Lori Borgman

George Washington is literally in the “pages of history.” A book on the coffee table has money hanging out of it—not play money, real money as in a one dollar bill.

I know in an instant the book belongs to a 12-year-old granddaughter.

The girl is an avid reader. She won the “Reader Award” in her class three times last year which translated into three free pizzas.

The grand with the book oozing money was helping us rake leaves last fall when she suddenly disappeared. I looked all around and couldn’t find her. One of her sisters deadpanned, “Check the big pile of leaves in the front yard.”

She had hollowed out a big pile of leaves and was nestled inside, reading a book. She marked that page with a red maple leaf.

My choice in bookmarks largely depends on what is nearby: paper clips, sticky notes, rubber bands and junk mail. A grocery receipt can do double duty, as it not only holds my place, but reminds me what I bought for dinner.

I understand why the girl doesn’t always use real bookmarks. I often receive handmade bookmarks as gifts and they’re simply too pretty and special to lose between the cushions on the couch.

On rare occasions, I rationalize paying full price for a new release hardcover because I can use the flap on the book jacket to hold my place. So, it’s really like a money saving two-for-one.

But at this moment, my most pressing question is this: Does the girl with the George Washington bookmark mark all the books she reads with real money? She has started babysitting so it’s possible there could be 5s, 10s, maybe even 20s marking pages. Shouldn’t someone go through the bookcases in her bedroom and check?

I’ve volunteered for the job but haven’t heard back yet. Rumor is they don’t think I have shelf control.

Reading is in the girls’ genes—and her jackets, her purses and her backpack. She’s like her mother, who never left home without a book in her purse or backpack.

These days, her mom is in a book club, a book-to-movie book club and hosts readathons for kids.

Of all the qualities and quirks we pass on to our children, a love of reading may be among the best.

 

Years ago, when women only a few years older than I am now announced they quit cooking, I silently judged them. I would think to myself, “How in the world do you just stop cooking?”

I get it now. They were tired—tired of chicken, tired of ground beef, tired of pork and tired of salad after salad after salad.

If a judge were to sentence me for my previous lack of culinary compassion, I would beg the court for mercy. I’d tell the judge I’m willing to eat humble pie, but that sounds like it would involve cooking.

For me, the meal planning part of cooking is far more exhausting than the meal prep, which is why I now ask others what they are making for dinner and follow suit. It’s far more fun than flipping through recipe books and has a certain game-show quality about it.

On Wednesday, I asked our youngest what she was making for dinner.

She texted: “Switching things up. Taco Wednesday, homemade salsa and queso. We usually have Taco Tuesday, but this week it’s Taco Wednesday.”

I replied that you can buy salsa at the grocery.

She responded that she makes her own queso as well.

And to think we’re related.

The next day, I texted our daughter-in-law asking what was for dinner.

Her reply said their oldest son was making butter chicken thighs. It sounded good, but because of our age and cholesterol concerns, we’d probably have to forgo the butter part.

When a longtime friend and neighbor, who is an excellent cook and gardener, dropped by with a bag of freshly picked green beans, I asked what she was making for dinner.

She’d planned on warming up homemade zucchini quiche from the day before, but it was too hot to turn on the oven, so they were going to McDonald’s.

You never really know a person until you know their Plan B for dinner.

Perhaps I’d be more inspired to cook if we freshened up the kitchen a bit. The kitchen of my dreams is from an early Martha Stewart cooking show. She was making a fall dish and a hand came up from below the counter and began removing dirty utensils.

On Friday, I asked our oldest daughter what she was making for dinner. She said she was getting ready for a dinner party for nine.

I hung up on her.

 

We’ve hit a rough patch over mowing the lawn this summer. The husband is temporarily sidelined with a knee injury and I cheerfully and enthusiastically (a slight exaggeration) volunteered to do the mowing.

We are now engulfed in turf wars. My mowing abilities are under intense scrutiny. The man has high standards. I call him the Sodfather.

He says grass should be cut at a height of five inches. I say why not shear it and then I won’t have to mow as often.

The fact is, I used to mow the yard all the time when the husband worked crazy hours. It’s one of the kids’ favorite childhood memories. The girls love to tell the story about when their brother fell off the neighbor’s monkey bars and came home holding his arm. I told him to sit on the sofa while I finished mowing and we would see how it felt in a few minutes.

