Lori Borgman

I am completely certain that I said, “Do not get in the water. There are no dry clothes in the car. You did not wear clothes for wading.”

I turn my back for maybe 10 seconds, then look around and there they are—in the water.

It’s my fault really. I should never have said, “Do not get in the water.” It was like telling fish not to swim and birds not to fly.

This may be one of the best days of fall. Sunlight dances on ripples of water. Trees on the riverbank arch in a fashion that clearly says, “Y’all come.” Naturally, you get in the water. You can deal with the grandma later.

Besides, the grandpa is in the water, too, so there’s that – the old man on your side.

I stand alone, the practical one, the one with a first aid kit, anti-bacterial hand gel and sunscreen in the car, the one focused on the “after.” After they get out of the water. After the pant legs they “rolled up” are soaked. After their feet are caked with mud and not one of them will be able to worm wet feet back into their shoes and socks.

After that will come the protest — the protest claiming they don’t need their shoes for the hike back; they can go barefoot. I’ll protest their protest, and someone will turn the tables and say to me, “But why not?”

I’ll be playing defense, explaining why you don’t hike uphill, over tree roots and rocks in bare feet.

But all that will come later, because right now there are more pressing matters, like what to do with all the teeny, tiny shells a little one has collected from the slope of the bank.

She has dozens of them in her small cupped-hand. What to do with these tiny treasures? Put them in one of your socks, of course! Then she has another idea—a far better idea—put them in one of Grandpa’s socks!

He’s already ahead of her, loading tiny treasures into one of his socks.

Oops! He dropped one. He picks one up. No, that’s not the one, she says. The one he dropped was a darker gray. Yeah, better make sure it’s the right dark gray shell among the billions of dark gray shells sprawling in every direction.

Her older siblings are skipping rocks, probing the riverbed beneath crystal clear water with sticks, when one of the boys shouts that he spies something bobbing in the water. An old, half-rotten wooden duck decoy slowly drifts into reach.

Perfect. They position the decoy just so, in hopes of luring two beautiful mallards upstream.

Maybe we can stuff a live mallard in a sock, too.  Or maybe the mallards will just naturally want to follow us back to the car.

The morning passes, the sun grows from warm to hot and it is time to go. I anticipate a conversation about whether the duck decoy will come or stay, but there isn’t one.

They position the decoy in a current and watch the water carry it away, confident it will be discovered by another band of explorers.

 

Special dates on a calendar are punctuation marks in what could otherwise be one long, winding, rambling sentence spanning years. They are restful pauses, a contrast to the routine, something to look forward to.

Then it happens. The special events come undone and plans unravel.

You might as well knock over an extra-large latte on a desk calendar and watch the ink bleed and the coffee puddle into the shape and size of Lake Michigan.

The once-beautiful forecast for an outdoor event turns to severe storms with heavy winds and damaging hail.

You’re hosting a family get together and at 10 the night before one wing of the family calls to say someone tested positive for Covid. Again.

You arrive at a long-awaited trip to the beach and are met by purple flags snapping in the wind, warning of a jellyfish infestation.

Sometimes the unraveling is small scale, a slight tremor on the Richter scale of life. Other times, the undoing is catastrophic. The earth shakes, the ground cracks and threatens to swallow you whole.

A loved one is whisked off for emergency surgery.

Test results are back and they’re not good.

A horrific phone call with a voice saying, “There’s been an accident.”

You’d think we would grow accustomed to managing abrupt structural shifts of life, but it’s not just the logistics of change. There’s the emotional roller coaster of disappointment, dashed hopes and altered expectations.

We all have things to do, places to go, people to see.

One of the greatest skill sets in life is being able to adapt and meet new challenges, both large and small and in between.

One of my favorite Bible verses is one you don’t see in a lovely calligraphy hanging on someone’s wall, stenciled on tote bags or coffee cups. It is the verse where Jesus said, “In this world you will have trouble.”

Some translations say tribulation.

I find that verse affirming and reassuring on those nights I fall into bed exhausted, spent and completely wrung out. It is the reverb of trial and tribulation. A part of life. To be expected.

Even better than knowing difficulty is part of the landscape is the second part of the verse: “But take heart, I have overcome the world.” The affirmation that life is hard, for days or for seasons, is followed by encouragement and hope.

They say the race belongs to the swift and we duly shower awards and medals on those with lightning speed and incredible strength. But never, ever, ever count out those who move slowly, navigating life’s trials and tribulations one radiation treatment, one round of chemo, one physical therapy appointment at a time, one step and one day at a time, courageously leaning in to changing circumstances and new challenges.

