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We’ve been encountering confusion with people names and dog names lately.

Some of the grands have a new puppy named Emmie. That’s cute. But when you call “Emmie” from a distance it can sound like “Emma.”

The kids with the new puppy have a cousin named Emma, there is an aunt in an adjoining wing of the family named Emma and all 11 grands have at least one friend named Emma. Emma is the number one most popular baby girl name.

When you yell Emmie real fast and it sounds like Emma, you never know if a kid you are related to, a puppy, or someone you’ve never met before, will come running.

Charlie and Max are among the most popular names for dogs.

We have, or have had, both in the family. Max was a small dog with a bad hip rescued from a Chicago pound. Max often nipped at feet under the table and barked and lunged at black leather jackets and motorcycles.

The Charlie in the family is my better half. He does not nip at people’s feet, nor does he wag his tail. Unless I make ribs.

Some of the grands have a little cousin on the other side of the family named Milo and there is also a dog in the family named Milo. Toddler Milo weighs about 25 pounds and the German Shepherd Milo weighs 85. One Milo you want to pick up and hug, the other Milo you want to brace yourself against a wall when you see him charging toward you.

When I was a kid, we had a dog named Smoky. That dog died and we got another dog and named him Smoky. Creative, right? When my brother moved out, he got a dog and named it Smoky. Then my brother thought it would be fun to list himself in the phone book as Smoky. Somehow, I began getting mail for Smoky even though I was living on the opposite side of the country to my brother and his dog.

Smoky received offers for life insurance policies, car insurance and magazine subscriptions.

Even more difficult to explain is my husband’s family that had a cat named Fish.

People often name pets and offspring after famous people, so again with the overlap. A friend had a dog named Winston, as in Winston Churchill. A cigar in the pooch’s mouth would have fit just fine.

Maybe it is time to branch out with the dog names. Perhaps name dogs after the planets: Saturn, Neptune, Mercury, Jupiter. You don’t run into a lot of people with those names, but that’s just me. Another family somewhere might have the entire solar system covered.

Maybe we could draw on the table of elements: Titanium, Magnesium, Lithium. But then, names that end in “-um” are never good yelling names and a good yelling name is crucial in naming both pets and children.

Who knows if people names have inspired dog names or if dog names have inspired people names. It’s like asking which came first, the chicken or the egg, or the baby or the pup?

Every Friday one of us called our nephew Luke or he called us.

We started with the weather. He always knew the highs and lows, if it was a pleasant day or storms were stirring. He couldn’t see what was happening outside – he started losing his vision at age 12 — but he knew.

We talked about ball teams, outrageous headlines in the news and building projects his dad and brother had undertaken. He was always upbeat. We chatted about what his 5-year-old nephew and baby niece were up to. We shared antics happening in our wing of the family, stories about rascally grandkids, a frog-jumping contest and outdoor adventures, all the things he enjoyed as a boy.

Our phone calls grew louder over the years. He had lost most of his hearing. Ours isn’t great either, so we were entirely comfortable with the volume on high.

As Luke’s condition rapidly deteriorated, we drove back to Missouri for a final visit, flying along hours of interstate, finally turning onto small highways that wind through golden pastureland and tree-covered hills. Each up and down of those hills is an invitation to reach out and touch the deep blue sky.

Luke did just that. He reached out and touched the sky. He slipped the bonds of earth and suffering and returned to his Creator.

My mother anguished terribly over her grandson’s situation. When he lost his sight she would say, “I wish I could take my eyes out and give them to him.” If she could have, she would have.

Someone commented that there are a number of people in heaven glad to see Luke. They may even be fighting over him. If they are fighting, the consensus is that it will be my mother who wins.

Most people with Kearns-Sayre syndrome don’t make it past 30. Luke made it to 38.

We covered a lot of ground in our Friday conversations, but there were some things we never heard him say.

He never said, “I quit.” Or “I can’t.” Not when the mitochondrial disease targeted his sight, his hearing, his balance, his heart and every major system in his body. He came by fortitude naturally. He got it from his parents.

His mom and dad never said, “I can’t” or “I quit” either.

