Melancholy

Sad times at my house. We had to have our dog, Ricochet, put down this week. And after ten years of owning this collie, we were quite attached. As you may know, I LOVE dogs, but at times like this I tend to think it’d be better if I didn’t like them so much.

I’ve had other dogs, even other collies, but this one was the most gentle and nicest dog I’ve ever known—by far. She was great with the grandkids, even when they mistook her for a pony or thought she was their personal pillow, or anything else they could dream up for her to do. Whatever they did, she didn’t mind, I think she just loved the attention.

Although the last year was very hard on her, she never complained—other than moaning in her sleep—just went along with things the best she could. Her ailments were many, she couldn’t digest food very well, had trouble getting up, lying down, walking, and lately, even breathing. She was going blind and losing her hearing, as well as her sense of smell. And then few weeks ago, she started having seizures. It seemed like each week she was developing more issues. So, it was definitely time—but that doesn’t make it any easier. We’d put it off for quite a while, probably longer than we should have, but then we realized that was more for our benefit and not hers.

This wasn’t the first time I’ve lost a pet and it won’t be the last because we still have two dogs keeping us company. I think it gets harder with each one. Part of the reason, I think, is because not only is there a sense of loss from the one dog but it dredges up memories and feelings from the past and we get to feel the sadness of losing the other dogs all over again. Or maybe it’s due to my age, I don’t know. Whatever the reason, my wife and I have agreed, no more dogs. We just don’t want to go through that any more—and yes, we are acutely aware there will be two more to deal with at some point. A LONG time in the future, hopefully.

Note: I hope it’s all right that I took a break from my normally humorous posts to share some of my mournful sorrows from the past week. R.I.P. Ricochet. ~

 

Bruce A. Borders is the author of more than a dozen books, including: Inside Room 913, Over My Dead Body, The Journey, Miscarriage Of Justice, The Lana Denae Mysteries, and The Wynn Garrett Series. Available in ebook at www.amazon.com/Bruce-A.-Borders/e/B006SOLWQS and paperback on Amazon, Barnes & Noble and Books-a-Million.

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Not-So-Green Energy

About twenty years ago, the landscape in north central Oregon began to be decorated with windmills. Not the traditional type of windmill that you see at an old farm but giant industrial windmills with turbines around 100 feet in length. These windmills were supposed to be the new age of electricity production, replacing the “outdated” methods of generating electricity: hydroelectric dams, coal plants, and nuclear facilities.

At the time, I was rather unimpressed. They looked kind of ugly and with as many as they were putting up, you couldn’t look any direction without seeing several of them detracting from the majestic scenery Oregon is known for. Back then, I read an article, which stated that such windmills were nothing more than a feelgood attempt to cajole people’s ecological tendencies. The highly visible eyesores drove home the point that our generation was being more responsible by going with clean energy.

But, with the cost of production, transportation, installation, and routine maintenance, (not to mention the amount paid to the landowner) it could take approximately twenty-five years for a windmill to break even. Trouble is, the life expectancy of the windmill is also about twenty-five years. So, the entire effort is a wash, and that’s a best-case scenario.

There are other inherent problems as well: sometimes it’s too windy to operate the windmills, they do not produce enough to power—unless you have a hundred or so of them running, which is why we have more windmills than trees, and since that type of electricity can’t be stored, the windmills do not operate on a continuous basis—only when the power they generate can be immediately used.

They do have one redeeming feature, namely, as previously mentioned, landowners are paid very well to host the windmill. So, people in the area, as long as they are landowners, have done fairly well since the big white monsters have taken over. And of course, that has translated to a boost to the local economy. As a result, most people have a favorable view of the windmills, or at least not a drastic negative view. However, that may change soon.

The other day, we had a fire that began along the road to my job. That’s nothing new; we have fires a lot. But this particular fire, which burned out a mile and a half of railroad tracks, including a couple of trestle bridges, was caused by, you guessed it, a windmill.

According to eyewitness accounts, a windmill began to spark, and then started throwing a shower of fiery sparks. These descended to the ground where the dried weeds were waiting to catch fire. Thankfully, the fire was extinguished with nothing besides the railroad property being lost.

While the railroad is already busy repairing the rail line, and trains should only be down a few days, the bigger issue that people are starting to realize is, we have thousands of these windmills, all aged roughly the same, which now apparently seem to pose a fire hazard—in a very dry climate. That’s not a good combination.

