Lori Borgman

I say that I am married to a collector because packrat sounds unkind. My husband comes from a long line of collectors.

When they closed out the farmhouse his father lived in all his life, the lead auctioneer kicked off the three-ring, two-day auction under the main tent bellowing, “Ladies and gentlemen! The same family has lived in this house for 103 years! As near as we can tell, they never threw a thing away!”

Nailed it.

Naturally, I was raised in a family of the other extreme. If you dropped your napkin on the floor at dinner, by the time you bent over, picked it up and sat back up, your dinner plate could be gone, scraped, washed, dried and put away.

My philosophy is that there is a place for everything and everything has a place — and it better well be there.

My husband says he is married to a woman who is highly-organized and efficiency-driven because extremist sounds unkind.

Being it is the start of a new year and fresh starts, I gently broach the matter of thinning out our every-growing accumulation of clutter—I mean treasures—by mentioning the Swedish Death Cleaning method.

My voice is soft and calming and the giant box of construction-grade trash bags is hidden behind my back. I explain that the idea is to remove the burden of decluttering so after you’ve moved on (and I don’t mean to a store-n-lock), only the essentials have been left behind for your loved ones.

He says that’s fine for people who are Swedish, but he’s not Swedish.

I say I’m not Swedish either, but Swedish or non-Swedish, we all face death and then our kids will face our collections of clutter.

Typically, this is when he experiences a bout of sudden hearing loss. This occurs frequently when you’ve been married as long as we have.

A few days later, I casually mention the Four Box Method where you take four boxes, label one “keep,” the others “throw away,” “donate” and “sell,” and divide your goods accordingly. It is touted as a good method for when you don’t have a lot of time.

He says he can slash the time on the Four Box Method by knocking those four boxes down to one—“keep.”

I then suggest the 12-12-12 Challenge. You declutter by identifying 12 items to donate, 12 items to throw away and 12 more that need to remain in the home.

He says he has already identified the things that need to remain in the home—everything.

I am digging through papers in our safe deposit box, the bulk of which are expired home and auto insurance policies. I ask why we need to keep policies no longer in force. He says he needs them so he can compare the rates from year to year.

I tell him I can give him comparison rates for this year, the next year and every year after that: Every single policy will be more expensive than the year before.”

He acts like he’s not impressed, but I see him chuckle in the reflection of an old mirror—as I drop it into a large black trash bag.

“Stay tuned for a weather impact update,” says the man on the television.

I have problems with the word impact and not just because it’s one of those words that can be both a noun and a verb. Impact always reminds me of when my brother was a toddler and shoved a red hot up his nose. The red hot was impacted and our mother had to carefully remove it. The episode was traumatic and it wasn’t even my nose.

According to which network you listen to, or which app you use, our weather impact this week will be 5 inches of snow, 6 inches of snow or two tons of red hots.

Personally, I follow a local amateur meteorologist on Facebook named Stubby. He has a good track record. Stubby predicts 8-13 inches of snow. He says—and I quote—“We are about to get our backsides kicked.

How can you not love a forecaster who frames weather impact in such easy-to-understand language?

About midafternoon, family texts began flying about which impact report to believe when one of our girls texted that her husband said if we get 13 inches of snow, he’ll run around in the street naked.

I said to let us know if he does and I’ll call the police so he can get his five seconds of fame. Of course, we all knew he was kidding.

I’ve noticed that weather terminology changes faster than the weather.

“Wind Chill Warnings” are now “Extreme Cold Warnings.”

“Wind Chill Advisories” are now “Extreme Cold Weather Advisories.”

The National Weather Service people want us to know that cold can be dangerous even without wind.

I’m going to miss “Wind Chill.” It was a term loaded with fear and drama that could send chills racing down your spine. Or maybe that was just the cold.

The word “hard” has fallen on the trash heap as well. “Hard Freeze Watches” and “Hard Freeze Warnings” are now plain old “Freeze Watches” and “Freeze Warnings.”

When these snow event warnings are issued, I’ve never grasped why everybody rushes to the grocery and dives for the eggs, milk and bread.

If you truly thought you might be snowbound, wouldn’t you want something more substantial? I’m thinking a side of beef and large bags of carrots and potatoes.

Hold on. A friend just called and asked if I could drop off a dozen cage-free brown eggs before the storm. Again, it’s probably just me, but I’ve never thought of scrambled eggs as a cold-weather comfort food.

In any case, the weather forecaster, I mean the meteorologist, on television is saying it will be dry until the first flake, which will not fall until tomorrow morning. I am looking outside as he speaks, watching large flakes pirouette like ballerinas.

Clearly there are no windows in the television studio.

Good morning, Indianapolis!