They leaned into the wind. Gale force wind, the kind that whips your hair, burns your eyes and sucks the air from your lungs. With each setback, each punch in the gut, each round of awful test results, they leaned in harder.

They are my heroes.

Few people in this world have their kind of strength. It is a strength fueled by a mother and father’s undying love.

Fridays will never be the same.

 

It is common knowledge that Washington, D.C. in the summer is a brick oven, a solid mass of heat-reflecting concrete. You sizzle like a slab of beef slowly turning over an open flame.

Despite this well-known fact, our daughter and her family spent four days with their kids in D.C. touring the Capitol, the White House and visiting memorials and monuments.

We took a similar trip years ago when our kids were school age.  We toured the White House, sat in the gallery of the House of Representatives, walked the National Mall and visited monuments. Ask them what they remember, and they will say, “A man with a huge snake wrapped around his body standing outside the Smithsonian and the heat. Mostly the heat.”

So much for educational vacations.

Our daughter’s family logged as many as 30,000 steps a day in the blistering heat and humidity of D.C. They also played a game to see who could go the longest without complaining.

Perhaps they didn’t know D.C. is a city built on complaining. It is a prerequisite that you complain about the heat. I think they even sell t-shirts in D.C. that say, “We came. We saw. We complained.”

You don’t go to Maine and not get lobster. You don’t go to the beach and not get in the water. You don’t go to D.C. in the summer and not complain.

Complaining is the foundation of democracy. If we hadn’t complained against the British, we wouldn’t be a nation.

I asked the youngest if she had complained. She said not out loud, but she did in her mind—about the heat, her feet hurting, wanting to stop and wondering if there was a bench anywhere.

Another admitted that she complained out loud about the heat and the humidity. She also volunteered that her mother complained about their father not complaining.

For the most part nobody complained until late in the day, which was remarkable consider the heat index.

We joined them on the last two stops of their trip, Mount Vernon and Monticello. They asked if we wanted to take the No Complaining challenge. We said sure.

We had this. We were “in it to win it.” We were fresh off the bench and they were worn slick. Wet noodles. The youngest even looked like she didn’t feel well. At the very least we could outlast her.

We asked what the prize was.

There was no prize.

We both complained, but only to ourselves.

The first morning in a hotel together, I returned to our rooms after wandering through the hotel lobby.

Someone asked if I found any coffee.

“No,” I said. “There was nothin’!”

Two minutes later I was informed I was out of the competition. One of the kids reported that I had complained there was no coffee.

“I was merely stating a fact,” I offered in my defense.

I was told that my tone was complaining.

What did they expect? There wasn’t any coffee.

Barely after 7 a.m. and I was knocked out of the competition.

I inquired about a do-over. No.

A second chance? No.

Three strikes and you’re out? No.

The first one awake and the first one busted.

Where does a woman go to complain?

That rich Nigerian prince fellow must have found someone to take all his money because he hasn’t emailed me in ages.

I’ve also noticed that my friends have become better at international travel. I no longer receive emails from “close friends” (whom I haven’t heard from in years) allegedly stranded overseas, desperate because they were mugged, had their passport stolen and now urgently need help to buy a Google Play card for a grandkid’s birthday.

If I were stranded with no money, identification or passport, the last thing on my mind would be a grandkid’s birthday. (Sorry, kids!)

Nigerian princes and international travelers have disappeared, but other scammers fill the abyss. Most of their correspondence routes directly to my junk file, but a few slip in now and then.

“Mr. Bernard” recently emailed that he has money to give me as a charitable gift. To receive the gift, I will need to send some pertinent financial information. He says he will be waiting.

It’s going to be a long wait, Bernie.

Gordon Cole QC, solicitor at law and investment adviser to my late relative, says my late relatives left behind cash and properties. The solicitor would like to open the floodgates to wealth once I confirm my lineage, surname and country of origin. Gordon hopes to hear from me soon.

Not gonna happen, Gordie.

I have also received notification that I am an heiress. Just when I start pondering what to wear, where to build my estate, and whether Elon Musk will be my friend, along comes another bogus email saying I have unpaid bills. The latest scammer claimed Microsoft Office365 has overlooked my delinquency for some time, but no more.  Unless I open the attached document, all my programs will immediately stop working.

