Lori Borgman

There are two sounds that follow natural disasters. The first is an eerie, unnatural silence. No traffic, no car doors slamming, no children’s voices, dogs barking or birds chirping. Just a disquieting quiet.

The second sound is that of motors revving and gears whining, followed by the deafening buzz of chain saws slicing into downed trees.

My husband and I covered the aftermath of tornadoes, forest fires and the explosion of Mt. St. Helens in our younger days as newspaper photographers.

There are 59 “one another” verses in the Bible: directives to love one another, forbear with one another, be kind to one another, comfort one another and pray for one another. I believe I have witnessed all 59 of those “one anothers” kick into action on the heels of natural disasters.

This spring I was in eastern Indiana where tornadoes ripped through at 165 mph, ravaging several small towns and peaceful countryside, injuring more than 80 and killing four.

An old man with bloodshot eyes sat dazed in a chair on a neighbor’s porch staring at a giant oak now lying on the middle of his house across the street.

The orange shirts were there, the volunteers with Samaritan’s Purse. They come from every direction. They know how to work with heavy equipment—the really big stuff they roll in on tractor trailers. The volunteers are all ages: retired, middle-aged, thirtysomethings and college students.

A man in orange approached the gentleman on the porch and said, “Would you like us to get that tree off your house?”

The old man quietly said, “Yes. How much?”

“No charge. It’s what we do.”

The old man’s lower lip quivered. He stifled a full-body sob, but there was no stopping the tears.

This is a thank you for all the first responders who rush in to help while the rest of us watch the unthinkable unfold on screens and feel absolutely, positively, utterly useless.

This is for neighbors who help neighbors, churches that open their doors, chaplains on the front lines, organized volunteer efforts, corporations that send semitrucks with supplies, National Guard members, FEMA workers, people who loan personal helicopters and small planes for rescue efforts, and for regular ol’ people with 4-wheelers loaded with bottled water and courage, who simply get behind the wheel and go.

This is also for those who can’t physically be of help and have the brains to stay out of the way. That said, most of us have a little piece of plastic that can help.

“Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.”

Sometimes we are at our best when we are at our worst.

 

“What do you want to be when you grow up?” is a question heard frequently around here with this small herd of grandkids. Answers range from archaeologist to teacher, bluegrass musician, artist, builder and welder. A 9-year-old grand wants to be a NICU doctor because she’s always wanted to be a doctor and loves babies. Win, win!

Of course, all answers are subject to change within five seconds.

I wonder how many people became what they thought they wanted to be when they were children.

At age five, our youngest said she wanted to become a teacher when she grew up. She never wavered, except for a brief period when she said she wanted to be retired when she grew up.

Our son had an ever-changing list of what he wanted to be: Lego creator, taxidermist, park ranger, sculptor. He’s an architect.

My husband knew from the time he held a camera at age 7 that he would be a photojournalist. He was, is and forever will be.

When I was in sixth grade, I was certain I was going to be a gym teacher. Who wouldn’t love having recess all day, every day? The fact that I held the girls’ push-up record in elementary school for doing 45 “boys push-ups” in 54 seconds had a lot to do with that.

Yes, I do still have the medal. Thanks for asking.

I wound up in journalism school completing the writing and photojournalism sequences. I married a fellow photojournalism student from college. The old line is, “We met in the darkroom to see what would develop.”

Thanks for laughing. Not many under age 45 get that joke.

My mother said our wedding felt like a spot news event. Many of our J-School friends came with cameras.

A few years later I became a mom. Then I became a mom another two times. It’s hard to lug camera gear with three little ones hanging around your neck. I switched out the camera bag for a diaper bag and began working from home—writing.

Eventually, I approached the Indianapolis Star with some sample family life columns. Thirty-three years ago this month, two editors decided to take a chance on an unknown. They said yes. My column was picked up for national distribution a few months later.

I’m forever grateful to a man named Ted Daniels and a fireball named Ruth Holladay who opened the door for me. I’ve tried to practice that same policy of saying yes when I can.

I hope some people along the way say yes to our grandkids as they explore different opportunities and paths in the future.

If you landed in a good spot a time or two, it’s probably because someone along the way said yes.

Why not keep it going? Say yes.

It has been 10 years since we bought a new car, which puts us roughly 2,000 light years behind the curve on automobile technology.