Okay, I know this post missing my usual lighthearted humor with a slight twist of irony. Let me try to remedy that. Although I hate to revel in anyone’s misery, there is a certain satisfaction derived from the recent events. See, normally, in the course of my job, I can expect to wait on a train once or twice a day—sometimes ten minutes, sometimes half an hour or more. They pull back and forth, changing cars, sometimes stopping only a few feet from clearing the crossing, then going the other way before again stopping a few feet short—all with no regard for traffic. It’s very annoying, especially when they could go a few more feet, and sometimes literally inches, to let traffic pass while they are hooking or unhooking. It wouldn’t even cost them any more time. So, as I said, although I hate to revel in anyone’s misery, and although I’ve always held the view that the windmills were a rather useless endeavor, I haven’t had to wait on a train for a few days! ~

 

Bruce A. Borders is the author of more than a dozen books, including: Inside Room 913, Over My Dead Body, The Journey, Miscarriage Of Justice, The Lana Denae Mysteries, and The Wynn Garrett Series. Available in ebook at www.amazon.com/Bruce-A.-Borders/e/B006SOLWQS and paperback on Amazon, Barnes & Noble and Books-a-Million.

An Exciting Week

It’s been an interesting and eventful week. First, my town made the national news due to a major fire. Not a good way to make the news but then most news isn’t exactly good news. Thing is we have fires a lot, being that it’s hot and dry here most of the summer. But a fire usually doesn’t make it any farther than the local news.

Speaking of hot and dry, we finally got some decent weather; temperatures in the triple digits, humidity in the single digits—just the way I like it! I know, I know. Most people are not happy with that kind of weather, but as a guy who absolutely detests winter, I love it when summer actually arrives.

Toward the latter part of the week, I came upon a roll over accident on the freeway. A pickup towing a camping trailer blocked the road for a few hours as both were on their side and across both lanes. I was not affected by the road closure since it was on the opposite of the freeway than the direction I was traveling. But I did go by and see it, just minutes, or maybe seconds, after it happened. I saw other drivers rushing to help the driver of the pickup get out.

Speaking of driving, after nine months of the semi I normally drive being in the shop, I got it back last week. Interestingly enough, it went into the shop, back in early November, to have a radio installed. That was completed in a day or so, however, for nine long months the truck developed one major problem after another. Every time the mechanics would fix something, another issue showed up. The good news is it now runs great! The bad news is, the radio doesn’t really work like it’s supposed to. But I guess that’s to be expected, life being full of the irony that it is.

Moving on to the weekend, I was commissioned, or drafted, or shanghaied—actually, I think I was just asked and I agreed—to put a floor into my grandson’s bedroom. And that brings me to the most exciting thing about the week.

They’d just moved into the house and when I showed up to work on the floor, my grandson came bursting through the door to tell me all about the place. “Did you see the most exciting thing?” Then, without waiting for an answer, he said, “Come on, I’ll show you. It’s so exciting.”

I followed, wondering what it was that had him so, well… excited. All the way to his bedroom, he kept up his exuberant banter. When we reached the room, he stopped and said “Are you ready?” Again, without waiting for an answer, he went right on. “Tada! Here it is!”

“It” turned out to be a door. But not just any door. This door was one of those that is split in the middle, allowing you to open the top half separately. Or, as I was showed, you can lock them together and make it a single unit door. Also, as I was told, it was the “most exciting thing in the whole house.”

I agreed, it was pretty exciting. And then I set to work on the floor. Funny thing about that. One of the first steps to replacing the floor was to take the door off. I don’t think my grandson was impressed! I guess you could say he was no longer excited.

I did get the floor done and just so you know, the door is now back in place! Exciting, I know. ~

 

Bruce A. Borders is the author of more than a dozen books, including: Inside Room 913, Over My Dead Body, The Journey, Miscarriage Of Justice, The Lana Denae Mysteries, and The Wynn Garrett Series. Available in ebook at www.amazon.com/Bruce-A.-Borders/e/B006SOLWQS and paperback on Amazon, Barnes & Noble and Books-a-Million.

 

 

 

The Shores Of Missouri

Years ago, back when I was in kindergarten, my teacher used to read the class a short story now and then. (Probably every day but I don’t really remember for sure). One day she read about a family that took a weekend trip to the ocean. It was a nice little story that centered on all the fun activities the family did: swimming, boating, beachcombing, looking for seashells, etc.