I’ll set fire to my own computer before opening a document from an unknown sender.

A laugh out loud email needs “information necessary to complete Lori Borgman employee’s salary package.” I’ve been writing for 30 years, and I’ve never had a salary package!

All I would have to do is “evaluate the modifications and immediately sign consent to the handbook in section 4.” I’ve never had a handbook either!

The message continued: “This policy’s objectve (sic) is to keep salaries and benefits competitve (sic) while garuanteeing (sic) that the business can keep providing for its clients and staff. Sincerly (sic), Lori Borgman Human Resources Department.”

The only thing that might remotely convince me that I sent an email about myself, to myself, on behalf of myself, was all the typos.

Here’s what always gets me: The people who run scams, commit fraud, credit card and identity theft, and turn people’s lives upside down, probably have a decent measure of intelligence and enterprise. What a waste that they don’t channel those same abilities toward something productive and good.

They could earn a living, and probably a decent one, the way their victims do – by working for it.

I am happy to report that the entrepreneur spirit of small business is alive and well. I just witnessed it at our neighborhood garage sale where we hosted a gaggle of grands who are aspiring vendors.

Several may do well in business, and several may do community service time.

The circus barker tried selling his personally-carved walking sticks, calling out “Walking stick? Walking stick?” whenever someone approached. Most people looked straight ahead and acted like they didn’t hear him. His technique didn’t work well at a garage sale, but the kid could have a future as a carnival worker.

The testimonial sales pitch proved highly effective. A 12-year-old baker positioned a round-faced 5-year-old cousin in a chair by her table and kept feeding her chocolate chip cookies. By mid-afternoon, the cookie monster was in a carb stupor, but still smiling with melted chocolate coating her sweet round cheeks.

The demo sales technique not only works for the “As Seen on TV” merchandise but for garage sales as well.

A 14-year-old turned more than $100 in sales of cake pops, vegan cookies and homemade dog treats. Dog treat sales spiked as she and her brother demonstrated the small dog-bone shaped goodies were also edible for humans, popping them into their mouths. Talk about a sure-fire winner. You can feed the dog  and the kids and never again ask yourself, “Wattsfirdinner?”

There was an attempted hostile takeover that transpired as well. One of the quieter vendors was selling her homemade soy candles in small Ball jars, beautifully packaged and reasonably priced.

A cousin on the opposite side of the driveway was selling vintage Mountain Dew bottles he had unearthed from old trash piles in his grandpa’s woods. Noting the larger crowds at his cousin’s candle table, he sauntered over and bought two candles for $3 each.

He then returned to his table and repriced both candles at $5. He would recoup his initial investment and pocket a 66% profit.

His cousin was stunned. We all were. And then Warren Buffett called.

Just kidding.

Then there was the low-key but hard-driving lemonade vendor. A man handed him a ten-dollar bill for a 50-cent lemonade. He paused, looked at the ten, looked at the man, and asked, “Do you want change?”

“The Art of the Deal” was morphing into “The Art of the Steal” before our eyes.

The sting of “know your market” was felt by a jewelry maker in the group selling high-end beautiful handmade earrings. She sold a few but nothing like the volume her sister did in more affordable hair scrunchies and colorful dog bandanas she’d whipped up on her sewing machine.

Years ago, in “The Graduate” a middle-aged businessman told Dustin Hoffman the future was in plastics. Based on our sales tallies, the future is in dog treats and dog bandanas.

You heard it here first: Sales have gone to the dogs.

Spring did not disappoint this year. The pink dogwood we planted 25 years ago filled the view out the kitchen window with astounding beauty for more than a month. Often, after finishing a meal, having enjoyed the dancing branches wrapped in ruffles of pink, we offered a hearty round of applause and shouted, “Encore! Encore!”

Friends our age are leaving the homes where they’ve raised families, looking for something easier to maintain, smaller yards in particular —something you could mow with a few snips of kitchen scissors. We’ve entertained similar thoughts, wondering if we still need all this space, but we always come back to, “How could we ever leave the dogwood?”

Memories and a pink dogwood keep us tethered to home.