It is the plodders and the overcomers who are the truly strong among us.

We witnessed the passing of the drums last weekend.

It was a momentous occasion and not just because they were passed down from the attic over the garage, although that was dramatic. I was instructed to remove the extension ladder that had gotten the husband into the attic once he stepped onto support beams.

Per instructions, I then moved a stepladder into place and climbed up with arms in catch position as he tried to force the bass drum through the attic opening. Meanwhile, grandsons smart enough to know a disaster in the making when they see it, positioned themselves to catch the drums if, when, and most likely, I lost my grip on the bass.

They intervened and were bearing the weight of the large drum before I could lose my grip. I choose to think they were more concerned about their grandmother than the drum, but I have no intention of giving them opportunity to confirm or deny that. Why ruin a happy thought?

The kids immediately set up the bass, snare, tom drum and cymbals in the family room. I’ve not seen that on HGTV, but maybe I can send them the idea.

The banging began immediately. It was deafening, but oddly comforting – a blast from the past.

The husband was a drummer. His ‘60s blue and silver Slingerland drum set was the major piece of furniture he brought to the marriage.

We raised a drummer. For years the roof shook, the windows rattled and the walls rolled. Our son practiced after school and every bone in my body wanted to run upstairs, fling open his door and scream, “STOP! JUST STOP!”

But we were paying for lessons. We paid someone big bucks for the kid to dismantle our nervous systems so he could play in a high school jazz band.

And orchestra. All the kids had to take orchestra.

Do you know what it’s like when your kid plays percussion in the orchestra? Your kid goes to practices and rehearsals, you clear the family calendar, you clean up, you drive to the school and you find a seat in the auditorium.

The curtain goes up and there’s your kid. He’s going to play the timpani, so he’s at the far back corner of the stage. You’re pretty sure that’s him but he’s far away and in the shadows so it’s hard to tell.

You sit there forever, waiting for the timpani. Then WHAM! He hits the timpani. WHAM! DA DA DA DA DA! WHAM!

Show over. Five seconds, max. Hundreds of dollars in lessons, thousands of dollars in Tylenol, five seconds of play.

And now the drum set that belonged to the husband and was used by our son passes to our son’s children.

We needed two vehicles to haul the kids and the drums home. We set them up and within seconds the roof shook, the windows rattled and the walls rolled. History really does repeat itself.

We declined an invitation to stay for dinner. We wanted to get going before our son and daughter-in-law had a chance to change their minds and tried to catch us.

The race is about to begin. First appearing is the crowd favorite, Grace, followed by Flapper, Goldilocks and Ella Mae. More flock in, but they’re crowding and bunching up at the back.

Chickens are like that.

Someone in the know, standing next to me, identifies the late entries as Unicorn, Mushroom, Shorty Long and Crocodile Eater. The names alone are worth the wait.

The chickens are gathering to run an obstacle course. The obstacles resemble jumps for horses, but on a small poultry scale and with PVC pipe instead of wood. Imagine a small Ninja Warrior course for chickens and you’re close.

The course was originally constructed, with the jumps set higher, for a black lab. Sadly, the dog disqualified himself by repeatedly and gleefully knocking down the obstacles instead of bounding over them.

Undaunted by failure, the trainer, who just turned 13, lowered the bar (literally) and took to training chickens.

Her lure for the chickens is a peeled banana. Who knew, right? Chickens like bananas. They like them so much they will run an obstacle course in hopes of winning teeny tiny bits of banana.

The race is about to start when yet another chicken crashes through the brush and bobs onto the course.

The crowd cheers and does the chicken dance as Nest in Lap joins the competition.

Silence falls, the trainer lowers the banana and the race begins. Competitors cast beady-eyed glares, shove, push and wing bump one another in an effort to hurdle, or hop, PVC pipes.

Shorty Long takes the lead, trailed by Mushroom and Flapper. They both take the first jump with the pipes on the ground. Halfway to the second jump, Mushroom surges ahead and delivers a beak blow to Shorty Long’s midsection. Shorty Long and Mushroom tussle. Feathers fly. Flapper seizes her moment, overtakes them both and clears the second jump.

Mushroom recovers (though hen-pecked), scuttles to the front and is now neck-in-neck with Flapper at the final and most difficult jump, which features a PVC pipe at the base of the jump and a second pipe suspended four inches above ground, resting on notches cut into two tree branches driven into the playing field. Make that laying field.

The crowd falls silent. Which one will have the hen-durance? Mushroom hops over pipe No. 1 and onto pipe No. 2.  She teeters, falters and hits the ground.