But me, contrarian that I was—yeah, even way back then I was a little cantankerous—focused only on the part of the story that made no sense. Right at the beginning, the story said that after packing their bags, the family got into the car and drove about an hour before reaching the beach. That would be fine I suppose, but I lived in Missouri and I knew it was a lot longer trip to the ocean than just an hour. I said as much after the teacher had finished reading.

I remember the teacher sort of laughed and explained that not everybody in the world lived in Missouri; that some did indeed live an hour from the ocean. What’s more, she said, some people actually lived on the beach.

I was unconvinced. Nowhere in the story had it said they didn’t live in Missouri, and as any five-year-old knows, if something isn’t explicitly stated, it must not be true. Besides, I thought, who would live on the beach anyway?

True to my already established nature of not letting things go, I kept insisting that the story was wrong. Finally—just to shut me up, I now realize—she told me I was right and the book must have had a misprint. That would never satisfy me now, but it did then and I dropped it.

But recently, it all came rushing back. I was waiting in line at the store, and overheard a slightly annoyed guy telling his antsy kids that they needed to settle down and learn to be patient. They’d be to the ocean in about an hour, he said.

Problem is, the town we were in is a good three hours from the ocean. So, unless he planned on driving like Mario Andretti, an hour just wasn’t going to cut it. Now, I know the guy was probably just giving them a little spiel to make them think it wasn’t going to be a long ride—and it appeared to be working—but me, being me, couldn’t resist pointing out that an hour was a very low and ultimately inaccurate estimate. Okay, I didn’t use those words. What I actually said was, “You ain’t going to make it to the ocean in an hour, not from here.”

I’m sure the guy appreciated my commentary. Or, not. After telling his kids to go wait in the car, he asked, “So, how long is it going to take?”

Normally, I would answer such a question with, “Depends on how fast you drive.” But, since I’d already sort of alienated the guy, I told him it would be about three hours, give or take, depending on traffic.

“Great,” he replied, though I could tell he really didn’t think my answer was all that magnificent. I got the distinct impression he wasn’t exactly enjoying this trip so far, and apparently it hadn’t even started. Then, he added, “Should have never moved.”

Moved from where? That’s what I was wondering but I didn’t say anything.

As it turned out, I didn’t have to because he answered it anyway. “We used to live on the beach.”

I kind of laughed, which probably wasn’t well received, but I was thinking, “Apparently, my teacher was right.” ~

 

Bruce A. Borders is the author of more than a dozen books, including: Inside Room 913, Over My Dead Body, The Journey, Miscarriage Of Justice, The Lana Denae Mysteries, and The Wynn Garrett Series. Available in ebook at www.amazon.com/Bruce-A.-Borders/e/B006SOLWQS and paperback on Amazon, Barnes & Noble and Books-a-Million.

Driving My Life Away

Last Friday, I completed twenty years of driving truck at my current job. Just in case anyone is wondering, that’s a LONG time. How long? Well, Clinton was President when I started working there. Google did not yet exist. Neither did YouTube. Or Facebook. Or Twitter. And while cell phones existed, most people did not have one. Same goes for the Internet.

A lot has changed at my job since I first started driving there. The most notable change is that most of the people who worked at the place are now gone. Out of the more than a hundred employees in 1998, only a handful are left. And yet, the job is still pretty much the same; I drive, and drive, and then drive some more. I’ve logged nearly three million miles since that first day. And that’s just in the semi, which doesn’t count the 130 miles I commute.

I’ve been asked how I can stand to drive so much and the answer is simple; when I went to work there, I didn’t set out to drive three million miles, or even one million. I just drove, one mile at a time—for a few hours at a time. The hours turned to days, the days turned to weeks, then to months and years. Easy, right?

Of course, I was a lot younger back then, twenty years younger to be exact. Good thing the job isn’t hard, huh? No matter what some people claim, driving a truck is really not something that takes a lot of effort. The most difficult part of the job is staying awake, which does seem to be a little tougher the older I get.

Speaking of staying awake, I’ve noticed it’s far easier to do if I get more sleep. My typical four to five hours per night, which is what I’ve slept most of my life, just doesn’t cut it anymore. So, I think I’ll wrap up this post and maybe go to bed—since in a few hours it’ll be time to start year number twenty-one at my job. Yay! ~

 

Bruce A. Borders is the author of more than a dozen books, including: Inside Room 913, Over My Dead Body, The Journey, Miscarriage Of Justice, The Lana Denae Mysteries, and The Wynn Garrett Series. Available in ebook at www.amazon.com/Bruce-A.-Borders/e/B006SOLWQS and paperback on Amazon, Barnes & Noble and Books-a-Million.