The flowering crabapple next to the driveway delivered a splendid show as well. It was a short run, but the crab always delivers a grand finale shedding pale pink petals that blanket the driveway, looking like the perfect walkway for a wedding. Unless you would have reservations about a ceremony under a basketball hoop with a Purdue backboard.

The bulbs bloomed capping things off with a fine crescendo. Crocus and grape hyacinth started with a low drum roll, followed by jaunty daffodils and tulips with wave after wave of saturated color. Tulips always give me greater appreciation for Tulipmania, the great Holland economic crisis of the mid-1600s. Wild speculation on tulip bulbs drove prices to such heights that one rare bulb could trade for six times the average person’s annual salary.

I could have been one of those fools at the front of the pack. “Yes! I will buy your ruffled apricot tulip bulb in exchange for our house, two horses, a wagon and all our wooden shoes!”

If you learn little else in this life, learn how to plant bulbs that bloom in succession. It will add beauty to the world and measurably improve your mental health.

Spring is God’s reward for enduring winter.

And now, here we are, spring fading into the past and summer knocking at the door. Summer is the season of anticipation. We eagerly await the slow bake of high heat in the backyard, poolside, on a beach somewhere, or standing next to a white hot grill, sweating bullets, barbecue tongs in hand.

We anticipate tomatoes fresh from the garden with juice running down our arms.

And corn – fresh sweet corn. Not the kind that is picked green, refrigerated and shipped in trucks; the farmstand kind so fresh from the field it steams and smells of sweetness the instant you pull back the husk.

We even anticipate that first summer rain, clouds that roll in, water the thirsty earth, then sail away as peacefully as they came, leaving not a trace of damage, destruction or fear.

I for one, anticipate catching naps in the hammock, studying clouds overhead and listening to frogs sing at dusk.

Perhaps what we anticipate most is that rare treasure of finding a window of time do absolutely nothing.

Welcome back, summer. We’re glad to see you.

We were loading some grands into the car for a long weekend at our house when one of the girls handed me an envelope containing cash. “Mom says this is for accidentals.”

I asked if she meant incidentals and she said, no, she thought her mom said it was for accidentals.

Naturally, your first thought is: I wonder what they plan on breaking? Furniture? Dishes, maybe?

Hopefully, not one of their bones.

Or one of my bones.

But this isn’t a group that tends to wreak havoc.

That said, there are components of our larger group that would put my mind at ease if they did arrive with small claims policies in tow. Flashbacks of certain individuals falling off the porch rail, scaling trees and running barefoot on aging, uneven sidewalks swiftly come to mind.

I texted our daughter asking how wild she thought the weekend would be that she needed to send money for accidentals.

She texted that it made sense now. When she handed off the envelope, the girl had said, “You mean this money is for if we break something?”

Her mom said, “I guess, or if you want to go out for pizza.”

Breaking the back on a sofa is one thing and getting pizza is another. You’d think some clarification would have been in order.

Not long after the kids unloaded at our house, a basketball game commenced in the driveway. Naturally, this was followed by an injury.

I compared the injured ankle to the uninjured ankle. They looked similar, although the injured ankle was hot pink and starting to puff up a bit. The money for accidentals would not have covered a trip to the ER, so I declared it an incidental.

We put ice on it. Ice is free. (There would still be money for pizza.)

Ten minutes later the kid was back in the game. It truly had been an incidental.

Score one for Grandma.

Someone asked the difference between an incidental and an accidental.

“Why? Are you planning something?” I asked.

No, she just wanted to know.

There is actually a lot of overlap. Neither an incidental nor an accidental is planned, but an incidental usually has minor consequences while an accidental has more serious consequences. An incidental usually results in relatively small expense, while an accidental often results in significant expense.

There was yet another incident in which an old, heavy blind above a double-wide window fell and left a small knot on someone’s forehead. There was no significant expense involved as the better half rehung it in the brackets, announcing it wouldn’t fall if people used the correct technique for raising it.

A lively discussion ensued as to whether we should replace the old window blind or instruct everyone who enters the house on correct technique for raising it.

We were unable to classify the event as incidental or accidental, although the child clobbered by the blind classified it as painful.

We came to a consensus that what really mattered was that we still had money for pizza.