It looks like Flapper is about to seal the win when Ella Mae surges from the brood, her claws kicking bits of sod into the air. She delivers a wild wing (hold the Buffalo sauce) to Flapper who takes a fall. Ella Mae balances precariously atop pole No. 1, eyes on the prize. She steadies herself, takes a leap, goes airborne and clears the pipe suspended above ground.  Ella Mae has won the banana! The crowd goes wild!

Eight of Ella Mae’s closest hens, all void of sportsmanship like conduct, close in on her and the spoils. The trainer basks in the adoration of spectators and murmurs spread of Ella Mae going pro.

If you have a newer top-load washing machine, you know that it helps to have the height of an NBA player to reach in and retrieve the clothes.

You’re at a serious disadvantage if you’re on the short side. I can reach clothes in the bottom of our washing machine with the toes on my left foot still touching the ground, but barely, and I frequently bruise my rib cage.

On the upside, I’m now one inch taller than when we had a front-load washing machine. Even more impressive is that my right arm, the one I stretch to reach the wet clothes, now hangs one foot longer than my left arm.

I was at one of our daughter’s homes the other day when she told her youngest to move the laundry from the washer to the dryer. Their machine is a newer top-load also, but even bigger, with a deeper tub because they do a greater volume of laundry.

I watched carefully to see if she had a technique I could implement.

The first thing she did was kick a step stool to the front of the washer. I’d considered a step stool, but I also considered that my center of gravity could tilt, and I could fall into the machine and not be found until the next load of dirty clothes.

She gingerly jumped up on the stool (I don’t do anything gingerly anymore), hoisted herself up on the washing machine (I do still jump onto the countertops), balanced her midsection on the rim of the machine, teetered a bit, steadied herself, then went for it.

She dove headfirst. Her legs shot up at a perfect 45-degree angle. It was fantastic form and should probably be incorporated into a domestic Olympics: The Top-Load Washing Machine Deep Dive, the When-Your-Hands-Are-Full Refrigerator Door Kick and Speed Competition For Unloading The Dishwasher.

Five seconds later, she popped out of the machine cradling an enormous load of wet towels to her chest and grinning from ear to ear. I jumped to my feet, cheering, clapping and yelling, “Go for the Gold, sister! Go for the Gold!”

She dove in two more times and emptied the machine. The girl has moxie.

BBQ tongs and a grabber have failed me, but this child has given me hope. Sometimes you’re just so proud of your family, you could cry.

This is the week I move to the top of the leader board in a Fitbit competition. This is exciting because when you are of a “certain age” others begin to count you out and there’s nothing like being counted in. Especially if the “in” is in first place.

As you probably know, a Fitbit is like an ankle monitor for your wrist. It doesn’t track the places you go—it tracks how many steps you take to get to the places you go.

This little high-tech watch has an algorithm that counts your steps based on motion patterns like swinging arms.

Sometimes I add steps to my daily count by swinging my arm to my mouth with pistachios. Talk about a win/win.

Four family members who compete with one another invited me to join their group—our youngest daughter and three grands 12, 12 and 10.  They consider 10,000 steps a day (about 5 miles) bare bones. I think they wanted me in the competition to boost their standings. And I did for awhile.

I lingered in last place because I would charge the Fitbit and forget to put it back on. Other times I forgot to update my step count in the app.

But now, like many Fitbit wearers, I am obsessed with counting steps. I’ve stepped up my game. Literally.

Whenever I run laundry upstairs, I make multiple trips, often running things up only a few at a time: his clothes that go in drawers, my clothes that go in drawers, his clothes than hang up, my clothes that hang and individual trips for towels and hand towels.

I moved into fourth place.

Then I began walking while talking on the phone—and emptying every trash can in the house multiple times a day whether they needed it or not.

I pulled into third.

I began walking a half mile to the corner drugstore to pick up miscellaneous items instead of driving. I extended my route on a trail I frequent and closed in on second.

I could taste victory. It smelled a lot like stinky tennis shoes.

With first place within reach, I started shopping only a few items at a time because Fitbit won’t track steps when you have both hands on a cart. Sometimes I’m in and out of the grocery so frequently that security follows me.

I was closing in on first place and hit a huge roadblock—one of the 12-year-olds started cross country with practice three times a week followed by a meet. We were all toast now. There would be no way to catch her.

And then it happened. I broke through. I outpaced the cross-country runner and took first place. I confess it wasn’t determination on my part as much as it was timing.

The kid was trapped in a car on a 12-hour trip with her family.

I hope she doesn’t ask if she can walk home.

The thrill of first place has been overshadowed by the realization that Fitbit controls my life. I may need rehab. Preferably a 10,000-step program.

