a short break, we went home to eat lunch. But, I don't think either one of us were that hungry. Afterward, we returned for more "fun." Late that afternoon, we finally finished. All the slime and scum had been shoveled, raked, and carted away; the yard cleaned down to the bare ground. We cleaned up the tools and then knocked on the woman's door.

She came outside to have a look and was very impressed. And appreciative; thanking us profusely and telling us what a nice job we'd done. And then, she remembered she'd promised to pay us. "Wait just a minute," she told us, disappearing into the house.

Soon she returned with our pay, handing each of us a quarter. Yep, one quarter. Twenty-five cents for eight hours of work! And not the most pleasant of jobs.

And that's how I learned to establish wages _before_ agreeing to do the job. I learned something else that day too. Never clean up someone else's mess!

## To Do List

11-12-2012

I make lists. To do lists. Partly because I can't ever seem to remember everything that needs done and partly just to experience the satisfaction of crossing things off when I complete them.

Every week, I have twenty or more pressing things to do, and I put them on the list as I think of them – usually at night when I'm driving and have nothing better to do than think. The next day, I get done what I can, cross those items off the list and then go to work. And add more things to the list, quite often more than I crossed off. It's a continuous cycle that has been ongoing for the last twenty plus years. On weekends, at the expense of sleep, I try to get everything caught up; cross everything off the list. Try, but it never works. I haven't had an empty list (if there is such a thing) since - well, ever. The more I do, the more there is to be done.

I've been told my problem is I have too many aspirations, that I really should just relax, not make a list, and not try to do anything. My question is, what exactly would that accomplish? Nothing. I have only so many days until I die. I sincerely hope I have my list done before that happens. But, if the last twenty years are any indication, I probably won't. And that presents quite a problem – how will I ever be able to rest in peace, knowing my list isn't done?

Until recently, it seemed the only way around the dilemma was just not to die. I'm pretty sure that's not a viable option. Obviously, I'm not going to live forever - although so far, it's working quite well. But, back to my conundrum, I think I have found a solution. It's simple really. If I can manage for my body to outlive my brain, I'll never be able to think of anything to add to my list. No list – _voilà_ , problem solved. After reading this blog, some will no doubt insist that my brain is already going so I should have nothing to worry about. I would love to argue the point but I don't have time. The weekend is here and I have a long list of things to do.

##### Dogs Versus Cats

11-19-2012

I'm a dog person. Or, rather, I am a person who likes dogs, not some sort of cross breed of the two. Being that humans and canines are completely different species, that would be most unusual. My point is I am fond of dogs, not cats. And I think both of them can tell my preference because dogs seem to gravitate to me, while cats tend to slink away. I have a lot of reasons for my partiality to dogs, as I'm sure all you people who prefer cats do. If you are one of the strange sort who like cats, that's okay. I won't try to change your mind; I just have a story to tell.

Several years ago, my dad and I went exploring one day in the middle of Wyoming. We were miles away from civilization and hoping to find something of interest. And we did.

Walking on a high plateau, with a huge cliff in front of us, the scenery was breathtaking. Wanting to get a better view of the valley below, I moved forward and peered over the edge of the cliff. And there, not six feet down the wall, on a small rock outcropping, sat a cougar, or mountain lion if you prefer.

Not being a fan of cats in general, and particularly not ones big enough to kill me, I wasn't impressed. Since the only gun I had with me was a .22 pistol, I did the most prudent thing I could think of and slowly backed away, half expecting the startled cougar to bound over the rock rim and come after me. To my relief it stayed put. Like I said earlier, cats tend to move away from me. Apparently, it didn't like me any more than I liked it, which was not much. Not that I would have enjoyed the prospect of seeing a wild dog (wolf) in the same situation.

Fast-forward a few years. My job of driving truck consists of hauling garbage to the high dessert to a landfill – at night. As you can imagine, it's not all that unusual to see cougars there scrounging for food, especially in the dry years. One night, just as I pulled the air brakes on, I saw one – a big one. It was standing about twenty feet in front of my truck seemingly unafraid of the sound of the engine, or the horn, I found.

I wasn't about to get out as long as the cat was there – once again, I didn't have a gun to shoot it. Thinking I might be there a while, I prepared to sit back and wait, watching it as it stared back at me. Then, for some unknown reason, the big cat suddenly sprang off to the left, disappearing across the field. Something had spooked it, that was obvious. I didn't know what though, until I opened the door and got out. And then I heard them – a pack of coyotes yapping. From the sound of it, they were very close and getting closer. Now I knew why the cat had been scared away – the coyotes, members of the dog family, had come to my rescue! See? As I said, dogs gravitate to me and cats slink away. Just the way it ought to be, I think. After all, I'm a dog person.

The End

### About The Author

Bruce A. Borders was born in 1967 in Cape Girardeau, MO. Bruce's childhood years were spent in a number of states, including Missouri, Oregon, Wisconsin, and Wyoming.