I haphazardly closed up the little house this year. I hurriedly swept the floors, took out the trash, checked the windows, pulled the Dutch door shut and whispered, “Thanks for the memories.”

Not long after, a fierce night wind pushed the door open. Blowing snow drifted in and nestled in the corners.

Tiny hand-shaped footprints crisscrossed the front porch. With the door ajar, raccoons let themselves in and ransacked the place. They tossed plates and cups, knocked the fry pan on the stove to the floor and clawed at the tablecloth in search of crumbs. So uncivilized.

The little house really is just that. It measures 6 feet by 6 feet and has a ceiling that will graze the head of anyone over 5 feet 2 inches tall. The front porch, which usually holds a red geranium and child-size wicker chair, runs the width of the little house.

We built the little house 35 years ago. It was how we spent a summer vacation not long after we moved back to the Midwest. The husband drew meticulous plans, hauled in supplies and was assisted by a work crew that played with the hammer, colored all over the blueprints and littered the work site with empty juice boxes and yogurt pouches.

Despite all the help, the little house was eventually finished and soon hosting tea parties, secret clubs, bank robberies and foreign invasions.

The years flew, the children grew, the gatherings tapered from often to occasional, and the little house was visited less and less frequently. The life and laughter that once shook the walls quietly disappeared.

More than a decade passed before a second generation brought the little house back to life. Red, white and blue garlands on the Fourth of July, small bouquets of freshly picked herbs in the summer, a pumpkin on the porch at Halloween and every pot and pan filled with maple leaves and acorns in the fall.

A VRBO listing would read like this: Small, aging, rustic cottage. No ‘fridge, heat or running water. Nearest bathroom 20 feet away in the big house. Kitchen fully stocked with plastic food. Decrepit dishware for four and a pink teapot missing the lid. Large chalk wall; no chalk. All you need is imagination.

Now, after a busy summer and beautiful fall, the mercury in the thermometer plummeting and the wind howling, the little house stands bare and alone.

Just when it appears forsaken and forgotten, a small voice asks to use one of those orange electrical cords in the garage. The plan is to lug a space heater to the little house.

And could they cut some evergreens?

And could they use that lantern with the candle in the hall?

And how soon could I deliver a round of hot chocolate?

Once again, the little house bustles with laughter and warmth. At least for one more season.

They’ve canceled Christmas in Bethlehem.

The Christmas tree in Manger Square stands bare and unadorned. There will be no candlelit walks to the manger, no festive Christmas concert.

The Royal City of David, normally packed with tourists and pilgrims, is deserted. Had Mary and Joseph been traveling this season, they would have found plenty of room at the inn. They wouldn’t have a prayer of getting anywhere close to the manger, though. Armed police guard the Church of the Nativity that shelters the tiny stable where Christ was born.

There won’t be any aerial camera shots of the streets of Bethlehem on the 11 o’clock news come Christmas Eve. No mellow voice over proclaiming, “Peace on earth, good will toward men.” For weeks, Bethlehem has been the site of violence, mayhem and destruction, which is why Christmas has been canceled.

You say you’ve canceled Christmas, too—not in Bethlehem, but in your heart. You’ve suffered your own mayhem and destruction. You’ve had your fill of Silent Night. For weeks, the nights have been so silent and long you could hear mice snoring three states away.

This is for everyone outside of the Holy Land who is contemplating canceling Christmas.

Maybe you’re exhausted from caring for a sick family member. Maybe you’re weary and frustrated from fighting your way back from an illness or injury. Maybe this was the year you enlarged your vocabulary with words like malignancy, stem cells and bone marrow.

Maybe your marriage feels like it’s gone flatline. You’re wondering what attracted you to each other in the first place.

Maybe it’s been months since you spoke to a certain friend or family member who betrayed you. If you saw them tomorrow, you’d just as soon pelt them with fruitcakes as to utter a civil “hello.”

Maybe you’ve been devastated by divorce. Maybe you fought a knockdown drag out custody battle over the kids and then went a second round over worthless junk like silverware and power tools.

Maybe, like scores of people in Bethlehem, you are grieving the loss of a loved one this year. Maybe the holiday reds and greens are colorless because the lens you see through is dirty dishwater gray.

Think twice before you cancel Christmas.

That baby in the manger didn’t come to make sure that retailers had a robust season at the cash register. Nor did he come to put frost on our windows and pink in our cheeks. Christ didn’t come to create a picture-perfect Currier and Ives memory.

Christ came for three dimensional people—people with thin skin, blind spots and pent up anger. He came for people who hurt and suffer and struggle. He came for people who get depressed at holiday time. He came for those who have everything but feel empty inside and are scared to admit it. He came for human beings who mangle relationships and turn priorities upside down.

