Lori Borgman

Get a group of women together and chances are they will talk about relationships. And shoes. More specifically, relationships with shoes.

The conversations are about shoes somebody loves, shoes somebody used to love (but broke up with due to plantar fasciitis), and shoes somebody dreams of meeting in the future.

These are women in crisis grappling with the reality that they can no longer live in fashionable heels but need to wear comfortable shoes. Transitioning to comfortable shoes is a major life change that aging experts fail to mention.

My closet is a melancholy walk down memory lane. It cradles shoes that I shouldn’t wear, and can’t wear, but can’t let go of. This is known as shoe separation anxiety.

Yesterday, I pulled a dusty box from under the bed to feast my eyes on a beloved pair of boots I can no longer wear. It was sole food.

Sadly, my most comfortable shoes are a pair of well-worn hiking boots. That’s a hard one to pull off at weddings and funerals.

The last shoe convo I had in a group of women went like this:

“I love Hoka. They’re like wearing clouds,” said one.

“I can’t do clouds,” countered another. “I need support.”

“The On tennis shoes are good,” chirped another. “They have so much cushioning on the bottom you could use them for a flotation device.”

If you happen upon a comfortable-shoe conversation, think twice before sticking your toe in the water.

I first noticed my shoes were unbearable at a wedding two years ago. Silver heels. You should see them. You still can—they’re on the closet shelf. I kicked them off under the table during the reception and, when the wedding was over, walked barefoot on gravel to get to the car.

Two weeks later I was in a podiatrist’s office. He said I needed orthotic inserts. I questioned that. He explained in detail how they would help. I said, “OK, I stand corrected.”

Orthotic inserts are so expensive that I keep them in the safe deposit box at night. Comfort comes with a cost.

Costly as they are, comfortable shoes are such a relief to hurting feet that they quickly become both necessity and obsession. The search history on my computer sadly reveals 98 percent of my searches are for shoes with arch support. I toe the line.

I now know why Dorothy in the “Wizard of Oz” kept saying “There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home,” while clicking her ruby slippers together. Home was where her comfortable shoes were.

The morning after a storm that snapped tree branches, sent people scurrying to their basements and trash cans blowing to the curbs, I was sitting in a line of traffic adjacent to a small family-owned garden store.

A woman out front of the garden shop struggled to untangle flagpole ropes twisted in the storm. Hunched over in an awkward position, she couldn’t seem to get a grip on them. I wondered why she wasn’t using both hands when a swatch of red and white peeked out from under her arm. She was holding a folded flag beneath her elbow pressed tightly to her side.

With the flagpole lines finally free, she attached the flag, taking care that it didn’t touch the ground. Old Glory was halfway up the pole when the traffic resumed moving.

The woman who raised the flag has probably done that hundreds of times, but I was glad to be there at that particular time, to see her respectful handling of Old Glory and to watch the stars and stripes reach for the sky.

My dad fought under that flag, as did two of his brothers, one who was killed in combat. I have a total of six uncles who served under that flag. Two made the military their careers. My mother-in-law, brother-in-law and our son-in-law all served under that flag.

“Served” sounds so easy. Bombs, gunfire, tanks, makeshift hospitals, sleeping in tents, land mines, Agent Orange, suicide bombers and open burn pits.

Nobody ever comes home the same.

Some never come home.

The lives of those who serve are upended just like the lives of everyone who loves them, prays for them and waits for them.

June 14th is National Flag Day. We fly the flag from our front porch almost every day. To us, it is a reminder of the long and bloody road to freedom and a nod of gratitude to all who have served.

There is power in that flag. Those red and white stripes, and stars on a field of blue are so powerful they can temporarily unite opposing teams on football fields, baseball fields, soccer fields and basketball courts. That flag can trigger the roar of the crowd at the Indy 500 and NASCAR races.

In rare moments, that flag can even quiet warring political factions at our nation’s capital.

Old Glory represents our shared history as well as our shared hope for the future.

I called the garden shop and told the man who answered the phone that I’d watched someone raise the flag in front of their business that morning and appreciated it.

“You know why we have that done every day?” he asked. “My dad served in World War II.”

I find myself still pondering the surprise announcement from Warren Buffett, age 94 and CEO of Berkshire Hathaway, that he is retiring because he was “beginning to feel his age.”

I keep wanting the man to expand. Specifics on “feeling his age” would be helpful and greatly appreciated.

He did say he noticed he was operating at a different speed. Did he try a second cup of coffee?

Was there a day he dropped something on the floor and had to stop and think about which knee to go down on first so he could get back up?

Did he discover he could only sleep on his side, no longer on his stomach or back?

Did he suddenly find he loathed all his pillows? This one was too hard, this one was too soft and not a single one was “just right”?

Were neighbors asking him to turn down the volume on the television?

Was there a day that he was jolted because he needed spreadsheets printed in larger type?

