​While everyone else was celebrating the arrival of Spring last week, I went straight to Fall...
 
I can’t really explain how this happened because, well, I’m not really sure. Here’s what I know: On Tuesday morning, I let one of my dogs out but apparently, I was supposed to stay inside. At least I SHOULD have stayed inside. Hindsight never really helped prevent anything though.
 
I took two steps (I think) out the door and the next thing I knew, I was hitting the deck—literally. I barely had time to be aware of the sudden jolt of landing (on my back) when my head slammed back onto the deck and everything went black.
 
I’m not sure how long I was out. Not long I don’t think, but then, it’s kind of hard to tell. When I came to, everything was a little hazy, I wasn’t even aware of the rain until later realizing I was soaked. I do remember reaching up to see if the back of my head was still intact. It was!
 
But then, I tried to get up and that didn’t really work. I called to my wife through the still open door. She came and helped me to my feet and after a bit of effort got me back inside the house.
 
Once I was able to stand on my own, my wife and I went through a series of tests to see if I was physically well and of a sound mind. (I know, that last part is questionable even under the best of conditions). Among the tests of mobility, balance, ability to focus, and talk, was a memory test—long term and short term. During the memory tests, I rattled off various strings of numbers such as: my driver’s license number, social security number, bank account number, etc. This turned out to be a useless endeavor though, since my wife had no idea if the numbers were right. So, I recited HER social security number to which she replied, “I think that’s it.”
 
“Really?” I said. “Whose memory are we testing here?”
 
We finally decided I was fine—sort of. My memory was okay and after regaining my wits after  waking up from the fall, there seemed to be nothing amiss. Thankfully, there were no broken bones—as far as I could tell. But I did seem to have a lot of pain, which only worsened when I moved. For the next several days, the pain continued—every bone and muscle in my body was sore. Everything except my head. Strangely, that didn’t hurt at all. But then, everyone already knew I was hard headed! ~
 
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. Bruce A. Borders is a proud member of Rave Reviews Book Club.

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I like roses. Lots of roses with a lot of colors. And since long ago my wife told me that buying her roses was a waste of money (because they die), I “invested” in rose bushes for the house. As I’ve mentioned in previous posts, the front of our house is lined with rose bushes—twenty-two to be exact. These used to make almost a solid hedge of hundreds of different colored roses. Sadly, after eighteen years, some of the bushes are not producing like they once did. This leaves big gaps with no flowers, which doesn’t look good at all.
 
So, this year, I decided to replace them. Originally, when I put them in, it wasn’t that much work. And at $1.99 per rose bush, not that expensive either. Ah, but things change.
 
First, I made a trip to the store and promptly came down with a bad case of sticker shock. I know we’re told there has been virtually no inflation for the last couple of decades but the roses tell quite a different story. They were on sale and still $5.99 each. I quickly made the decision to replace only the worst bushes and save the rest for later. I ended up buying only nine.
 
Then, on Sunday afternoon I started digging out the old bushes. It didn’t take long to realize it would be a little longer job than I had anticipated. The roots were six to eight inches in diameter and being underground, I didn’t really want to use a Sawzall. So, I chipped away at them with a spade shovel.
 
Five hours later, I was done. The new bushes set and the yard cleaned up. And only two blisters on my hands! Not bad but I had planned on maybe an hour for the whole job. Although, that’s typically what happens when I schedule time for anything—it always takes longer. Usually not five times longer though. And now, I’m a little tired. Not used to all this manual labor stuff!
 
But, the job is done now and even looks pretty decent. Soon, with the help of Miracle Grow, we’ll have our hedge of colorful roses back. At least that’s the idea. The bad news is, I still have several bushes to replace. The good news is, not until next year! ~
 
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. Bruce A. Borders is a proud member of Rave Reviews Book Club.

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I feel like I’ve been gypped. No, it doesn’t involve money, or even property. No one stole anything tangible from me. What I’ve lost is time. And I don’t mean because I’m getting old. Besides, I’m not really that old yet, despite what my kids, and grandkids, may think.
 
The time I’m speaking of is relatively insignificant—at least in the amount. But it’s the principle of the thing that matters. And this past weekend I was robbed of an hour of my time. A full hour! I know, it happens every year and normally, it wouldn’t be that upsetting to me. (Although, I’m pretty sure I’ve complained about it before). But this year... well, I picked the wrong time for a three-day weekend.
 
Due to the time change, instead of getting my full 84 hours off, as I would for a typical three-day weekend, I will only be receiving 83. Sad, I know. Woe is me.
 
I mentioned this to some of the guys at work last Friday, and for some reason, got no sympathy. None. Perhaps it was my lack of communication skills but I couldn’t make them see that my weekend would be coming up short. They just didn’t get it. One of them even had the audacity to suggest I be happy that I didn’t have to show up for work on Monday! Well okay, I AM happy about that.
 
Still, there’s the matter of the missing hour. An hour of my life that is just gone, and I didn’t even get to live it! Received nothing in exchange for it either, it simply vanished. I think the only way to avoid feeling ripped off, is to schedule another three-day weekend, approximately six months from now. Yep, think I’ll do that as soon as I go back to work—on Tuesday! ~
 
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. Bruce A. Borders is a proud member of Rave Reviews Book Club.

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So, I have a cold again, or maybe still, not quite sure. It’s never really left all winter. Just when I start feeling better, here it comes again. This time it’s returned with a vengeance. Coughing, itchy and watery eyes, sneezing, runny nose and then a stopped up nose, sinus pressure, sore throat, the whole bit. I’m sure I don’t need to describe what a cold is like—at least not to most people.
 
However, my three-year-old grandson seemed to have a little confusion over it. We were in the grocery store last night and he wanted me to push him really fast in the cart. When I said I didn’t have the energy to run because I had a cold, he instantly offered to warm me up. He rubbed his hands over my arms and shoulders and then asked if I was still cold.
 
I explained that I wasn’t really cold; that what I’d meant was I was sick. That turned out to be a mistake. His next questions were, “Do you need to go to the hospital? Are you dying?”
 
I told him I would be fine, that it was just a cold. And then tried again (unsuccessfully) to explain what a cold was. He gave me a look that said he thought I was perhaps sicker than I’d realized: talking in circles and not making any sense.
 
Later at home, as I sat in the chair and watched while he played, he suddenly asked, “Are you okay?” I must have looked as miserable as I felt but I assured him I was fine. He said, “You’re not cold anymore?”
 
Again, I went through what a cold was and that it didn’t necessarily mean someone was cold when they said they had a cold. “Oh,” he said, as if it all made perfect sense now. Then immediately he asked, “So why is it called a cold then?”
 
I remember wondering that myself when I was a kid. I shrugged. “Just to make people like you ask questions, I guess.”
 
“Grandpa,” he said, with a stern look. “That’s not an answer.”
 
“It is an answer,” I said. “Maybe not a good one but I don’t want to try explaining anything else tonight.”
 
“Because you have a cold?”
 
“Yeah,” I said, thinking we were right back where we’d started. I’m not sure the night was all that productive in the learning category! ~
 
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. Bruce A. Borders is a proud member of Rave Reviews Book Club.

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