Making Time

Driving a truck for thirteen or fourteen hours per day, Monday through Friday, means Saturday is usually a busy day for me. Correction, Saturday is always a busy day for me. Trying to keep everything caught up around the house is a full-time job; one that I generally spend just one day doing.

So, when my wife asked if I wanted to join her in taking four of our grandchildren to the carnival, I declined. It’s not that I don’t like carnivals or the rides, because I do. It’s not that I don’t like my grandchildren either, because I do. But I was busy.

Then, she suggested that it may be helpful to have me there to keep the kids corralled. I realized it might be a difficult job alone since some rides require small children to be accompanied by an adult. Kind of hard with that many kids, especially if the youngest one or two are too small to ride a particular ride. So, I acquiesced.

The first thing I noticed at the carnival was how many people weren’t there. Here it was, a Saturday afternoon, great weather, not hot or cold, little to no wind—and hardly any crowd at a normally crowded event. Not that the attendance level bothered me, it meant less time waiting in lines and more time enjoying the rides—not to mention less of an opportunity for the grandchildren (and me) to grow impatient and then frustrated and irritable.

We had a good time and in about two hours we’d done all there was to do. Amazing how fast things go when there aren’t hoards of people! I think the grandkids were happy that I’d joined them and I was glad I’d gone along. And two hours wasn’t going to upset my Saturday work schedule that much. Sure, I was busy but then, I’m always busy.

Walking back to my pickup, I again was struck by the fact that so few people were there enjoying the day. I still find it strange. But I think I figured out why no one was there. Maybe, anyway. Could it be that most parents and/or grandparents stayed home that day because… they were busy? ~

 

Bruce A. Borders is the author of more than a dozen books, including: Inside Room 913, Over My Dead Body, The Journey, Miscarriage Of Justice, The Lana Denae Mysteries, and The Wynn Garrett Series. Available in ebook at www.amazon.com/Bruce-A.-Borders/e/B006SOLWQS and paperback on Amazon, Barnes & Noble and Books-a-Million.

Fire Away!

I seem to have misplaced my wife. Tragic, I know. See, I got home from work late Friday night and she was gone. Saw nothing of her Saturday either. Woke up Sunday—still no wife.

Okay, I admit, she wasn’t actually missing. If that were the case, I probably wouldn’t be just calmly writing about it. Well, maybe I would, I do like to write…

Anyway, she was on a planned trip to visit our son for a few days. So, I was here alone for the weekend. But that’s okay, I do know how to function without her—for short periods. Still, I’m thinking I should have gone with her on this trip. Not because I missed her, which I did, but the reason is a bit more… well, I would say selfish but missing her is kind of selfish too so—why don’t I just tell my story.

As most red-blooded Americans, I like guns. Big guns, little guns. Old guns, new guns. I like looking at them, buying them, and shooting them. And I like… well, you get the idea.   My wife, on the other hand, is not really big on guns. She doesn’t have anything against guns; she’s just not into them quite the way I am.

So, if I told you that one of us had experienced shooting a machine gun, you’d probably say it was I and not my wife. But, you’d be wrong. And that’s why I should have joined her on her trip.

See, my son takes after me; he likes guns. Which is why he took his mother to a shooting range that rents out various types of firearms including, machine guns. Pay a “small” fee and you can enjoy a few seconds of spraying bullets with the best of them.

Sunday evening, when my wife returned home, I got to hear all about it. Not that I wasn’t interested, of course. It just seemed odd that she would be telling me about shooting anything. Apparently, firing a machine gun makes quite an impression. I guess. Not that I would know since I haven’t shot one—yet.

On a perhaps unrelated note: I think it may be time to pay my son a visit again! Soon! Maybe the next time I misplace my wife. ~

 

Bruce A. Borders is the author of more than a dozen books, including: Inside Room 913, Over My Dead Body, The Journey, Miscarriage Of Justice, The Lana Denae Mysteries, and The Wynn Garrett Series. Available in ebook at www.amazon.com/Bruce-A.-Borders/e/B006SOLWQS and paperback on Amazon, Barnes & Noble and Books-a-Million.