Were there times he planned on telling a group of investors three things, but could only remember two?

Did he turn on the television one night and discover “Antiques Roadshow” was exciting? Did he start building his schedule around the program, “Discovering Your Roots”?

Was music in restaurants so blasted loud that it sometimes made him cranky?

Did he read those snippets on famous people having birthdays, not know most of them and think, “Who cares?”

Did he find himself grunting when moving furniture, hoisting large suitcases or pulling out the wooden cutting board?

Was he finding he often wore a heavy squall jacket when everyone else was in shorts and T-shirts?

Was he gazing out a window for long periods of time wondering if one of those cute little nuthatch birds would stop by? Or maybe a chickadee?

Had he started feeding squirrels and naming them?

Did he get a thrill one day when buying spray paint at Walmart a clerk demanded I.D. for proof of age?

Did someone give him an electric blanket for Christmas, and he later realized his thanks was over-the-top effusive?

I’ll miss Warren Buffett in the investment arena. He was a steady table in a world of three-legged chairs.

I couldn’t get into spring cleaning this year. I couldn’t get into fall, winter or summer cleaning either.

My housekeeping may be slipping. There was a time when I cleaned the entire house from top to bottom every week. Now I just write “SEND HELP” in the dust on my desk.

When people come over, see that and ask if everything is all right, I hand them a dust cloth and can of Pledge.

I’m not lazy; I’m conserving energy.

There comes a time in every woman’s life when vacuum tracks on the rug cease to be a thrill. Why else would so many homes have hardwood floors these days?

I used to clean smudges on windows and doors every morning with spray cleaner and paper towels. These days I am content to pretend there’s patchy fog outside.

I still clean the bathrooms thoroughly every week. I also give them a quick clean every day or two—not because I’m a germaphobe, but because I’m still working my way through all the bleach wipes left over from COVID.

One of the best housekeeping tips I ever received came from our son-in-law who is a West Point alum. Before cadets had white glove inspection of their rooms, they sprayed furniture polish on the door frame at the same height as the inspector’s nose. Genius.

Don’t be surprised if you knock on our door and smell Lysol.

I read a sign that said a clean house is a sign of no internet connection. Our internet works great.

If you want to be philosophical, cleaning a house over and over goes against the laws of nature. Nature takes a year, 365 days, to run a full cycle.

A house can complete a full cycle in only 24 hours. A house can start the day “Martha Stewart lives here,” slide to “casual clutter” by noon, hit “there may have been a medical emergency” before dinner and reach “full-on whirlwind” by bedtime.

Our nemesis is paper. Whoever said the world has gone paperless hasn’t been to our house. We specialize in newspapers, books, journals, articles my husband clips for me to read, articles I clip for him to read, and interesting things we clip for our kids to read—things which they’ve already read online, but that doesn’t stop us.

A measure of ongoing chaos is inherent to all of life. I offer the definition of entropy as proof. Theoretically, it is a component of the second law of thermodynamics, but it’s really about keeping house. Entropy is “the randomness, disorder or uncertainty in a system.” Or in a house.

I rest my case.

And my vacuum.

So many people have food restrictions these days, that I usually go down a checklist before having someone over.

Are you gluten-free, sugar-free, meat-free? Are you dairy-free, dye-free, born-free? Sorry, word association.

In our extended family of 19, we have gluten-free, sulfa-free and one that can only eat fowl and fish. And not a single one of us looks underfed.

I came across a new one you might want to be free of: titanium dioxide.

It sounds like something Superman packed in his school lunch, but is an inorganic compound that comes from an ore and has a whitening and brightening quality. It is considered safe in some circles and an element to avoid in others. The component is used in paper, plastics, cosmetics and foods, primarily candy and baked goods. It is also frequently used in frozen pizzas. Yum.

“But wait—” as the man hawking chef’s knives on late-night television used to say “—there’s more!”

The “more” is that titanium dioxide can also protect from UV rays, which is why it is a common ingredient in sunscreen. Talk about versatile! You can eat it in your frozen pizza and slather it on your body at the pool.

Question: If you eat pizza containing titanium dioxide at the beach, does it give you sun protection from the inside out?

Alas, the ingredient finds itself in the realm of controversy. This is not the first time an ingredient considered to be the best thing since sliced bread one day (very, very white bread), is considered bad for you the next.

Recipes from my mother’s generation called for margarine. Margarine was declared revolutionary and butter melted into the past. Then, after a time, butter slid back into first place and margarine melted into the past.

I have a copy of the recipe book my grandmother received as a wedding gift. The spices women commonly used before the Depression were cinnamon, nutmeg and ginger. The book also includes recipes for raccoons. Cinnamon, nutmeg and ginger continue to be staples with most cooks, raccoons not so much. In one day; out the next.