Their version is, “Remember how Mom made him sit on the sofa with a broken arm while she mowed the yard?”

It was 10 minutes max, and when his arm still hurt we were at the ER in two minutes.

Their new story will be, “Mom can’t mow in a straight line.”

So maybe my lines are wobbly. Maybe it looks like the yard was mowed by a nine-year-old with no upper body strength. Make that a nine-year-old with no upper body strength and a drinking problem.

I try. I really do. I try and the husband is simply trying.

This week he started the mower, mowed a stripe and said, “Just follow that pattern.”

He makes it sound so easy. You can’t always go in a straight line when you hit small craters, tree roots and sinkholes.

To top things off, I am a visual spectacle wearing a sunhat, gloves, a mask for pollen allergies and big bright orange ear protection. The last time I mowed, a car drove by, the driver honked and yelled, “Trick or Treat!”

I suggested we consider one of those riding mowers. If he thinks my lines are crazy now, just wait until he sees what I can do with zero turn.

In the meantime, we have called a truce: I’ll mow according to his specs when he loads the dishwasher according to mine.

When my husband was asked if he would help teach twin granddaughters how to parallel park, he immediately yelled, “Yes!” If there was a parallel parking competition, my husband could take first place—unless our son entered the competition, then he’d take first place.

Our son lived in Chicago for 10 years and none of his apartment buildings had a parking garage. In such cases, you either learn to parallel park or leave the city. That’s why all the suburbs keep mushrooming.

The twins’ first parallel parking lesson involved a tiny yellow passenger car, an itty bitty red truck and a miniature Batmobile on the sidewalk in front of the house. The instructor maneuvered the little yellow car, demonstrating how to pull forward, align rear bumpers with the little red truck, put the car in reverse, turn sharp as you back up, then turn sharp in the opposite direction, and back up again, careful not to hit the Batmobile.

The lesson went well until the little yellow car lost traction, toppled off the sidewalk and tumbled into the grass.

I learned to parallel park in a maroon ’69 Ford XL, a vehicle similar in size to an Army tank. The car didn’t have a backup camera, but it had an AM push-button radio, a parking brake, ashtray, cigarette lighter and windows you rolled down manually. It also had side view mirrors, but I was so short I could hardly see them.

I was more shocked than anyone when I parallel parked without hopping the curb or hitting the car behind me and got my driver’s license on the first try. It was an event just short of feeding the five thousand with only two fish and five loaves.

When the husband promoted the twins to parallel parking in a real vehicle that could seat humans and not just Lego people, everyone had their fingers crossed—for the girls and for the vehicles.

They were to parallel park their mother’s car behind their father’s car and in front of their grandparents’ car. More than $130,000 in vehicles were at risk in the interest of parallel parking.

As the student drivers, their instructor and onlookers took their places, there appeared to be more lengthy instruction sessions happening in the car, each followed by a not-so-successful parking attempt. More instructions, more attempts.

After considerable time, it looked like the girls were getting the hang of it, although the sun was now down, it was pitch dark and hard to see.

The important thing to remember is that practice makes perfect.

The second most important thing to remember is that when a parallel parking spot appears impossible, keep driving—eventually you’ll find a spot you can manage.

 

My philosophy concerning a garden is the same as my philosophy toward dessert—there’s always room for a little more.

It didn’t take long this spring before I realized I was sowing too many seeds in too little space. Then a lightbulb flashed and I thought, “Why not go vertical?” I could just coax everything to latch onto big swaths of chicken wire and reach for the sky.

Fee-fi-fo-fum. Pole beans, sugar peas and cucumber vines coiled and curled and now brush the heels and pinky toes of giants.

The plan worked, though now we can walk around the garden but not actually in the garden. It’s a jungle. No zebras or elephants (that I can see), but a jungle.

I recently guided one of the smaller grands through the jungle to pick cherry tomatoes. It was like an air traffic controller helping land a plane whose instrument panel had gone dark.

“Veer a little to your right, honey. Careful with your left foot; it’s about to smash a potato plant. That thing on your head is nothing but a big cucumber leaf. Don’t look up, just keep your eyes on the little red balls.”

She maneuvered according to directions. “Plant your left foot to the side of the sugar peas and pole beans, now lean in, stretch as far as you can and I think you can reach the tomatoes.”