During his high school years, he was a member of the football, basketball and track teams, involved in various non-athletic activities such as school yearbook production and photography, and won numerous awards for his artistic creations. Bruce graduated Valedictorian in 1984

While in school, Bruce held three part-time jobs: a store clerk, a janitor, and a dental technician, working about 60-70 hours per week. After graduation, he became employed full time as a dental technician. Other jobs have included restaurant manager, carpenter, and grocery store cashier. For the past sixteen years, he has worked as a commercial truck driver, logging more than two million miles.

At the age of fifteen, Bruce decided to become a writer. He began by writing songs, news articles, and short stories. Eventually, books were added to the list. Over the years, he continued to write and currently has a catalog of more than 500 songs, numerous short stories, and twelve books. He writes on a variety of subjects such as the Bible and politics, as well as fictional novels of legal issues and westerns.

For more information, visit his websites at:

bruceaborders.com or

bruceabordersbooks.weebly.com

Read Bruce's Blog at:

bruceabordersbooks.weebly.com/blog.html

### Other Books by Bruce A. Borders

Ebooks or Print Version available at most retailers or  
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Over My Dead Body Preview

Miscarriage of Justice Preview

The Journey

The Little Green Man In The Red Apple Tree

The Only Bible The King James Version

### The Wynn Garrett Series

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#1 Mistaken Identity (Free Download \- Ebook)

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#3 Remote Control

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Preview of Over My Dead Body  
by Bruce A. Borders.

Thwack! The bullet bit into the side of the wooden doorframe, inches from the man's head, spraying splinters into his face. The initial shock lasted only briefly, as survival instinct took over, compelling the man to action. Diving back into the house, he kicked the door shut and crawled to the kitchen.

"Get in the basement," he shouted to his wife.

Outside, an authoritative and commanding voice blasted orders through a megaphone. The eerie sound echoed through the walls of the house.

"And what are you going to do?" the worried woman asked nervously. "You can't stop them all. Those are cops!"

"Don't worry about what I'm going to do," he replied tersely. "Just take Ashley and go to the basement."

His wife scooped up their three-year-old daughter. Half running, half falling, she stumbled down the stairs. Reaching the bottom, she heard the door above her slam. In a daze, she scrambled to the far corner, crouching under her husband's workbench, huddling with her daughter.

After they were safely out of sight, her husband moved swiftly to the bedroom. In grim determination, he retrieved a key from his desk. His jaw set with a resolute purpose, he strode to the gun cabinet in the den.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The June day had begun like any other, a typical Monday morning. Jeff Blake left for work at the usual six-thirty a.m. Arriving at the investment brokerage firm of Avian Financial Services downtown Fairfield, where he worked as an investment advisor, he sauntered into the office shortly before eight o'clock. In the distance, a factory whistle blew, proclaiming the beginning of the workweek.

Deeply immersed in paperwork, Jeff hardly noticed as his secretary, twenty-three year old Janet Dempson, came in to announce his nine o'clock appointment with a potential new client, Mr. Clint Parkens. Shuffling through mountainous piles of files, heaped on the desk, he looked up as she ushered the man in. Smiling politely, Jeff invited his visitor to have a seat. With a slight nod, the man sat down.

Pushing the paperwork aside, Jeff asked, "What can we do for you today?"

"I want to make some investments," the well-dressed man answered curtly. "But I don't want to lose any money."

Again, Jeff smiled. The edgy wariness was a quite common attribute among first time investors. In a calm, reassuring and soothing tone, he explained the investment process. Unlike many advisors, he always made it a point to stress the fact there were no guarantees in this business.

"Investing doesn't have to be a losing proposition," he began. "There are several safeguards available, but it is still a gamble. The greater the risk, the more you stand to gain on the investment. Of course," he added, "if you're not willing to take a major risk, we have a number of options which generally provide modest returns. It's really up to each individual, according to their own comfort level. But unfortunately," he repeated, "there are no guarantees."

Across the desk, the man seated in the posh corner office said nothing, staring straight at Jeff; he remained lost in thought, contemplating what he'd been told.

Jeff had seen it before; the uncertain look, the reluctance to commit. With the expertise of a seasoned salesman, he gently prodded the hesitant client.

"We could start small," he suggested. "That would provide an opportunity to become familiar with the process and a chance to build some confidence as you learn the business of investing. Then when you're comfortable, you can increase the investment capital as you see fit."

"I was thinking more along the lines of you providing me with the essential information I need to make a profit," Clint said bluntly.

"Well, we offer advice," Jeff patiently explained. "But the decisions of where to place your money and how much to invest, are strictly up to you, the investor."

The man's calm demeanor abruptly changed. "Look," he said, "I'll cut to the chase. You're an investment broker, which means you have certain privileged information; valuable information; information I can't get."

"Yes," Jeff acknowledged. "We base our recommendations on information such as past performance, industry trends, and other leading market indicators."