Our new car has smart car features, not to be confused with one of those little Smart cars that looks like it fell out of a Cracker Jack box and can be washed in a dishwasher.

We are still learning about all the features on our new car and hope to master them before it is time to trade it in. Our new vehicle offers adaptive cruise control, which means the car will automatically speed up or slow down to match the car it’s following.

If you’ve ever followed a vehicle that seems like the driver is punching the gas, then letting off, punching, letting off, you’re following someone using adaptive cruise control.

Change lanes.

Smart car technology also prompts yellow lights to flash on the side view mirrors if a vehicle is in your blind spot. If we rely on that feature, we will eventually (or quickly) lose our own reflexes for checking blind spots. And doesn’t that make us less smart?

Don’t answer.

Our new vehicle also comes with a warning for braking—the driver’s seat shakes and a red light flashes if the car senses you need to brake. This is fabulous as those riding with you no longer need to yell, “Brake! Brake! Brake!” Although, so far, that hasn’t stopped anybody.

We did not pay extra for the back massage feature for the driver’s seat. No doubt the intention is to soothe aching backs on long-distance drives, but for us it would signal naptime. Not smart.

The vehicle is also willing to wrestle the driver for control of the steering wheel. According to the driver’s manual, the steering wheel will “gently correct” when it senses you are veering out of your lane.

For all the shake, rattle and roll, there are a few obvious extras that were overlooked.

I’d like a voice-recognition feature that knows when I am seated as the co-pilot and after my every comment says, “Listen to her. She’s right 99.9 percent of the time.”

I’d also like a navigation function that automatically pinpoints the location of all craft and hobby stores within a 3-mile range.

It would be wonderful if new technology equipped vehicles with a laser that shot out from the steering wheel and disabled the cell phones of other drivers texting while driving.

How about a little red flashing light on the dashboard to signify radar up ahead?

And may I suggest AI evaluate establishments along the route and offer the driver notifications like: “Don’t exit. Keep driving. Clean restrooms in another 16 miles.”

They may call these new vehicles smart cars, but they should really call them “Smarter Than You Are” cars.

 

New research suggests that our thinking about aging is, well, old and outdated. A recent study claims people do not age gradually in a slow, linear fashion, but age in waves.

From what I gather, these are not gentle waves we are talking about, but waves more like tsunamis.

The first tsunami hits around age 44. Check and done.

My experience has been that as you slide into your 40s and near 50, it feels as though someone keeps putting your clothes in the dryer and leaving them there too long.

Research says the second wave makes landfall in your 60s. This often occurs the same day you receive your Medicare card.

Nothing ages you as quickly as carrying a Medicare card. Well, nothing except a slowing metabolism. Your 60s are when you need to start eating half as much as you used to and being 10 times as active.

The new research is probably correct. Aging is not slow and steady change—it comes in waves more like crescendos at the end of the “Hallelujah” chorus.

A biologist in Germany who studies colons in mice discovered similar aging wave patterns. My question is not about waves, but about how one studies the colons of mice. “Hop on the table little fellow and roll on your side. Do you have a driver in the waiting room?”

Another researcher commenting on the wave theory said, “Most changes are not linear.” Of course, most changes are not linear—they’re curvaceous.

The study also refers to “meaningful changes” happening as people age. As a wordsmith, I love good word choices. It’s not what you say, but how you say it that matters.

“Honey, I notice meaningful changes around your midsection.”

Another group of researchers noted yet a third wave of change sweeping over people around age 78. I have ridden wave one and wave two and am not pleased knowing yet a third wave lurks on a distant horizon waiting for a throwdown.

To care or not to care, that is the question.

I choose not to care. I am putting the next wave out of my mind and savoring each sunrise and sunset. By forgetting about the next wave, I am essentially planning a surprise party for myself.

And now I’m off to call the appliance repair people to come check the dryer.

 

Heat waves still emanate from the grill. Paper plates, smeared with ketchup, mustard and remains of burgers and hot dogs, litter the tables.

One of the grands is sitting on her aunt’s lap. The grand just turned 14 and is a good three inches taller than her aunt. She is in an uncomfortable looking plank position with her long, lanky legs outstretched far beyond her aunt’s.