She nabbed her first few when I yelled, “Basil! You’re trampling the basil!” Of course, this scared her and the day’s take flew into the air.

Word is she’s not coming back to Grandma’s until the fall harvest is over.

Some suggest I have gone off the deep end. And yes, what you heard is true, when someone asks for gift ideas, I now say worm castings.

I have homesteader envy. I’m mesmerized by people selling homes in the burbs, moving to the country and declaring they will live off the food they produce.

Were we to go off the grid tomorrow, we would be sustained solely by 75 cherry tomatoes, rosemary, thyme, oregano and an unending supply of basil.

You’d be able to smell us before you could see us.

“How does Italian sound for dinner?” I would ask the husband.

“You mean some version of tomatoes?”

“Yes.”

“We had that last night.”

“And we’re going to have it every night from here on out.”

Welcome to the new frontier.

Fortunately, I didn’t see the late-night text from our son until early the next morning. I wouldn’t have slept a wink if I had.

His two youngest girls spent the night with us. They live in the country, know all the plants and trees and animal tracks and can give wildlife a run for their money.

The 10-year-old, who slept over, is gentle as a dove, soft spoken and loves mice and chickens. The 8-year-old has bright blue eyes, a sweet smile and looks like an angel baby. Angel Baby knows how to play a room and work a crowd. Angel Baby could also pull a live animal out of her back pocket any day of the week.

The text from the night before said, “Hey, so one of the boys had a dead spider that he tied up to fishing line, but it is missing. Can you please ask the girls if they know where it is / if they have it? I told the kids explicitly NOT to take it to Grandma’s.”

I wonder if a lot of grandmas get these sort of text messages.

Our son would say, “Only the special ones.”

The reason the girls were told not to bring the dead spider is because they have a history. The 5-foot-long snakeskin episode still sends chills down my back. The snapping turtle that slept in one of the bedrooms wasn’t bad, although the squirrel tail in the freezer had me reciting the Greek alphabet backward for weeks.

I knew immediately that the spider in question must be a wolf spider.  Wolf spiders are so huge you could toss one into a skillet, serve dinner for five and still have leftovers for the next three days.

When the girls wandered into the kitchen half awake, I immediately cornered my chief suspect, Angel Baby.

“Did you bring a big spider to Grandma’s?”

With a strand of hair cascading down her face, she smiled sweetly, batted those big baby blues, and said, “No.”

“Are you telling the truth?” Grandma sounded louder than usual.

“Yes,” she said.

I stood quietly, waiting for her to break. She whispered, “I didn’t bring it, but I know where it is.”

“Where?” I asked.

“At home.”

“Where at home?”

“On the mixer.”

I texted their dad. He said Wolf was not on the mixer.

Well then, Wolf was probably in whatever was last made in the mixer and is now inside all of the people who ate that. Yum. Protein.

The important thing was that Wolf wasn’t at Grandma’s house.

When the girls’ two brothers and older sister came the next day, the spider on the fishing line magically reappeared—dangling from the basketball goal spinning in the breeze, looking totally alive and terrifying. They also had fun perching the now visibly-dehydrated Wolf on a wicker chair where an aunt was sitting and attaching it to their clothing.

After the crew left, I realized I forgot to make sure they took Wolf with them. I immediately checked the mixer. All clear.

It was nearly two weeks ago that Wolf was here, but I still take a deep breath each time I open a cabinet or a drawer, or crawl into bed. Basketball is completely out of the question

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Bird Bonus
Robins built a nest in the dogwood next to the house, which means we have taken bird-watching to dizzying heights–standing on the patio brick wall, a small step ladder and nearby patio chairs to catch a peek and a few snaps for the photo album I will be preparing.

 

The morning of July 4th is so quiet around here, you might wonder if the entire subdivision entered the witness protection program.

But aound 9, garage doors start rolling up. Bicycles, ride toys, wagons and strollers emerge as Operation Decoration begins. Red, white and blue streamers wrap handlebars, balloons are anchored to Big Wheels and patriotic pinwheels glimmer in the sun.

Neighbors who know each other, and don’t know each other, begin congregating a block down from the corner. Friendly greetings of, “hello, good morning, nice to see you, and how ya been?” fill the air. The political divides and acrimony that often pierce conversations these days are temporarily suspended.