The essence of Christmas is that God sent his Son, not to punish or condemn mankind, but to offer a helping hand. Christ was sent for every man, woman and child who can admit they’re less than perfect and need the help of someone who is.

Some say when people open their heart to Christmas, the Son of God works wonders. He eases the pain and suffering. Some say He’s been known to yank the knot right out of a chain. Others say He has gently dried tears, softened hearts and sat beside them in the dark. Still others claim, when they have opened their hearts, that He has showered them with priceless gifts—treasures like faith, hope and love.

Think twice before you cancel Christmas. This may be the year you need it most.

I had an identity crisis yesterday. It was the fourth one this week. Online accounts keep questioning if it’s really me.

I have the same thought a lot of mornings when I look in the mirror.

The bank insisted I confirm my identity before I could access our account—all because I made one teeny tiny typo entering the passcode. Flustered and in a hurry, but not one to ever make the same mistake twice, I made a different typo on my next try. I was automatically routed to the 3-question “How Good is Your Memory?” game.

Where did you and your spouse first meet?

What was your favorite pureed vegetable as an infant?

What was your great, great, great maternal grandfather’s blood type?

I failed that, too. I guess carrots was the wrong answer.

I had to go to the bank in person to unfreeze the account. The teller asked if I had any additional identification. Just so you know, the bank will not accept an appendectomy scar from when you were a child as additional identification.

The verification requests that I don’t mind are the ones that ask me to enter a code sent by text or email. I like these. They are good memory tests to see if I can flip between screens and still remember a six-digit number. So far, so good.

The Walmart app recently asked me to verify my identity when I arrived for a grocery pickup order. Seriously? There are 32 pickup spots in the parking lot and I was the only single solitary car out there. It was 7 a.m and still dark. Yes, it’s me. Now please bring out the milk and laundry detergent.

Of course, there’s always facial recognition identification that simplifies logging in, but do I want to go down that road? What if I have a good night’s sleep (unlikely), the bags under my eyes disappear (virtually impossible), and the app can’t recognize me?

What if I decide to have plastic surgery, have everything on my face pulled, tightened, puffed and fluffed, and wind up looking so young that the app doesn’t recognize me? That is also highly unlikely, but a woman of a certain age likes to keep her options open.

The only thing I know for sure is that I always experience a wave of panic whenever I see the message: “Failed to verify your identity.”

The upside of all this identify verification business is that the CAPTCHA security checks that once required you click on the all the boxes with power lines, bicycles or traffic lights, now simply ask you to check the “I am not a robot” box. As improved as that is, I still believe that CAPTCHA should be renamed GOTCHA.

Three of our elementary-school grands have a new landline phone sitting in their family room. They called us multiple times the first week it was installed, each time saying, “Hello, Watson?”

No, they didn’t. Each time a soft voice cautiously said, “Hello, Grandma?”

The poor things were apprehensive. A handset that rests in a base alongside a keypad is foreign to them. You might as well have given the kids a box of cassette tapes and said, “Listen to these, we think you’ll like them.”

Each time they called, and I identified myself as Grandma, they responded with silence followed by breathing. Little did they know that is how people used to prank one another on landlines.

They’re too young to have their own cell phones, but their mom and dad wanted a way for them to dial out if needed, or for others to call in to make sure the house was still standing.

The three were “home alone” for the first time, as much as kids are ever “home alone” when Dad works from home in an office with glass-paned doors next to the family room.

Mom was out for part of the day, the kids had no school and we agreed to call and check on them.

One ring, two rings, “Hello?” a quivering voice answered.

“Hello, it’s Grandma,” I said. “Who’s this?”

“It’s me,” the soft voice whispered. It was the youngest of the three.

“Great,” I said. “Is everyone getting along?”

“No. I was elbowed.” She then launched into a long story about how an older sister elbowed her earlier.

This is incredible because, though the child has never used a landline before, she instinctively, intrinsically, automatically knows its primary function is for tattling on a sibling.

Slam dunk for the 6-year-old.

There are other landline skills the girls are coming by naturally as well. The landline has a cord that they can stretch, twist and wind around their arms and legs and then spend half an hour untangling the cord.

The downside of their landline is that they only have one. The kids will never know the joy of an extension phone. They will never hear someone yell, “Get off the extension! Now!”

And because not many other families have landlines, they will never know the nerve-wracking intimidation of talking to a friend’s mother or father before being able to talk to the friend.

Here’s a question for all the philosophers reading: If you slam a landline down on a cell phone call, does it make a slamming sound or just a click on the cell phone?

The girls are growing at ease with the landline. The novelty is slowly wearing off. Who knows how their parents will top the landline.

They could always switch out the large flat-screen television for a small portable job, with rabbit ears, that you have to stand up and walk over to in order to change the channel. Just a thought.