Her aunt announces that her right arm has been rendered inaccessible and she cannot eat dessert. Her niece tells her to eat with her left.

This is the same aunt who often held the girl as an infant, one of the preemie twins who cried ferociously off and on for the better part of a year. Perhaps part of the girl instinctively remembers and has melded into the one who held her so many times long ago.

Maybe it’s simply some of the lasts. The last cookout. The last days of summer. The last time she can crush her aunt.

A kickball game is stirring. They’re on the verge of being too big for kickball in the backyard. But that’s part of the thrill—seeing who can kick the ball over the 80-foot pines and into the neighbor’s yard.

Six female grands ages 6 to 14, two young buck sons-in-law and the man I married, moving slower than usual because he has been digging a new garden bed for me the past two days, take their places.

The pitcher, our son-in-law who is a business guy by profession but a coach at heart, rolls the ball over home plate. The kicker kicks, the ball sails into the air. The pitcher jumps, catches it and takes aim.

No mercy. Direct hit on the left arm. The runner sees it coming, flinches and screams accordingly.

The hit makes a hollow smacking sound, but it’s not a hard hit. It’s not a real kickball; it’s one of the hundreds of assorted plastic balls that roll into the driveway every time we open the garage door.

There is more kicking, more running, more screaming and yelling. The neighbors often throw a party when cold weather sets in and we move these gatherings inside.

The youngest one in the group is kicking next. She, wearing a white eyelet dress and sporting a new back-to-school chin bob haircut that bounces with her every move, is in kindergarten this year.

She readies for the pitch. The ball rolls toward her. Run, run, swoosh. Her leg flies out and misses.

“Again!” the crowd yells. “Again!”

Another pitch. Run, run, swoosh. Another miss.

“New pitcher!” someone screams. It was me. Kickball can turn ugly so fast.

Another pitch. Run, run . . . her foot makes contact with the ball. To call it an actual kick would be an overstatement; nonetheless, the ball wobbles sideways and she’s off. Hair bouncing, dress flying.

An outfielder nabs the ball and takes aim—but knows better.

The crowd cheers wildly as she rounds second, third and crosses home. She stands as tall as her short frame will allow and carries her head high. It is obviously official – she’s one of the big kids now.

The sunlight wanes and the game ends. They all load up and head for home.

It’s a fine finish to a fine season.

 

 

I am married to Mr. Security. We have an entire plastic tub full of timers. The lights in our house never burn brighter than when we are not home.

I typically spend the day before we go out of town packing. He spends the day setting up timers and reminding me what lights I can and can’t turn on.

The lamp in the family room is off limits. It will go off at 3 a.m. when the light by the piano will come on.

When all the lights in the house have been set on timers, I often resort to a flashlight. If I need to work in the kitchen, I open the refrigerator door to see what I am doing.

It’s not hard to dress in the dark—it’s putting on makeup that’s tough. The challenge is getting an equal amount of concealer under both eyes. When home security is in place, I often look like a one-eyed raccoon.

The light on a cell phone is not as helpful as you might think. You can’t really trust it to distinguish black from navy. Home security puts me at a fashion risk.

We have a motion-activated light on the driveway that works year-round. It floods the driveway with penitentiary-grade lighting every morning at 4 a.m. Cue the guard dogs—the carrier just delivered the newspapers. The poor guy. We tip big at Christmas.

It’s not like Mr. Security works alone. I place a stop on the papers. That’s right, plural. We get the local paper and the Wall Street Journal. Two different companies, two different stops.

I also place a stop on the mail. There’s nothing like returning home after a few days away and having the mail carrier back up to the house and dump a half-ton of junk mail in the driveway.

I have suggested if we really want to make it look like we are home, we should leave some of the grands’ ride toys in the front yard and scatter empty juice boxes on the sidewalk.

Mr. Security said that could attract undue attention. As if the entire house flashing like a Super Bowl halftime show won’t attract attention.

My final job is to activate the neighborhood watch—our neighbor Linda. I text Linda that we will be gone for a few days. She texts back that she thought so because she saw all the lights flashing on and off last night.

We are 150 miles out of town when a text arrives saying a package will be delivered tomorrow.

It is from Shutterfly, the company that packages everything in bright orange boxes. So much for going unnoticed.

Thank goodness for Linda.