My little black coat is simple—knee length with five buttons down the front. It’s your basic snowman model. The lining in both arms is shredded. The coat is 22 years old.

Our three kids graduated from high school rapid fire. There were two years when all three were in college at the same time.

An acquaintance, who knew what was ahead for us, asked if she could give me a piece of advice. “Get yourself a good winter coat now,” she said, “because you’re not going to get another one for a very long time.”

So I did. And I have hung onto that little black coat the way a baseball player keeps a glove from a spectacular catch, or a football player holds onto a jersey from a championship game.

That little black coat is a testimony to victory.

To this day, I’m not sure how we maneuvered three kids through college, but we did. Everybody worked. There were summer jobs at Bed, Bath and Beyond (that daughter learned about sheet thread counts and is certified in “lifting”), a lawnmower with roughly 10,000 miles on it (our son had a couple dozen customers), endless babysitting jobs and jobs at a nursing home and a hospital.

Our son likes to say that a robbery took place at the end of every summer. We wouldn’t call it a robbery, necessarily. We thought of it more as a “buddy system.” Everybody contributed their earnings to college expenses.

Like many other families, the kids worked and we worked. Even so, they all graduated with student loan debt. They all paid it off. We all paid it off.

Similar scenarios have played out in hundreds of thousands of homes across the nation.

College is expensive and keeps getting more expensive. The government can’t fix the problem because the government is the problem. Every time the government “helps” by raising the ceiling on student loans, colleges raise tuition. More federal aid to students simply enables colleges to raise the price of admission.

Statistics vary on how many Americans over the age of 25 have graduated from college, but most hover in the neighborhood of less than 40 percent. Why should 60 percent of the population that didn’t go to college be forced to help pay the bill for those who did?

Even more aggravating, why should those who honored the legally binding contracts they signed, and paid off their student loans, now pay on someone else’s loan?

You don’t expect others to help pay off the VISA or Mastercard at the end of every month.  You don’t take out a home improvement loan, remodel the kitchen, then ask, “Who’s in?”

No magic wand can ever erase a debt. The debt will continue to exist and simply show up elsewhere.

Three guesses where this one will show up.

Facing fierce competition in the job market, prospective employees are shelling out $1,000 for a professional headshot hoping to gain an edge.

Apparently the “right” headshot can put you ahead of the pack. It should be an easy sprint to the front with your wallet being so light.

Headshots with smiles are now questionable, even ill-advised in some circles. Pity all that money spent on orthodontia and caps. They should have saved it to pay for the $1,000 headshots.

I also can’t help but think of the line in the musical “Hamilton” where Aaron Burr advises a young Alexander Hamilton, “Talk less; smile more.” If only Hamilton had listened. He could have lived a lot longer.

A number of these pricey headshot sessions come with “face-coaching.”

I don’t know about you, but I could use a face coach.

I have a face that often responds before my mouth does: furrowed eyebrows, the look of shock, the squint that says, “I’ll probably fact check that later,” and the standard eye roll that has been getting me in trouble since age 7.

Although as a parent and grandparent, rapid-response facial communication is extremely useful. You don’t say a word, just give the “I wasn’t born yesterday” look. Or the “Sell it to someone who’s buying” look. It’s high-speed, efficient communication.

The husband could use a face coach, too. I often get a deadpan look from him in response to things I say. He doesn’t have to truly be engaged, but it would be nice if he could make his face look like he was engaged.

Face coach, please!

Face coaching leans heavily toward the somber side. Many of the coached headshots have a look that says, “I’m serious, but a go-getter. I’m listening, but I have ideas of my own.”

Some of the facial expressions are pensive and penetrating, nearly brooding, deep in thought, intensely reflective. More than a few could be mistaken for depressed poets.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that; depressed poets make a lot of money. But it could be a problem if you’re applying for a business management job. Then again, maybe you could combine the two—quarterly reports in free verse.

I can’t imagine what budget-minded job seekers do in these times. There are always those photo booths that take four pictures rapid fire then shoot them out a slot. No, of course not. Forget I mentioned it.

Then again, it could set you apart from the pack.

Let me know if it works.

I’m taking Aaron Burr’s side in this one: “Talk less; smile more.”

When our twin grandbabies were chubby-cheeked toddlers and would spend the night on two little blue cots, they often requested a “back-a-rub” to help them fall asleep.

The husband or I would sit, kneel or crouch on the hardwood floor between the two cots with arms outstretched simultaneously giving a back-a-rub to each twin.