Clint Parkens shook his head. "I'm talking about what you know regarding stocks and pricing – beforehand."

"Mr. Parkens, what you are suggesting is known as insider trading," Jeff said in a sharp tone. "It's not only highly unethical, but illegal. We, as any reputable firm, simply do not engage in that type of practice."

"Except for yourself, a few close friends and family, right?" Clint sneered.

"No," Jeff said slowly, his manner now more subdued. "It's illegal for me to personally act on, or provide insider information to anyone."

Clint scowled, glaring at the investment advisor. "You have a three-year-old daughter, don't you?" he asked with a hostile tone.

Caught off guard, Jeff didn't know what to say. "Uh, yes," he stuttered, glancing involuntarily at the picture on his desk. He wondered how this client, whom he'd never met, had known about Ashley. And what relevance did it have to their conversation?

As if in answer to Jeff's unspoken questions, Clint said, "You don't know me but, I'm the Director of Child Protective Services for Grover County."

"Okay," Jeff replied, still not sure where Mr. Parkens was going with all this.

"All I have to do is give the word and your daughter, Ashley," he added with intent, "will be taken into protective custody. And you," he said, wagging a finger, "will never see her again."

Blake studied his client. The man was dead serious; his unblinking stare didn't waver. The look in the man's eyes sent a chill up Jeff's spine. "Mr. Parkens," he said suddenly, "I think it's time for you to leave. You can't come into my office and threaten me." He pushed the button to page Miss Dempson.

"It wasn't a threat." Clint said coldly. "Think of it as just making a deal. You helping me, and me helping you."

"No, I don't think so," answered Jeff.

"Either you provide me the information to secure and protect my investments, or your daughter will be going away," Clint said with a sinister sneer.

"Over my dead body!"

"That can be arranged," Clint replied menacingly.

Jeff Blake was normally a patient man, but he finally lost his professional poise. Springing to his feet, he shouted, "You go ahead and try it! But you'd better bring an army, because one thing I can guarantee is, someone will be dead! No one, not you and not your friggin' agency, will take my daughter! No one!"

Miss Dempson nudged open the door, peering in with a look of minor alarm. Clint Parkens calmly prepared to leave. Lingering at the door, he turned, looking back toward Jeff.

"Just remember, it was your choice," he said ominously. Then the man was gone.

Janet closed the door behind the man and Jeff eased back into his chair, trying to calm his frazzled nerves. He shouldn't have lost his cool, he told himself. Doing so was unprofessional. But the guy, with his belligerent attitude and hostile threats had gotten under his skin.

Taking a deep breath, Jeff noticed he'd been chewing his lip, a habit exhibited when he was tense. Still on edge, abruptly he made the decision to go home. More than likely, it was nothing to worry about, nothing at all, merely idle threats. But he couldn't shake the uneasy feeling he'd had since the man had left. If anything did come of the visit, he wanted to be prepared.

Glancing down, he saw the tape recorder on his desk shelf was still running. Out of habit, he'd hit the record button as Miss Dempson had shown Mr. Parkens into the office.

Stopping the recorder, Jeff ejected the tape and slipped it into his pocket. Passing through the outer office, he instructed Janet to cancel his appointments for the rest of the day.

"Are you okay?" she asked worriedly.

He nodded. "I'm fine. I just have some things I need to take care of."

Heading for the parking garage, he was still seething. Angry at Mr. Parkens, and at himself for reacting the way he had. He should have just kept quiet, but he'd never been able to successfully follow the advice of his brain very well, and instead he'd compounded the problem by responding with threats of his own. That had been a mistake. A costly mistake. As he would soon discover.

Jeff barely had time to explain to his wife Amy, why he was home so early, before they'd shown up. They, being the police.

She'd laughed when he'd related the threats from the annoying client. "No one can do such a thing," she'd told him. "And even if they tried, the Sheriff's Department isn't going to go along with it. Not without a court order."

Still chewing the side of his lip, he'd nodded to her, and admitted that coming home was perhaps a bit of overreaction, "But I needed a vacation anyway."

Amy had dismissed the incident and begun preparing their lunch, happy to have him home. "You're always so busy, at least now I get to spend the day with you."

Their light conversation had been interrupted by a knock on the door. On his way from the kitchen, Jeff had seen the half dozen cop cars outside. Answering the door, he'd found a female C.P.S. agent. Standing beside her was a Deputy Sheriff.

Unsure what to say or do, Jeff managed a faint, "Hello."

"Are you Jeffery Blake?" asked the Deputy.

"Yes."

"I'm Michael Stolze of the Grover County Sheriff's Department," the officer introduced himself. "I have a court order to remove your child, a daughter, by the name of Ashley Blake, into protective custody. Is your daughter here?"

Jeff was speechless. He glanced at the woman who hadn't spoken; she returned a blank unfeeling stare. Finding his voice, he said, "There must be some kind of mistake. On what grounds was the court order issued? And why were we not allowed the right of a hearing?"