Whoever first coined the phrase, “It’s nothing big, it’s everything small,” was ahead of the times.

I think about that every time I pause over AI, A1 and Al.

Depending on whether you read that sentence in serif type (letters with slabs on the end of strokes) or sans serif type (no slabs), you may or may not have read it correctly.

The first one is the abbreviation for artificial intelligence, the second one is a steak sauce and the last one is the first name of men with last names of Sharpton, Pacino and Unser Jr.

If you missed all of those, you’re batting 0.

Or are you batting O?

Wait. Are we talking scores or blood type?

Which reminds me: “What did 0 say to 8?”

“That’s a nice belt you have.”

Every time I ask Google a question, the answer that appears is routinely authored by AI. Apparently, some guy named Al now has all the answers.

If I forget a password and have to check my secret hiding place where I wrote them in my sloppy, illegible longhand, I make multiple attempts guessing if the straight lines are letter ls, number 1s or capital Is, and if the circles are letters or numbers. After multiple failed attempts I am blocked from my account.

I accept this as punishment for poor penmanship.

We recently had to get a new license plate for our car. I was hoping we might get a plate with a 0 and an O in it, to keep things interesting.

We did not.

Now I regret not springing for a vanity plate: 00OO0O.

It’s probably already taken. By someone named Al.

Arizona does not use the letters I, O, Q and U due to potential confusion.  Michigan does not use the letter O for the same reason. Florida does not make license plates with the letter O but uses the number 0.

Massachusetts is still in the game swinging, using both letters and numbers. They make the letter O oval and the number zero as a rectangle with rounded corners.

Or is it the other way around?

Living in a state where I and Al and everybody else have vehicles with license plates with capital Os and zeroes, I sometimes wonder about emergencies.

“Hello, 9-1-1? I’d like to report road rage. The license number was —- . Oh, never mind. It was a black car.”

 

It may be time to bring back the “cuss box” parents sometimes kept on kitchen tables or countertops. Kids had to deposit a coin every time they said a bad or ugly word. The present crop of candidates running for president and vice-president could fine themselves and fund their own campaigns.

Coarse language among politicians is nothing new. There is a long and storied history of presidents swearing. Andrew Jackson swore so much that his parrot, Polly, began using profanity, too. A genuine “fowl mouth,” Polly was removed from Jackson’s funeral at The Hermitage, Tennessee, for swearing so loudly it disturbed the mourners.

LBJ was legendary for his swearing. The man could have made Jackson’s parrot blush.

President Nixon will forever be remembered by the tape transcripts peppered with “expletive deleted.”

But once upon a time, politicians confined crude language to the private sphere. Vulgarities and profanities were deemed beneath the dignity of the office.

Former President Donald Trump recently spoke about receiving an email from Franklin Graham, the son of evangelist Billy Graham, urging him to refrain from using foul language in his speeches. He laughed it off.

The Washington Post recently ran a story headlined, “Kamala Harris rallies are edgy with four-letter words.”

I received an email from a candidate so rip-roaring mad that he said he was, well, having urinary tract issues, only in cruder terms.

Pennsylvania Governor Shapiro brags that his state motto is “Get Stuff Done,” only he frequently, and proudly, substitutes a different word for stuff.

In accepting the vice-president slot on the Democrat ticket, Minnesota Governor Tim Walz gave a shout-out of thanks to the crowd chanting, “Mind your own d— business.”

The current challenge for both political parties is seeing how many times candidates can call each other weird and weirdo.

I’m sorry, what are you, like third grade?

I apologize to all third-graders.

The uptick in crude is not by chance. These are not slips of the tongue. The coarseness is intentional and purposeful. Strategists think this is how you reach average people and win votes.

Whether this is or isn’t how average people talk is irrelevant.

When you are running for the highest office in one of the most powerful nations in the world, you carry yourself with class and dignity. You respect yourself and respect those you represent.

If you want to be a leader, talk like a leader.

In these days when grocery budgets are stretched thin, we somehow find ourselves flush with cash. It’s embarrassing.

A friend stopped by and had to clear a pile of 100s on the sofa before she could sit down.

We are rolling in the dough. Literally. This morning, I found a $500 bill in the dryer. I didn’t even know they made 500s.