A convertible led the parade last year, a pickup the year before. The parade commences and loops through the neighborhood as parents steering toddlers and babies in strollers gradually fall to the rear. After the last set of short, pudgy legs cross the finish line, our brood returns home. Whoever drew the short straw lights the charcoal.

I can still see my dad firing up the grill on the Fourth years ago. The ritual began with a small stand to hold utensils taking its place next to the grill. On the front of the stand was a yellow sign that read “Men at Work” in big black letters.

Forever a farm boy, Dad loved the summer heat. The only thing better than an outdoor temperature of 101 was 102 with his shirt off.

Mom would be bustling around inside, putting a dash of paprika on the potato salad and monitoring the baked beans. She worked culinary magic in a small kitchen with countertop space not much bigger than a placemat.

Meanwhile, back at the grill, having subdued flames shooting 10 feet into the air, came the sound of hisssss-crack-pop. Man at Work just opened a cold one. Tradition and hydration all in one.

Most of the cracking and popping around here will be from ball games in the backyard. The grands are growing bigger, swinging harder and sending balls flying faster and farther. The zinnias are nervous and so am I.

The flag will fly from the front porch. We used to hang it only on holidays, or when family members who are veterans came to visit, but when our son-in-law deployed to Iraq, we began flying Old Glory every day and never stopped. Those red and white stripes are sobering reminders of the sacrifice of hundreds of thousands throughout the years. Flying the flag is a small way of saying thanks.

Fireworks at a sprawling sports park in a burb to the north will finish the day. Traffic is always horrible, parking is terrible and when it’s all over the thick ominous cloud of smoke hanging low overhead may send us to an early grave, but oh what a show.

With any luck we’ll be home by 11:30, in bed by midnight and fall asleep grumbling about the fireworks still popping off all around us.

It’s good to be an American. Happy 250^th!

 

 

 

Stone tablets are so yesterday.

A professor from Princeton recently shared that his Ivy League students had to have the Ten Commandments explained to them. Yes, that is the same New England college where the famous Jonathan Edwards was once president.

For the record, I went to Princeton. Once. I walked the campus when one of our kids lived nearby in New Jersey. The Princeton campus is so drenched in history and beauty that you can gain IQ points by just wandering around the buildings.

Who knew that beneath that grand exterior lurks a pocket of cultural illiteracy.

They are not alone. Voices from other prestigious schools chimed in, noting they, too, had to explain allusions to the Bible not only in the founding documents, but in the writings of Martin Luther King, Jr. and Abraham Lincoln.

The good news is, I can help. I didn’t teach adult Sunday school as did President Jimmy Carter, but I did teach kids, including our own. We taught them to memorize the Ten Commandments with their 10 fingers. Hold up one finger and you have the First Commandment: “You shall have no other gods before me.” God gets first place.

For the Third Commandment, place three fingers on your mouth in a “shush” position: “You shall not take the name of the Lord God in vain.”

Their favorite was the Tenth Commandment: “You shall not covet.” Stretch out both arms, make wild grabbing motions with all 10 fingers and shout, “Gimme, gimme, gimme!”

What’s so wrong about not knowing the Ten Commandments or biblical themes? They’re part of our DNA as Americans.

The founders not only knew the Bible well, they lived out some of the themes. Early settlers weren’t fleeing Pharoah and Egypt like the Hebrews in the Old Testament book of Exodus; they were fleeing King George and Great Britain. They didn’t cross the Red Sea, but they did cross the treacherous Atlantic. Early arrivals came ashore and began wandering in the wilderness, just like the Hebrews.

The founders’ beliefs were as varied as the founders themselves, but they all knew the Bible—even if they didn’t believe in the Bible. It is like knowing Shakespeare even if you don’t like Shakespeare.

Jefferson famously made his own loose-leaf notebook version of the Bible, taking out the parts he didn’t like, a practice still in vogue today. Despite differences, those founders carved out the framework for one of the strongest, freest, most prosperous and powerful nations in the world, based on the principle that human beings have inherent rights and freedoms because they were created in the image of God.

As Jefferson wrote in the Declaration of Independence, “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights.”

To be unaware of the history of the themes and thoughts that so heavily influenced our country’s founding is like mom without apple pie, or the red and white without the blue.