 

 

I hope you enjoy the Memorial Day holiday! The National Monument of Remembrance Act passed in 2000 asks all Americans to stop what they are doing at 3:00 pm on Memorial Day for a minute of silence to remember and honor those who died while in service. Our family has made this a tradition. We live free due to the sacrifice of others.

My dad always said he had the “perfect childhood.” My mother grew up in the same area, in the same time frame, and would just roll her eyes. They both came from large Nebraska farm families during the Depression. My dad loved being outside. He loved going without shoes all summer and checking trap lines on the way to school in the fall and winter.

This is a picture of a community threshing crew. Everyone in this photo, with the exception of two hired hands, is a relative or neighbor of my dad’s family. Little did the younger ones in this picture know that WWII would be waiting for them. The man circled on top, was  one of Dad’s cousins named Lyle Merrill. He was killed in 1941 flying over France. The next one circled is my dad. No shirt, good tan lines. He served in WWII. The one circled in front of my dad was John, one of my dad’s four brothers. John was killed in WWII on Mindanao Island in 1945.

Ordinary people doing ordinary things, called into service by their country. Some gave all. On Memorial Day, we pause and remember.

Our youngest grand announced she wanted a surprise birthday party when she turned five.

Her wish came true. It was a farm theme party with a barn door made from a red plastic tablecloth, popcorn wrapped in cello bags and green tissue for corn on the cob and Rice Krispie treats labeled hay bales. Three large plastic horses, a plush pig stuffie and an old saddle rounded out the décor.

The birthday girl, wearing her fluffy pink pig costume went on an “errand” with her dad to Tractor Supply. The rest of us then received an all-clear text saying, “The pig has left the building.”

We slipped in, found hiding places and waited. The front door opened, they walked in. Aunts, uncles, cousins, grandmas and grandpas, jumped out yelling, “SURPRISE, HAPPY BIRTHDAY!”

The pig froze. Absolutely froze. We all froze waiting for a response. The pig didn’t respond, didn’t oink, smile, wiggle her tail or say a word. It looked like she was going to cry.

Who would approach the child, now traumatized by the surprise birthday party of her dreams? Mom. That’s who. That’s always who. Mom held her close and softly explained what was happening. Still no response.

Great. The child may need therapy. At the very least she will never again go to a Tractor Supply.

Isn’t that how it goes? You finally get what you always wanted and discover you didn’t really want it after all.

Then someone said, “Look! Presents!”

The birthday girl slowly, carefully, hesitatingly opened a gift. How could she know what might jump out of the gift bag? Her color gradually returned. She began to thaw and return to life. Ten minutes later she was threatening any cousin who would dare blow out her birthday candles before she could. Taking no chances, she blew them out after the first “Happy Birthday to . . . “

What a relief. It looked as though she would be OK. Then someone said, “Every family birthday party this year should be a surprise party.” (We are slow learners.)

One of our sons-in-law announced he’d like a surprise birthday party. Then he made the mistake of falling asleep on the couch.

Someone suggested a Go Navy theme surprise party. He is a West Point alum and Army veteran. When he woke up, we told him our plans. He said we were all uninvited.

I happened to know our girls were planning a surprise anniversary party for us. I told them we didn’t want one. They said, “Surprise! You’re having one anyway.”

I said, “OK, but—Surprise!—it  needs to be at our house and the theme will be Patch and Repair.” I made it clear the patch and repair would not be on us, but a work party to remove roots from an 85-foot pine tree that toppled in high winds.

I texted our son and said, “Can you bring a chainsaw to our surprise anniversary party?”

He didn’t even question why, just said sure.

My better half likes surprises. This will be a great one.

My birthday is six months away. My surprise for them is that I plan on being out of town.

A reader named Alice emailed, saying her grandchildren seem to think they are the “Food Expiration Date Police.” They go through her ‘fridge and try to throw away expired food.

I emailed Alice back saying we must be related. We have food police in our family as well.

A granddaughter will forage in the ‘fridge, pull something out and say, “Grandma, did you know this cheese expired?”

“I don’t see anything green growing on it, do you?” I ask.

“No,” she says.

“Then it didn’t expire; it just joined the ‘aged cheese’ category.”

Now, if the roles were reversed and I were to say, “The ice cream has expired,” they’d all grab spoons and clamor to test it for themselves.