"I'm not sure of the Court's reason," the Deputy stated. From the document in his hand, he began to read. "Whereas there has been substantial and overwhelming evidence produced and presented to me; by the authority of the state, this Court orders an immediate removal of said child, named above, from the home of Jeffery and Amy Blake. Parental rights notwithstanding in this case, the child shall remain in protective custody of the state until such time as a formal hearing can be held."

The deputy's eyes again met Jeff's. This time Jeff returned an icy stare.

"This isn't easy for any of us," said the man with the badge. "You'll get your day in court, but right now we're here to execute this court order. The more cooperative you are the better it will be for us all. If necessary, however, we are prepared to use force."

No air of superiority was projected in his voice or manner. Just an officer of the law, doing his job. The matter of fact way he stated his purpose for being there wasn't even the least bit confrontational.

But Jeff didn't see it that way. "You're not taking my daughter," he said, not at all sure how he was going to prevent it. The outcome appeared inevitable, but as long as he had anything to say about it, Ashley was not going anywhere!

Just then, Amy emerged from the kitchen. Seeing the officer at the door, she started to ask what was going on.

Not wanting her to be involved in whatever mayhem ensued, Jeff abruptly looked the deputy in the eye. For the second time that day he said to an unwanted visitor, "I think it's time for you to leave." Then he added, "You have about two seconds to get off my property."

Surprisingly, the deputy calmly nodded and without a word walked down the drive to the street. The woman followed.

The front door still open, Jeff watched while relaying the gist of the preceding conversation to Amy.

"So they're just going to leave?"

"Guess so."

Reaching the patrol car, Deputy Stolze spoke briefly to another officer, who then in staunch military fashion began barking orders to the dozen or so deputies.

The officers, who'd been standing by relaxed, quickly swarmed into action. Moving as a single unit, they took up positions behind the patrol cars. Mr. Parkens, Jeff noticed, was nowhere to be seen. Either the man hadn't come along or he was safely secreted inside one of the patrol cars.

Stolze waited for a signal from his fellow officer, then again turned to face the house. "Mr. Blake, keep your hands where I can see them and step out of the house," he demanded.

Jeff couldn't believe this was happening. The nervous chewing of the lip ceased, now that the uncertainty had been replaced by a known danger. His jaw, though, was set in determination. Did they really expect him to just give up that easily? He stood still, defying the deputy's order.

He couldn't be sure whom but at that instant, someone got trigger-happy. From inside Stolze's car, he thought it was, came the bullet which had imbedded itself in the doorjamb by his head. As the gun was fired, the car window exploded into a shower of glass.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

In a daze now, standing in front of his gun cabinet, Jeff took out a rifle, the 30-30. Methodically, he loaded it, pushing the bullets in with his thumb. Consciously aware, but his mind numb, he was no longer thinking, but relying on instinct to guide him, reacting to the now very real threat. As a father, and as a husband, he operated with a single purpose; to protect his family.

Cautiously peeking out through the window blinds at the four, no, make it five cop cars parked on the street; he now realized just how costly his mistake of losing his temper at the office had been. By voicing the threats, he'd communicated his intentions and willingness to use force to prevent his daughter from being taken. Being so warned, Parkens had converged on the house with the whole Sheriff's Department.

As he watched the scurrying scène outside on the street, Jeff frowned. He still didn't understand. What had happened to the rule of law, court proceedings and fair hearings? How could this guy, Parkens, just show up with the deputies and take Ashley? Muttering to himself, he shook his head. Something wasn't right. Though that fact was of little help now.

His watchful eyes narrowing in firm resolve, he turned back to the window. Outside, the megaphone blasted through the cool morning air as the amplified voice reverberated through the walls of the house.

Crouching beside the window, Jeff could see the head of Deputy Stolze outlined above the car. Leveling the rifle, he took a long deep breath as he aimed the firearm. Was he ready for this? No, he wasn't, he allowed, but he was determined to not back down. He had done nothing to warrant this kind of treatment, he told himself. The man responsible for all of it remained unseen, cowardly withdrawing from the very hint of danger.

His hesitation was costly. Outside, one of the deputies caught sight of the barrel of the 30-30 and shouted, "He's got a gun!"

"Fire!" came the order from Deputy Stolze.

Jeff watched as in slow motion the entire group of officers raised their heads to peer down the sights of their rifles and fired. The living room erupted in a frenzied crescendo, as the six foot picture window exploded, sending tiny shards of glass, hundreds of them, flying through the air. The shiny slivers tore at the skin on his face and arms, cutting a faint bloody design on his exposed flesh. Leaning against the window frame, he took careful aim at one of the deputies, held his breath and firmly pulled the trigger.

Seeing the man fall, he knew there was no turning back. Rolling quickly to the other side of the now paneless window, cocking the rifle as he went, he raised the weapon again and cast a cautious glance outside.