The tots would be just about asleep and the adult giving the back-a-rub would be sound asleep, but somehow still upright, when a burning pain would shoot down the adult’s shoulder or a horrible muscle cramp would seize a calf. Instinctively, jumping up for relief and yelping in pain woke the little ones and terrified them, which they communicated by screaming and crying at high decibels. Sometimes for hours. Or maybe it was days. Who knows. High-frequency crying on dual speakers can destroy memory as well as hearing.

Then the whole process would begin again. Back-a-rub, cramp, jolt, everyone awake, back-a-rub, cramp, jolt, everyone awake.

On a good night, we sometimes got ourselves to bed three hours before the sun rose.

Those twins are now preteens, No. 2 and No. 3 in the lineup of 11 grands. As they grew older, they gave back-a-rubs to their baby sister and to their younger cousins, who in turn gave back-a-rubs to their siblings and cousins. Eventually, it came to pass that an adult could be at the kitchen table doing a crossword or finishing a meal and feel a light pressure on the back as though perhaps a butterfly had landed on you. But as you reached to brush it away you discovered a small person giving a small back-a-rub.

As many of the kids grew taller and could reach higher, the back-a-rubs morphed into neck-a-rubs. A neck-a-rub is wonderful during tax season or deciding whether to make a triple jump and crush a 6-year-old at checkers or let the kid win. (Take the jump—always take the jump! They’ll crush you soon enough.)

A competition developed among the kids as they worked the crowd of weary aunts and uncles and aging grandparents, giving neck-a-rubs, and hoping to be the one showered with the highest praise.

When you are the last in a long line of 11, it is not easy being a quiet observer, watching others constantly glory in the spotlight. And so No. 11 began weaseling into chairs behind an adult, or wedging herself between someone’s back and the sofa cushions, to give neck-a-rubs.

They were soft and gentle neck-a-rubs. Feather light. Such a sweet little bug, that one.

Showered with accolades for her marvelous neck-a-rubs, No. 11 upped her game. Her neck-a-rubs became a bit more intense, then downright nerve-pinching intense. This, too, drew comments and she upped her game ever more.

These days her chubby fingers often move from the back of the neck and wrap around the front of the neck as she shakes your entire head. Glasses fly off faces, stands of hair whip the eyes, and you have triple vision as your head bobs back and forth.

If you stop by and No. 11 is here and demurely asks if you want a neck-a-rub, do what we do. Say no thanks but offer to play checkers. The pain is far more endurable.

 

A good friend gives us her old newspapers from a small town in Maine. They are entertainment—a sedentary version of date night.

Because we cannot agree on who gets to read the Cops and Courts section first, we take turns reading it aloud.

In the most recent issue, the lead story was from a Saturday ago when local police received a report of a “large snake” inside a residence. The police chief and the EMS director responded. With the mere insertion of a comma, the report noted that the EMS director is also a certified exotic animal and reptile handler, as though this is nothing out of the ordinary. After searching the home thoroughly for a 2-foot black snake, the reptile could not be found.

The report further explained that Maine is home to nine different species of snakes, none of them venomous, and the state’s endangered northern black racer can grow up to six feet. It’s all the news you can use and then some.

Next was a story about a dog spotted along a rural road without food or water. An officer responded and determined the dog to be in “good condition and spirits.”

This is your dream town, right? They assess dogs for good health as well as good spirits.

How does that work? Wag your tail if you’re happy, bark twice if you’re despondent.

Meanwhile, in another nearby town, officials used a $2,700 grant to buy “guardian angel lights” for all their public safety employees. The angel light is clipped to a collar or vest of law enforcement, first responders and construction site workers to improve visibility while on the job.

Where we live, construction workers often jump on top of the orange barrels to avoid being hit and I’ve not heard of plans to buy them, or law enforcement, guardian angel lights.

This is not to say that small towns are without drama. A near heart-stopping item reported that someone phoned in an open door at a residence. The responding officer found signs that someone appeared to have been in the building.

I’m reading, biting my nails and screaming, “Behind the door! Look behind the door!”

The story continued saying that the officer “found items lying on the floor.” At least he didn’t find bodies on the floor!

The officer was able to contact the residence’s “key holder” who said he had been working in the house and may not have secured the door. “The residence was later secured.”

Raise your hand if you are 100% certain you could leave home with the lights on, the doors wide open, and all your belongings would still be belonging. We’d like to hope so, but we’re not about to run a test case.

Of course, I can’t say where this place is because everyone would want to move there, gobble up property, tear down all the trees, throw up subdivisions, open franchise fast food joints and a Dollar
Tree, and it wouldn’t be the same.

But know this much—life is good. In a small town. Somewhere. At least for a week.