Bills of every denomination are scattered under the dining room table. I just discovered $10,000 and $50,000 bills sitting on my desk. And I thought the 500 was a shock.

Naturally, I stuff my purse and yell, “I’m going shopping!” Just kidding.

It’s doubtful the orange, yellow, green and blue bills could get past a cashier or bank teller. You could always try, but you’d definitely need a “Get Out of Jail Free” card.

I also have in my possession a small bill labeled Homeowner’s Insurance that says, “This Policy Protects Your Home From Damage and Theft.”

Too bad it doesn’t cover small scale vandalism from grandchildren.

Three times today I have found “Salary Cards” scattered throughout the house. Two were for $80,000 and one was for $60,000. I wonder what my new profession is – it’s clearly no longer a columnist.

The big bills I can manage; it’s the coins that do me in. Someone (the usual suspect also known as “The Fun One”) brought home a large bag of play coins. They are replicas of the real McCoy but made of plastic and slightly smaller. At a glance, they can easily be mistaken for the real thing.

I am constantly stooping for coins to determine if they are real. If Fitbit counted deep knee bends in addition to steps, I’d be at the top of the leaderboard.

The sudden surge in wealth is amusing, although I know when I go to the game shelf that Life, Monopoly and Dogopoly will have been trashed.

All the loose coins on the floor, under the furniture and between sofa cushions grow annoying. They are on a par with wedding invitations that come with glitter in the envelopes and graduation announcements that come with confetti. (Don’t make me sweep the floor if you want me to come to your party.)

And know this—if you want Grandma’s homemade cookies—put the play money back where you found it.

Sometimes you just have to get tough. It only makes cents.

My small charge brought her rain boots with her, per my request. A heavy rain fell last night. Humidity is sliding down the windowpanes and the morning grass is so wet it squishes.

I pull on my rain boots, the ones with unicorns that she and her sisters gave me for my birthday last year. She pulls on her Pepto Bismol pink boots and we head outside.

The young miss is interested in growing things. She keeps a small bouquet of fresh flowers on her desk at home every day.

You could easily miss the bouquet amid her many other treasures piled high—early-reader books, construction paper creations, small stuffed animals, shriveled markers without caps, scissors, old birthday cards and fossilized Halloween candy. But amid her carefully curated collection routinely stands a small Ball jar holding cosmos and zinnias. She and her momma plant them in galvanized tubs where they bloom and bloom ‘til frost.

You’re off to a good start in life when hand-picked bouquets are part of your everyday.

Today she is making rounds in our backyard.

First stop is the fairy garden, a bowl-shaped clay pot with white impatiens sheltering an aging miniature fairy with no nose and a clipped wing. She repositions the fairy closer to the miniature yellow duck in the miniature birdbath.

Satisfied, we move on to the herb bed. She eyes a big leafy green plant that routinely bullies the other herbs.

“Pinch off a leaf and bruise it,” I say. Her entire life she’s been told not to hit, kick or punch and now here’s Grandma telling her to bruise something.

“When you bruise a leaf, you gently rub it between your fingers so it will produce a smell,” I explain.

She rubs the green leaf with her chubby fingers and lifts the leaf to her nose.

“What does it smell like?”

“Lemon.”

“Correct. It’s lemon balm. What is it?”

“Lemon bomb.”

“No, lemon balm.”

“That’s what I said.”

Moving along, she pulls a chive in bloom, lifts it to her nose and sniffs.

“What does that smell like?”

“Onion.”

“Close enough,” I say.

She then breaks off a low-growing herb with tiny leaves shaped like mouse ears.

“That’s thyme,” I say. “Smell it.”

She’s not repulsed, but she’s not terribly impressed either. “I know how to spell that one,” she says. “T, I, M.”

“Well done!”

We move to oregano with even bigger mouse ear leaves. She bruises the leaves, sniffs, and shoots me a look that says, “Did you really think this one would be hard?”

“Spaghetti,” she deadpans.

I pinch off a leaf of sage for her. She sniffs it, says, “YUCK!” and tosses it.

Just like that – there goes Thanksgiving.

We cut a small bouquet for her to take home, adding stems of lavender and rosemary to the collection. Regrettably, we both forget about it when she leaves.

I do the only thing I should do, and the only thing I can do— set the bouquet on my very cluttered desk.