May 2025 - Lori Borgman

I have come to the realization that I do not have the time nor patience for all the high-tech innovations designed to make my life more marvelous. I have all the marvelous I can handle right now.

This morning, I replaced a burnt-out kitchen light bulb. It was 9:16 when I started the process. Replacing the old bulb took less than a minute, using the last bulb from a three-pack we had on hand. Five other lights just like it in the ceiling glared at me in a threatening manner. Knowing light bulbs relish burning out in tandem, I went to the computer to search for more bulbs.

Of course, I was also online for cost comparison. Saving a dollar or two won’t compensate for the stock market’s dive, but it is therapeutic. I blew 30 minutes being therapeutic, searching site after site for bulbs with the same specs of the one I just changed. No success.

I went to my archived online orders, found I had last purchased these bulbs four years ago and clicked, “Buy Again.” Finally—light at the end of the tunnel.

The screen said, “currently unavailable.” The suggested alternative comes with color control adjustment, Bluetooth and Wi-Fi capabilities.

I warmed up my coffee, then visited multiple websites and watched YouTube videos on the differences between, and the benefits of, Bluetooth and Wi-Fi bulb connectivity and control.

I then took a short break to grab a Tylenol. After that, I scanned a QR code that landed me at a tutorial with instructions on how to control light bulbs containing microchips by downloading an app.

I am not completely unfamiliar with the process of remote-controlled lights. I once watched grandchildren at their home while their parents were out and was unable to turn on lights that were off, or turn off lights that were on. I was spooked and wondered if the house had wiring issues, but soon learned the lights had been set to timers on the phone of the kids’ tech-savvy daddy.

Still not finding bulbs with the specs we needed, it was now time for lunch. I opened the door to the ‘fridge and the light went on. I felt a glimmer of hope.

Still, I pondered what would happen when all the bulbs become “smart bulbs”? There we would be, two dim bulbs glued to our phones trying to figure out how to turn the lights on and off.

I checked the cabinet once more where we keep spare bulbs, hoping I had overlooked some. A reflection at the far back caught my eye. It was an old glass kerosene lamp my parents had.

If push comes to shove, it would beat sitting in the dark.

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A real estate broker, an auctioneer and a columnist walk into a bar. Not really, but the setup is similar. I was standing with two friends, a man who sells real estate and a woman who appraises art and manages auctions. The three of us have known one another and one another’s families for years.

The man immigrated to the U.S. from Central America in his late teens and has brown eyes and brown skin. The female friend has lived in the Midwest all her life and has blue eyes and ivory skin.

My male friend nodded to our mutual friend standing next to him and asked if he had ever introduced me to his mother. He clarified that she is one of his adopted mothers. She nodded yes; indeed, she was.

When he arrived in the U.S. decades ago, he took a job selling windows. She saw his talent, pulled him aside and told him he shouldn’t be selling windows—he should be selling real estate. She helped launch what would be a very successful career.

He said he sends her a card every Mother’s Day. She said, yes, every year she receives a Mother’s Day card from this guy. Such an acknowledgment is very sweet, although if I were her, I might press him for a tract of land.

I had no idea she was his “adopted mother” and how she had turned the course of his life.

The essence of motherhood is nurturing. You don’t have to physically give birth to take a fledgling under your wing.

I knew a woman who often came home and found boys other than her own in her house. Theirs was the “go-to” house—the house with snacks, sodas, games, an open door and a warm welcome. When the house was full of teen boys in the evenings, she stayed up late ironing, just to keep watch and be available. A number of men in their mid-50s attended her funeral. They were middle-aged now, some sporting gray hair and nearly all of them choking back tears as they recalled video games, potato chips and what this woman with an open home and open heart had meant to them.

Aunts often become adopted mothers as well. I know an aunt who bought T-shirts for her young nieces that said, “I have the coolest aunt ever.” The fun is a two-way street.

Family friends, neighbors and advocates often fill the role of nurturers through relationships wallpapered with listening, laughing, playing, talking and simply being together.

Older women can serve in the role of mothers to younger women. Providence often brings adopted mothers onto the stage at the right time in the right place.

If you ever had, or have now, an adopted mother in your life, Mother’s Day might be a good time to pick up the phone and say, “Remember me? Thanks!”

Watts the best choice?

Mother’s Day celebrates the art of nurture