"Officer down! Officer down!" came the frantic shouts. Keeping behind the vehicles, two of the deputies made their way to the one who had been shot.

Wasting no time, Jeff aimed and fired in rapid succession. Focused intently on the group as a whole, he targeted any movement. Reloading, he moved to the bedroom. Pulling the curtain aside, he saw the fresh blood on his arm. He'd been hit! But due to the adrenalin rush and the intensity of the moment, he wasn't sure exactly where he was wounded.

With renewed vigor, feeling no pain, Jeff emptied the rifle again, not even knowing if the bullets reached their intended mark. Reaching for more ammunition, he suddenly felt a burning sensation in his right shoulder. Then a sharp sting in the middle of his forehead, as a barrage of gunfire was discharged on the street.

"They got me!" he said, only mildly surprised.

His strength ebbing slowly, yet steadily away, Jeff gritted his teeth, determined to will his fingers to load fresh rounds into the rifle. Barely able to move, he realized it was over. He had lost.

The rifle lay beside him, covered in warm red blood. His blood. His clothes were soaked, and everywhere he looked was more of the same, a sea of red. The red soon faded to black, as consciousness was replaced by delirium.

As the last bit of awareness slipped gradually from his mind, he thought of Amy and Ashley. He'd failed them. "But..." he suddenly thought.

Unable to complete the idea, he painstakingly, through sheer grit, forced his left hand to his pocket. It was still there! When they found his body, whoever they might be; he hoped someone would listen to the tape.

Sample or purchase Over My Dead Body at Smashwords

Preview of Miscarriage Of Justice

by Bruce A. Borders

Everyone has dreams. Dreams of love, of success and riches, or of a long and healthy life. Given time, sometimes, those dreams become a reality.

The dream of Ethan Rafferty was one of freedom. And at last, his dream was coming true. After fifteen years of miserable incarceration, Ethan was finally ready, once again, to become a productive member of society. No, a psychiatrist hadn't determined that he'd been rehabilitated, his newfound liberty had been attained the old-fashioned way; he'd served his time.

Time he should've never had to serve.

Nearly every inmate professes his innocence and insists the system is faulty, claiming to be the victim of some grave injustice. That's the norm among convicts. And understandably so. No one wants to do time. Prison life is no day at the beach.

With Ethan however, it was different. He was in fact, not guilty. Although a jury, in a court of law, had convicted him, he was innocent. The murder of which he'd been accused, he hadn't committed. To make matters worse, the District Attorney, Miss Mariana Clark, had known Ethan wasn't the killer. Positively known - and not cared. Not only had she failed to vindicate him, as was her duty, but she'd aggressively pursued his prosecution. The only thing important to her was that she chalk up a victory with a conviction. And that she had done. Ethan Rafferty had been sentenced to fifteen years in Granite Hills Correctional Facility, the state penitentiary, for his alleged crimes. His time was up today.

With his debt to society paid, the state, via Granite Hills - affectionately referred to as Gray Rock by the inmates - no longer held claim to him. As of today, April eighth, he was a free man. Almost.

In an impatient laze the dark-haired clean-shaven, forty-year-old Ethan, sat unshackled behind the protective barrier, waiting while the insolent prison guard maneuvered the white transport van through the last gate. Then, the soon to be ex-prisoner breathed a small sigh of relief, he was finally outside the walls of Gray Rock - outside the contemptible confines of the prison. But not yet free to go. Had anyone cared that his momentous occasion had at long last arrived and been there to meet him, the last leg of his journey would not have been necessary. The driver could have let him out once they'd reached the outer grounds of the compound. Sadly, the inmate transfer area was ominously empty, as he'd known it would be. Another illustrative sign of his pathetic life.

And so, thanks to a recent procedural change regarding prisoner release, Ethan was forced to endure his insufferable captivity a few minutes longer. Forced to stifle any stirring emotion while the guards transported him to Fulton, the closest city, ten miles to the south.

Prison officials, namely, Anderson Matthews, the warden, and the Board of Directors, had instituted the new policy after receiving numerous complaints from local citizens. Generally, no one cares about the public's safety if their own security isn't threatened. And so it was with the dozen families who made up the small rural community near Granite Hills Prison. At the heart of their complaints was the practice of turning inmates out on the highway, where the ex-cons could be tempted to harass or otherwise molest passing motorists and, more importantly, the few nearby residents. Consequently, the new procedures dictated that inmates must be chauffeured into town before being released.

Ethan understood the intent of the rules; still he found the whole thing rather ironic. After years of isolation, away from the general public, the now former inmates were turned loose in the middle of the bustling city, a place abuzz with activity, full of an unsuspecting and naïve populace; innocent men, women, and children. That of course, presented an even greater opportunity for those deviant individuals who were inclined to engage in illicit behavior, placing the population at a more substantial risk. So much for governmental policies making sense.

