It wasn’t much, but it was home. My first home, after moving out of my parents’ house; an upstairs apartment that I rented for $130 per month. A studio apartment.

As studio apartments go, it wasn’t bad. The place was clean, sort of, with fresh paint and appliances that worked – almost all the time! Out of the seven light bulbs, two of them weren’t burnt out, a problem I solved by quickly purchasing more light bulbs. But I couldn’t do anything about the unique smell, an odor that lingered even after I scrubbed everything with bleach.

Although it was small, (200 sq. ft) it did have four rooms – a kitchen, living room, bedroom, and bathroom. Okay, the bedroom was actually a closet that my bed fit into perfectly, and a bathroom isn’t usually counted as a separate room, I know. But a four-room apartment sounded far more impressive than a two-bedroom one. The one window allowed me to see the outside world – in the form of a picturesque view of a grand old brick building just five feet away. Between the two buildings was a walkway that led to the back stairs.

Of course, there were neighbors, and in a college town that meant students and, you guessed it, parties – not a good fit for a guy who had to get up at 4 a.m. to go to work!

There were five apartments in all – above a row of storefronts on a side street. Access to the apartments was a big wooden door with a thick pane of glass, situated between two of the stores. The door was locked after 10 p.m., and to open it, a four-digit code had to be entered on a number pad. Or, as I soon discovered, a good hard pull worked just as well. Since that was faster, it was my preferred method of entry. Not exactly secure . But then, there would have been no point. The door for the alley entrance was propped open twenty-four hours a day. All anyone had to do was go through the doorway, side step the water heaters, and climb the narrow staircase.

At least the door to the apartment itself had a lock – with a key. And, yes, it worked. Of course, if I ever forgot my key, all I needed to do was walk around to the window – it didn’t lock.

The place sounds rather horrible but, at the time, I didn’t consider any of its “problems” an issue. Back then; it didn’t even seem that small.

I only lived in that apartment for a few months before moving to Wisconsin – wedding bells were calling my name. Yes, I took my light bulbs with me, eventually installing them in my new home – a trailer. And let me just say, it’s a good thing I hadn’t had a problem with the condition of my former residence because this trailer made the apartment look like a mansion! Perhaps I’ll tell you about that next week.

You may have noticed over the last couple of months, my blog has included a small blurb from the Rave Reviews Book Club - the current Featured Selection and the weekly Spotlight Author. This week, I am honored to have been named the Spotlight Author! As a part of that, several bloggers have hosted me on their blog - a great opportunity to expand the reach of my books. Below is the short blog I wrote for those who hosted me. I thought I’d re-post and share it here.

My name is Bruce A. Borders, author of criminal fiction books. I guess you could call me a professional dreamer - or a schemer. Either one fits.

As a young boy, books always fascinated me. The stories they told were so captivating, so spellbinding. The further I got into a book, the more absorbed I became - and the more questions I had. I wanted to know the what, where, who, and when, of the entire story. But the question that most intrigued me was the “how.” I found it utterly fascinating how everything connected, how seemingly impossible situations were resolved, and especially how things always worked out. With the right explanation, even the strangest puzzle can make sense.

Eventually, I progressed to devising my own conundrums - and then solving them. Things like how to rob a bank, how to gain access to a high-security building or escape from one, or how to get away with murder. This was all hypothetical of course. I never actually wanted to do any of these things. The thrill was in figuring out how they could be done.

Obviously, none of the adults in my life were impressed by my newfound interest. Everyone seemed to agree this “daydreaming” would serve no useful purpose in life. One teacher even told me my pastime was dangerous and unhealthy; that anyone with this sort of mentality would probably end up being a criminal and doing time in prison.

For some people, his prediction could have been right; I can see how it could happen. And, I suppose I could have used his words of warning as an excuse to follow a crooked road to a life of crime. But, I didn’t. Instead, I became a writer.

It has now been snowing for three long days at my house. Not continually - there have been a couple of periods that it stopped for an hour or two. Originally, our forecast called for “light snow flurries” with no accumulation. Sure!

I don’t think it would be much of a stretch to say our weathermen do not have a good track record lately - I just went outside and measured our seventeen inches of snow, which is at least eighteen inches too much! For those of you who will say that’s impossible and my math is wrong; yes, you’re right, on both counts. But I think you get my drift - I don’t like snow!

The good news is I haven’t been working since this whole mess started. No driving 700 miles a day on slick roads, trying to avoid drivers who do not pay attention. No chaining up the semi, which thanks to a new law means six sets of chains. And, no freezing to death while lying under a trailer trying to pound brakes free. Ah, the joys of being a truck driver in the winter!

Unfortunately, the good news is also the bad news in this instance; not working means no pay! And since I do like eating and living indoors with heat and lights, I think I might need a paycheck.

No, it shouldn’t break me - might make me a little grumpy though. But I’ll survive; it’s only for a few days. By Tuesday, warmer weather is supposed to return. Supposed to. According to the forecast. But then, our weathermen haven’t had such a good track record lately!

One of my earliest memories is of my first bank, a piggy bank. I was two years old so forgive me if I can’t recall all of the details - like where I got it. In my mind, it seems like my Grandpa gave it to me but I’m not really sure, he may have just been there and my brain associated the bank with him.

Now, I’ll describe what I do know. The bank was indeed a pig, but not a pink one. It was green - almost a fluorescent green. Made out of thin plastic, it was small enough to hold in one hand; about three inches long by two inches tall, and maybe an inch and a half thick. So, it didn’t hold a lot of money. But that was okay; I didn’t have a lot of money! (Hmm, that should have been a clue - some things never change).

I couldn’t wait to deposit my money and soon stuffed it full of pennies. I left the pennies in there for what seemed like an eternity, but knowing how kids view time it was probably no more than a few days. At some point, I decided I wanted to make a withdrawal - and that presented a problem. The only opening was the small slot on the top, and being jammed full of pennies, the bank was not real cooperative when it came to parting with my stash. Of course, this was a little upsetting to me.

But apparently, my stubborn streak started long ago; I wasn’t about to give up. That was my money and I wanted it back! Time to rob a bank!

This was the longest and most drawn out bank robbery in history. I worked for what seemed like an eternity, holding the green little pig upside down and shaking. And shaking. And more shaking. It was a slow process but eventually a few pennies fell out. And then a few more, as I shook more vigorously.

When the bank was finally empty, I stared at the offending little pig for a minute or so and then clinched my fist tight around it. The flimsy plastic crumpled (with a bit of help from the other hand) and I had an instant feeling of satisfaction. I thought I was He-Man! Well, maybe not, I’m sure I hadn’t heard of He-Man at that point of my life. But I did feel mighty powerful and strong - I had crushed a bank!

The other day, I was reading a news story about a bank in some small country locking their doors and preventing depositors from withdrawing their money. Naturally, the people who lost their savings were angry - and I don’t blame them. I wouldn’t like it either. I’m no longer two years old and my bank isn’t a green piggy bank, but if my financial institution were trying to steal my money... My reaction may be similar to what it was way back then.