It dangled, wiggled and squirmed on the hook. It was click bait and I clicked. No pause, no hesitation. Click. Just like that.

I’ll tell you what hooked me. Mature women. They had me at the word “mature.”

Well, let’s back that up. They actually had me at “Hosin garlic noodles.” It was a recipe for a weeknight meal. When you’ve been cooking as long as I have, you need something fresh occasionally, motivation to keep dragging yourself to the kitchen one more live-long day.

When I opened the noodle recipe, “5 Eyelash Tips for Mature Women” popped up. Beside it was a picture of a woman 48 years old, tops. By my calculations, she could still have kids at home and has not filed for Social Security. But sure, let’s go with, “mature.”

Mature beats “senior.” Senior conjures up memories of high school graduation and being carded at certain establishments for proof of age. The only time I’m carded now is when I buy spray paint at Walmart.

Mature also beats the term “older adults.” I hear that and want to know, older than whom? Shall we all line up by age?

I’m not wild about the term “elders” either. It conjures up images of Walton’s Mountain with old women darning socks in rocking chairs alongside old men whittling with pocketknives.

Mature has a somewhat different connotation. Mature implies confidence. Mature hints of a refined woman who always matches her shoes with her purse and owns a vacation home along a coastline somewhere. I’m amenable to mature.

As any mature woman would do, I followed the essential steps to stop damaging my eyelashes. Step one was, “Quit using expired mascara.”

I had no idea mascara expired. This will not surprise our kids and grandkids, who check everything in our fridge and pantry for expiration dates. We tell them we don’t check expiration dates, because our eyes and noses tell us when something has gone bad. Case in point, when the sour cream grows blue green fuzzies on top, it has expired.

My mascara is not growing blue green fuzzies, so I assume it is good.

The next warning was to “Stop using waterproof lash products because they are a nightmare to get off.” I’ve never had nightmares after removing eye makeup, so, again my mascara must be excellent. I’m now two for two—not bad for a mature woman.

The last warning said: “Stop pulling out falsies.” I didn’t write it; I’m just quoting it. Clearly, they mean you should not rip out your false eyelashes.

Confident that I did not need to purchase the miracle mascara with 5,000 five-star reviews, I returned to the recipe for noodles.

A mature woman can survive without long lashes, but no woman in any season of life can survive without food.

Years ago, we had a financial adviser who was so young I often wondered if I should bake cookies before he came to the house—peanut butter or chocolate chip?

He once said something that I found semi-appalling. He asked if we knew the three phases of retirement. We confessed we did not. With a grin, he said, “Well, there’s go-go, slow-go and no-go.”

Maybe I felt miffed because he was bright-eyed, bushy-tailed and had no crow’s feet around his eyes. Yet at the same time, a neon light flashed in my head saying, “Remember that!”

The young man was right. I see it now, both in the rearview mirror and the crystal ball.

We are still “go-go,” but “slow-go” and “no-go” will surely be coming. Probably not today, next week or next month, but someday. Therein lies the problem – Someday.

You can’t plan on Someday. Someday has a mind of its own. Someday may come sooner or later than you expect. Besides the matter of timing, there’s already a heavy load hanging on Someday.

Someday, I plan on contacting a college roommate and suggest we meet for breakfast in Louisville like we did some years ago.

Someday, when we head west, we will keep going all the way to Kansas and once again walk the rolling hills of the Konza Prairie covered in tall grasses swaying in the wind. You can see buffalo herds and wild horses in your mind’s eye. Best of all, you can reach up and nearly touch the sky.

Someday, we’re going to spontaneously pick up some of the grands, go to a park that borders the river, take off our shoes and socks, let the mud ooze between our toes and spend an entire afternoon skipping stones.

Someday, I’m going to show up unannounced at a friend’s house with a beautiful bouquet of fresh flowers just to say thanks for the friendship and prayers that have gotten me through the hard spots.

Someday, I will grab my hubby and announce we are driving out to the country to sit under a dark sky and count the stars.

Someday, I’m going to make tiramisu, crème brûlée and broccoli cheddar quiche with heavy cream because it’s a waste of time to go years without such delights.

Someday, I’m going to pin all my loved ones to the wall and say, “Look me in the eyes. I have something important to say. Thanks for making life wonderful.”

Maybe today is a good time for a Someday.