As the transport van pulled onto the highway, Ethan turned for a final look at Granite Hills Correctional Facility; the plain, drab, uninspiring complex, which had served as his home the past decade and a half. Fifteen years of his life he had spent in that hellhole. Fifteen years. Years that were gone; wasted. Though he'd counted the days one by one, all 5,479 of them, time had ceased to exist the moment he'd passed through the massive steel doors and heard them clang shut behind him. Those years had simply vanished, with nothing to show for them. Life, once esteemed and celebrated, had been demeaned and disassembled, piece-by-piece, relegated to mere existence. Anxiety, boredom and depression encapsulated his days.

Ethan purposely turned his gaze away from the stone walls and razor fencing to what lay ahead. While Granite Hills may have functioned as his place of residence, it was a far cry from anything remotely resembling a home. As long as he lived, he didn't care if he ever saw the place again.

Above all, loneliness is an inmate's worst enemy. With no family or friends, separated from all interaction with those once known and loved, far removed from the familiar culture, the lonely feeling is intensified. Day after day, it persists, week after week, as slowly, the months turn to years. Ethan's stay was no different. A lonesome train whistle was his only connection to the outside world and it was anything but comforting. The melancholy tone was a constant reminder that life for everyone else was going right on without him.

The one thing Ethan was sure of, he certainly wasn't going to miss the place. Riding along the last mile to freedom, he concentrated on the lone inspiration, which had seen him through the whole trying ordeal. His worry and depression had ultimately turned to an ever-growing anger, an intense rage, tempered with bitter resentment. The emotion steeled a quiet inner resolve to one day exact a wrathful vengeance against the one individual who was solely responsible for his circumstances; the Lincoln County District Attorney, Mariana Clark. The passing of time did nothing to diminish his solemn determination. Quite the contrary, it served only to further cement the notion of a justified revenge and bolster in him an iron will, deep inside his soul. The one who had sent him to Granite Hills was going to pay, and pay dearly.

Despite the intense desire to buy a gun and shoot her multiple times, Ethan held the impulse in check. While, that would make a quick end of things, he preferred to drag out the suffering through many little things. Little things eventually add up and they would serve to prolong her misery. It didn't much matter what he did; only that he did something. During his fifteen-year sentence, he'd come up with several "somethings." Some petty, some not so petty. They would all converge into a giant source of frustration for the D.A. With a little luck, her frustration could easily turn to exasperation - maybe laced with a heavy dose of insanity.

He wasn't a vindictive man by nature, or hadn't been, but an undeserved prison sentence had changed that. The years on the inside had molded him into a ruthless and calculating individual.

The van came to a sudden stop and the guard called through the steel mesh barrier that Ethan could exit the vehicle. Looking out the window, the ex-con saw they were parked in front of the bus station. He frowned, and then shrugged. A bus station was as good a place as any, he reckoned.

"Thanks," he said in a forced friendly manner, opening the door.

The driver nodded. "Good luck."

Yeah, like that's going to happen, Ethan thought cynically as he eased his five-foot-seven-inch stocky frame out through the doorway. Standing firmly on the ground, he breathed in a welcomed breath of fresh air. It felt good to be alive, and even better to be free.

Not sure what to do, he stood idly by, watching as the van made a U-turn, heading back to Granite Hills. Then he smiled, a euphoric grin of exuberance. At last, he could allow himself the luxury of believing his discharge was real, and no longer just a fantasy. Being in confinement for such an extended period, the thought of ever actually attaining his release, experiencing freedom, and being responsible to no one but himself was so foreign, so far removed from reality, it seemed nothing more than an elusive dream. Just wishful thinking. Each day was a dull replay of the previous one. Every night, the same. No logical reason existed to offer even the slightest glimmer of hope that things would ever change.

Ethan continued to watch as the State Corrections vehicle slowly disappeared over the horizon. With the last visible evidence of his life as a convicted felon rolling out of sight, the reality began to sink in. He smiled to himself again. Then his lip curled into a sinister and devious snarl. After all the patient waiting, all the years of anticipation, he was finally free to embark on his mission of justice. A vengeful justice.

It's odd what a guy will notice after being locked away from the world for so long; the swaying trees, stately buildings, people moving unfettered through the streets, walking, and driving. The once familiar sounds of people engaged in their everyday activities of life; simply involved in living, now seemed strangely out of place. Then, there were the smells, pleasant aromas and pungent odors he'd long forgotten; gasoline, mowed grass, and the savory smell of food being prepared.

From a nearby restaurant, the strong scent of sizzling beef wafted through the air, and Ethan realized how much he had missed food, real food. Giving in to the sudden hunger pangs, he walked across the street to the _Wagon Wheel Grill_ , as the sign outside proclaimed. Though he was eager to set his plan in motion, the thought of a decent meal dictated his behavior at the moment. Prison food wasn't necessarily bad, though he wouldn't exactly describe it as delicious either. Somewhere in the middle. Bland sustenance. Nothing more. Nothing less. What made it distasteful was that the menu never changed. Every day, Sunday through Saturday, week after week, anyone could tell you what the fare would be. It was like eating at an elementary school, breakfast, lunch and supper, seven days a week, for fifteen years.