With the wide variety of expiration dates, “best by,” “sell by” and “use by” cautions, it is hard to know who and what to believe.

Food experts contradict other food experts and manufacturers waffle on whether the cautions mean it is about to go bad, it has gone bad or you’re going to be sorry you opened it. It gives new dimension to “food fight.”

Some of the grandkids hail from the “Fast Pitch” school, while we are of the “Wait and See” school. There’s no real school; my expertise (or lack thereof) comes from regular consumption, a loathing of wasting food and an innate fear of anything made with mayonnaise sitting in the sun on a picnic table.

I adhere to the dates on fish, chicken and pork, but am skeptical of the expiration dates on canned goods. How does anyone know the exact date something vacuum sealed goes bad?

Expiration dates on chips and crackers are dubious. After all, the main ingredient is usually salt.

I’ve yet to meet a mustard or vinegar that went bad. Is it chemically possible?

Then there are the foods you desperately want to go bad, but don’t. I’ve been waiting two weeks for a nasty-tasting salsa to spoil so I can justify pitching it. The salsa hasn’t expired, but it has surely worn out its welcome.

Store bought pasta sauce is easy to diagnose; it crosses the finish line growing a fuzzy mold. Ditto for sour cream, ricotta and cream cheese.

The shelf life for yeast seems suspiciously short, but when you make a bread that has to rise three times, it’s too much work to take a chance.

The husband has a wide latitude when it comes to questionable foods.

He will pour half and half in his coffee, announce it appears curdled, say we need more, and then drink the coffee.

The man is our canary in the mine.

The “use by” and “best by” dates don’t mean the product has literally expired and is inedible, but most often indicate when the food is at its peak freshness.

My better half and I are past our peak freshness.

We hope nobody throws us out.

 

 

 

The problem with moms is that they’re old from the first day you get one. The moment you lock eyes with your mom it is clear she is larger than you are, older than you are and smarter than you are (at least for a few years). She doesn’t drool and never sticks her thumb in her eye.

Eventually, you begin noticing other things, too—how your mom can ride a bike without training wheels, cut her own meat, and sometimes dress up so fancy that you hardly recognize her.

Naturally, you look up to a woman like that. She’s an imposing presence. This complex creature can love you tenderly one minute and put the fear of God into you the next.

A mom is doctor, nurse, first responder, chief cook and bottle washer, housekeeper, teacher, coach and comforter. From a child’s vantage point, it looks like she knows everything about everything. It is hard to imagine there was a time when your mother wasn’t a mother. You assume your mom was always a mom—that she was born a mom.

One of my favorite cartoon panels is a mother with two small children seated at a bar. The mom is wearing a sleeveless shirt showcasing an upper arm tattoo reading, “Born to Raise Kids.”

The thing is, nobody is born a mom. Becoming a mom is the ultimate in on-the-job training. Sure, you can read all the experts, you can even do motherhood by Google, but the experts and Google don’t know your children. Nobody knows your children like you do.

Nobody.

Motherhood is a never-ending process of discovery. In most cases, slowly but surely, a mother learns how to read a child.

Moms develop a sixth sense that can tell from across a room when a child doesn’t feel well, or watch a child walk in the door and intuitively know something is wrong.

Mom School happens one day and one season at a time. It’s a branch of education you’ll never be awarded a degree for or walk across a stage in a cap and gown and hear your name called out for completing the course of study. Mama cum laude never happens. Motherhood is a course of study that never ends.

Our babies are all grown now. They have become moms and dads. But I can still tell from across the room when one is tired, off-kilter or concerned about one of their own.

I watch with amazement as they deftly decode their children, sense the needs, fill the gaps and provide opportunities for growth and challenges.

You’d never know they’re learning as they go, sometimes adlibbing, other times completely winging it.

No mom ever gets it all right all the time. If you were blessed, like I was, to have a mom who gave it her best, you have been richly blessed.

If your mom is still living, acknowledge what she has done for you. You can just say thanks. She’ll know what you mean. And her heart will probably melt.

To all you moms still in the trenches, give it everything you’ve got. Keep loving, keep learning and keep pushing forward because being a mom is the most important job you’ll ever have.