I reminded the husband yesterday that we would be practicing the ever-popular trend of “eating clean” again. Eating clean means consuming foods as close to their natural state as possible. Fresh from the dirt is preferred.

Our take on eating clean means cleaning out the ‘fridge by eating all the leftovers. Our ‘fridge overfloweth.

Our clean dinner consisted of 6 red potatoes (circa. Easter), a large quantity of fresh green beans (the grands didn’t eat as much as I thought they would) an old yellow onion sprouting a green top, and two aging strips of bacon (part of the husband’s required nitrates).

For dessert we had apples.

We have two more shelves, a chill drawer and a fresh drawer to go before reaching our food goal—leftover-free.

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.

When the kids were growing up, we had a giant weeping willow tree in the backyard. It was a magnificent specimen with long, graceful branches that swayed in the breeze.

It was also a magnificent mess. Not only did it dance in the wind, it seemed the tree shed constantly—every day, every week, every month of the year.

To add insult to injury, every wispy branch that didn’t shed slapped you in the face with its serrated leaves when you passed by.

Being that the tree left a constant mess in the yard, when the kids were sassy or needed some consequences, we would send them outside to pick up willow branches. This would sometimes keep them busy for days and weeks at a time.

It was win-win, a very good system until the willow began to rot and we had the tree taken down. The trunk and branches were even bigger on the ground than they were in the sky. We rented a wood splitter and our son split the salvageable wood. This kept him busy the entire summer between his freshman and sophomore year in college.

A few years ago, we lost two maples due to age (theirs not ours). Needing more shade, we planted a Heritage River Birch. Even though a river birch can sell itself on good looks and beautiful bark alone, the tag sealed the deal: “This charming tree attracts songbirds and butterflies, while its lush canopy offers cool shade, making it an excellent choice.”

What the description neglected to say is that a river birch is merely a weeping willow in disguise.

The problem now is that all the kids are grown and gone. You don’t tell your adult children, who are married and raising children of their own, to get outside and pick up sticks.

We know because we tried.

The two of us are now the ones outside picking up twigs and sticks, bending from the waist, the knees, the left side and the right side, telling each other this qualifies as aerobics.

In a recent email exchange with a reader, she mentioned that her mother used to pay her kids a penny for every stick they picked up from her yard. She said her mother’s yard was always full of grandkids trying to “make a buck” picking up sticks.

Interesting idea. But having filled another large trash bag with fallen birch twigs in under an hour, and calculating for inflation, we’re not sure we have enough set aside for retirement to cover that amount.

Beauty comes with a price and we’re now the ones paying for it.

On a cold spring day years ago, young neighbor children found a small, dead bunny in their yard. They ran inside to tell their mother about the discovery. She went outside with the children to view the pitiful sight.

When the woman’s husband came home that evening, unbeknown to the children, he disposed of the bunny. The next day, the children went outside and discovered the dead bunny was gone. They rushed inside to ask their mother what could have happened.

She told them the bunny had been resurrected.

My friend saw the circumstances as a teachable moment for Easter.

For the record, the children all grew up to be healthy well-adjusted adults who are productive members of society.

For several hundred years following the life of Christ, the major holiday on the Christian calendar was Easter. In our times, that is flipped.

Last year, Christmas netted 972 billion in sales. Easter netted 22 billion, which is paltry in comparison but enough to generate tons of chocolate bunnies and marshmallow peeps.

Christmas is buoyed not only by commercialism, but by the tender story of a baby born in a manger to a humble peasant couple. Easter is a harder and more gruesome story to teach, let alone market.

Though intense and frightening, the lessons of Easter are relevant for all ages. Suffering and sorrow touch every one of us. Even children. Who doesn’t remember tears shed over the death of a beloved pet? Grief and sorrow over the death of a family member or friend can feel unbearable.

In the biblical account, when Jesus was crucified, dead and buried, his friends and followers were crushed to the brink of despair. When Jesus died, their hope died as well.

After they laid his body in the tomb and the stone was rolled in front of it, they all sheltered together. Together in times of sorrow helps. As hopeless as things seemed, the darkness did not swallow them whole, though they may have wished it would.

On the Sunday after Jesus died, Mary Magdalene, a friend and follower who witnessed the crucifixion, went to the tomb in the early morning. The rock had been rolled away and the tomb was empty. As she stood bewildered and sobbing, Jesus appeared to her. She ran to tell the others the good news that Christ had risen from the dead and was alive. This is the origin of “good news.”

When the ever-lengthening Christmas season is over, all the gift-giving and merry-making drawn to a close, how do people often feel? Many experience sadness and melancholy. The clinical name for that is post-Christmas blues.

When Easter is over, people most often feel refreshed and joyful, imbued with the hope of new life and rebirth. When Holy Week appears darkest, light pierces the clouds. Christmas may net the most attention and money, but Christmas and Easter are integral parts of the same narrative. Christmas sets the stage—Easter is “the rest of the story.”