Opening the door to the diner, Ethan's mouth instantly began to water at the thought of a big juicy steak. And a baked potato, and a fresh salad, and of course dessert. His mind trailed off on a fanciful gourmet fantasy. When the waitress arrived, he ordered according to his ferocious appetite, choosing the largest steak on the menu, a twenty-four ounce Porterhouse. The waitress disappeared and Ethan sat sipping his water, feeling at ease and glad to be on his own. The other customers, he noticed, now and then glanced his way, but none met his eye, almost like they knew he'd just come from Granite Hills.

"Must've seen me getting out of the van," he grumbled under his breath. Then he shrugged it off; at least none of them had gotten up to leave. Sooner or later he knew, someone would ask why he'd been in prison and years ago, he'd come up with the best answer he could give, "Not having an alibi at the time of the murder!"

Slowly chewing his food, Ethan mulled over his options. Instead of jumping right in and starting immediately, he decided to take it easy. To relax for a few days and get used to the idea of freedom. The need wasn't so pressing that he had to rush into things, he had all the time in the world. After waiting this long, another week or two wouldn't make that much difference. Except to him of course, he planned to enjoy life a little, to revel and bask in his freedom. He laughed, almost out loud. In his younger days, the thought of waiting more than a few minutes on anything would have instantly sent him into fits. Waiting was simply out of the question. It just wasn't in his nature. Impetuous, that's what they called him; he was always in a hurry.

Ironically, it was his time in prison that taught him patience. Never, was there an occasion to hurry on the inside. Life, he'd astoundingly discovered, could be more fulfilling at a slower pace. With this new perspective came the realization that even outside the prison walls, aside from a rare emergency, there simply was no cause to rush or hurry. There is always tomorrow.

Finishing his cream cheese dessert, Ethan paid the check and asked the waitress if there was a hotel nearby. "Within walking distance," he clarified.

Handing him his change, the girl nodded. "The Spencer is just a few blocks from here." Then she hesitated, staring out the window. Turning back to Ethan she said, "It's that way," pointing up the street to her right.

"North?" he asked.

"Yeah, I guess that's north, ain't it," she grinned sheepishly. "It's on the same side of the street we're on."

"And it's hotel, not a motel, right?" Ethan said.

"I think so," the young girl answered slowly, wrinkling up her nose. "What's the difference?"

"Never mind," Ethan said not bothering to explain. "Thanks."

He carried no luggage. The few personal items he had acquired while on the inside fit easily into the pockets of the complementary change of clothes the prison commissary had delivered to his cell that morning. Stepping out the door, he looked north, the way the girl had pointed. He saw no hotel but, for some odd reason, he trusted her directions, and started walking. For the first time in years, someone had actually treated him like a human being, instead of like a criminal. He wasn't about to complain if she wasn't up on her sense of direction. Then he laughed, or if she didn't know the difference in a motel and a hotel.

He'd walked no more than a block when he saw it. The trees had obscured the ten-story building, but now there was no mistaking it. The elegant architecture had the distinct look of a grand hotel. "That's got to be it," he reasoned, subconsciously picking up the pace.

The waitress hadn't said if the place was expensive or not, but judging from the exterior it appeared to fall somewhere in the middle - just his style! After the dull decor of his prison cell, anything would have stood out as luxurious, but he didn't want to recklessly throw his money away; money he'd earned working in the carpenter shop at Gray Rock.

While some inmates were allowed to participate in the state's work program, to hold a job on the outside, and then report back to the prison at day's end, the luxury was not given to those convicted of violent crimes such as murder. So, a prison job was Ethan's only option.

Prison wages were low, ridiculously low - fifty cents an hour! And that had just been for the last three years. Before that, the hourly rate had stood at a paltry forty-five cents. Not a lot of money for the work, but then, inmates didn't need much money. They were, after all, privileged guests of the state! As if they were being treated to an all expenses paid vacation, every need was supplied. The thing was though, most people just never realized how little was actually needed to survive.

He considered himself lucky. Through the prison grapevine, he'd heard that most other states charge inmates \- for meals as well as room and board. And some states, he learned, do not pay prisoners for the jobs they work.

The barely profitable job did provide a mental release; a temporary escape from the cold reality of prison. As a model prisoner, Ethan had earned work privileges almost immediately. So, although the wages were but an abysmal penance, he'd been able to squirrel away a small fortune during his tenure at Granite Hills. For thirty hours a week - strictly regulated by the State Bureau of Prisons - he faithfully reported for duty in the various departments of the carpenter shop. At first, he'd been assigned cleanup duties, but had soon been moved to general carpentry, where they'd discovered his exceptional woodworking skills. Six months later, he'd been "promoted" to cabinetmaker, though still at the same meager wage.

Despite having every need met, he did find an occasional chance to spend some money; usually, in exchange for favors from other inmates or extra perks granted by the guards. Most of his money though, had been saved and upon his release, totaled a staggering $17,900! No small chunk of change for a man who had no bills.

Aside from the right to work and the coveted leisure time, his good behavior hadn't earned him much else. True to his lifelong deplorable luck, under a new state law, his sentence had stipulated that he was not eligible for parole. "No early release," the judge had ordered. So, a fifteen-year sentence meant a full fifteen years in prison.

Ethan made the most of it. While possessing the uncanny ability to earn the respect of others and forge friendships with people in general, he found it particularly rewarding to befriend the guards. It had a negligible impact on his relations with other inmates, but the rapport he built with the guards made life easier in more ways than one.

He wasn't a big man; weighing in at one hundred fifty-five pounds - soaking wet! So, he needed all the help he could get. Prison isn't a place where the "little guy" thrives. In light of this truth, he never missed a chance to talk with guards or other personnel, asking about their families, their weekend, or simply to offer a sympathetic ear while they vented their frustrations. He listened attentively as if he were genuinely interested in their troubles. He made it a point to do what was asked and expected of him, never balking and without complaint. His exemplary behavior engendered a respect from most of the guards. The day before his release, they, along with the Warden and other staff members, threw a going away party for him. An unprecedented event!

He'd been duly impressed and even felt a twinge of remorse at the idea of leaving. He managed to get over that rather quickly. While they may have treated him fairly, in no way did that make up for his loss of freedom, the long nights of being alone and afraid, the sheer psychological torture, the grossly inhumane conditions, or the indignity he'd suffered, usually at the hands of other inmates.

The good behavior routine was partly a product of his amicable nature, and partly due to design. Mostly, by design. With the passage of time, his cordial temperament had gradually faded; still, he forced himself to remain friendly and cheerful. This was a key element to his long-range scheme. The idea was simple; he wanted everyone at Granite Hills to remember a kind, soft-spoken, likable individual. A passive individual.

Later, when he'd begun to execute his vendetta against a certain well-deserving District Attorney, should anyone in law enforcement come snooping around asking questions, the personnel at Granite Hills would feel compelled to portray him as an easy-going, even-tempered guy. Certainly not a violent or raucous man. He'd seen too many cases where a former inmate wound up as a person of interest in a new crime and years after their prison stay had ended, the feds questioned past cellmates and others who had done time with their suspect. Typically, they found out more than they needed to know to build a strong case.

So, he never spoke a word of his frustration and innate anger at being falsely accused. Never mentioned the abject furor of being railroaded by a malevolent prosecutor. He told no one of his plans, not even Shag his cellmate for over half the fifteen years. No one knew of his consuming rage. He gave no indication of his future intentions, or what lay in store for the mendacious D.A. These things were kept locked away in a hidden corner of his mind. The plaguing thoughts of vengeance played privately in his head. While the world saw a good-natured, mild-mannered man, seemingly without bitterness, Ethan quietly plotted his revenge.

He liked to pretend his plan was some grandiose scheme, years in the making that had been masterfully formulated and steeped to perfection through careful consideration of all facets of the situation. While it _had_ consumed many years of his life, the truth was the planning consisted of nothing more than brainstorming and dreaming up various ways he could torment, antagonize and otherwise wreak havoc in the life of the District Attorney. He had constantly revised his plans as new ideas surfaced. When the time came to implement his scheme, he wanted a long list of potential activities and deeds ready to go.

That time was almost here. Ethan pushed open the heavy glass doors to the Spencer Hotel, and confidently strode through the lobby, approaching the desk. The hotel was old and dark, but appeared to be clean.

"Anything available?" he asked the thin, frail, elderly man behind the counter.

The crotchety old-timer seemed perturbed at being interrupted, though there were no signs of him having been engaged in any sort of activity. The TV wasn't on. Ditto the radio and the guy hadn't been on the phone.

Maybe he was asleep, Ethan surmised. But then again, perhaps the man was simply lazy, or didn't like his job. That seemed a more likely possibility.

In a slow-motion shuffle, the clerk wandered over to the counter. Peering through wire rimmed glasses, he stared hard at Ethan and growled, "I've got a room, if that's what you're after."

"How much?" Ethan asked.

"Depends," the man replied. "How long you want it?"

Ethan shrugged. "Couple of weeks. Maybe more."

The aged clerk eyed him suspiciously. "You just get out of prison?"

Ethan wondered how the grouchy old codger knew. _Do I have I sign on my forehead?_ The guy couldn't have seen him get out of the van as the people at the restaurant had. Yeah, he'd been in prison, but why should it matter? His first impulse was to deny it, but something stopped him. Obviously, the old man knew or he wouldn't have posed the question. Slowly, Ethan nodded, making it a point to look the man directly in the eye. "Yes," he said. "This morning."

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