Lori Borgman

Our wilderness wing of the family acquired four ducklings in an effort to expand their menagerie, which to date consists of a mouser cat built like an NFL linebacker, an extremely energetic black lab that in mellow moods doubles as a pillow for the little ones and a lop eared rabbit given free range as it is litter box trained.

Theoretically, the rabbit is trained.

I don’t argue with theory; I just watch where I step.

A flurry of activity made way for ducklings. First came building a duck house, a simple wooden structure surrounded by aging black hickory trees nestled near the edge of the pond. The duck house features a welcoming front porch, an eastern exposure to the morning sun and a roof that catches the pitter patter of rain. It is a miniature of the lake house of my dreams, although the lake house of my dreams is not surrounded by muck and mud where one false step sucks the boots plumb off your feet.

In any case, the idea behind the duck house is to give the ducks a place to roost and shelter from predators—and I would include the rambunctious black lab in that group.

The Cayuga ducklings arrived only days after hatching, four irresistible puff balls of brown down that will eventually turn a striking greenish black. They stayed in a box at first, then were promoted to the bathtub. They zipped the length of the tub back and forth like Olympic contenders madly racing for the gold.

Everyone who saw them thought to themselves, “You know, ducklings in the bathtub would be a nice addition at our place, too.” No one admitted it aloud, but we all harbored duck envy.

Several days later, cold and nasty weather circled back and we received a photo of one of the boys sitting in a chair, reading a book, a duck cuddled to his chest.

Oh, to be that boy. Or even to be that duck.

Sadly, on the Sunday morning after the ducks arrived, we received word that the tiniest one had died.

Several days later, I had a video call from our son and their youngest daughter, who just turned three. I tactfully said that I was sorry to hear one of the ducklings had passed.

“What do you mean passed?” our son asked.

“I’m trying to be sensitive to young ears present,” I said, nodding toward the towhead swaying in the hammock with him.

“The duck died,” he said matter-of-factly.

“Da duck died,” the little one said, echoing her daddy.

They both shot me looks of pity.

“OK, fine!” I snapped. “The duck died!”

Silence.

The toddler batted her long eyelashes and softly said, “We put da duck in a hole.”

And to think I was trying to shield her. It is probably better that she is exposed to the hard edges of life now, rather than grow up shielded, overprotected, and be taken by surprise when she is an adult.

She said it well: Da duck died.

Grandma was taking it hard.

I will try to toughen up before their baby chicks arrive.

There are always a few taken by surprise by Mother’s Day. Or at least they claim to be taken by surprise.

“Mother’s Day, again? Seems like we just had it.”

We did. A year ago.

“That thing sure moves around on the calendar, doesn’t it?”

No, Mother’s Day does not move around. Easter moves around, Christmas moves around, New Year’s Day moves around, but Mother’s Day is always the second Sunday in May.

Here’s a tip for remembering that: The second Sunday in May is also the time you can set out cold sensitive plants where we live because it is considered the last “frost date.”

That is what your mother will be if you fail to acknowledge her on Mother’s Day.

Frosted.

Royally frosted.

Frosted flake frosted.

This year may be an especially good year to recognize Mom as there are murmurings about using the title “Mom” less and “Parent” more.

Happy Parent’s Day!

I didn’t think so.

“Mom” has been the moniker of choice for thousands of years. “Parent” is unlikely to grab hold on a widespread basis.

“Momma!” is what toddlers instinctively cry when they need the one who makes them feel safe and secure.

“Muh-ther” is what kids huff in exasperation when told “no” once again.

“Mom” is the one you call with good news about a job, a milestone, or your baby’s first tooth.

“I love you, Mom,” is what you whisper to yourself over and over as she is lowered into the grave.

Mother is a name of honor. It’s a term of love and endearment earned through morning sickness, colic, potty training, medical emergencies, calls from the school, financial strain, lack of sleep, days that are too short, waits that are too long, the big launch and the empty nest-with countless joys, lots of laughter and tender moments woven in between.

If you believe your mother may have fallen short in some areas, congratulations. You have discovered that mothers are human. That said, most mothers have been battle-tested. You don’t strip an honorable veteran of a well-earned title.

If you’re wondering if a gift is necessary this year, one of our grands may have already answered the question. She overheard us talking about getting Personalized Mother’s Day Gifts and other plans, and she immediately sat up straight, eyes twinkling, and confidently proclaimed, “I don’t need to get my mom a gift for Mother’s Day – I AM the gift!

“Every mom already has her gifts!” she exclaimed, giggling. “Her kids!”

I think she’ll be able to pull it off. You could try it too, but you’re probably not 6.

If you haven’t talked to your mom lately, a call only takes a couple of minutes. Why not? She gave you years.

We are dinosaurs who still have a landline phone. It sits in the family room of our home tastefully decorated with hieroglyphics on the walls.

One of us is a progressive dinosaur who periodically pushes for ditching the landline. But I am married to a beloved old-school dinosaur who wants to keep the landline because we could miss something important.

He then enumerates a half-dozen marvelous calls we would have missed during the past year if we had disconnected the landline.

It’s hard to argue with a dinosaur in possession of a phone log.

Our landline is a tall, thin portable with caller ID and voicemail. I rarely answer it, but you-know-who runs to check caller ID whenever it rings. He rarely answers it either. The primary benefit of keeping a landline is that it provides exercise.

Some of the grands were over and discovered an old phone in a closet where we stash board games.

It is a Trimline, a sleek phone with lighted push buttons and a coiled cord that keeps you on a short leash. They wanted to know if it worked, so I unplugged the portable landline and plugged in the corded wonder.

I proceeded to call the landline from my cell, but the child kept picking it up before it had a chance to ring.

“Set it down, so I can call you.”

She set it down. Then she picked it back up.

“No, you have to put it down and let it sit there.”

I realized this child is of the generation that has never known a phone not permanently attached to its owner’s flesh.

She set it down once again into the receiver. Upside down.

I repositioned it correctly and again called the landline from my cell.

The phone let out a shrill, piercing B-R-R-R-R-ING and the kid shot straight up into the air; her eyes were wide with fear.

“Answer it,” I said.

She did.

“Hello,” I said. “This is the past calling.”

You can’t get this on an app, kids. Grandma and Grandpa have the coolest toys ever.

A few moments later, one of her sisters was passing though the kitchen when the landline let out another loud, shrill B-R-R-R-R-ING.

That one jumped into the air with an arc to her back as though she had been tackled. “What is that?” she yelled.

Soon everybody was vying for a go at answering the landline with the shrill, piercing ring.

Naturally, after receiving calls, they then wanted to place a call. They agreed to call their aunt but couldn’t because nobody memorizes phone numbers anymore. We’re all on speed dial.

I said they could find her number in the Rolodex on my desk.

“What’s a roll-o-deck?”

“We’ll save that for next time, kids. This has been enough history for one day.”

Maybe their Grandpa will be home next time they stop by. No doubt, he has some old phone books stashed away somewhere. We’re in the book listed under “Fun.”

Seeds for conflict are being sown in the U.K. over whether to mow one’s lawn or let it become a small patch of wilderness. It’s a new twist on an old drama. Call it Lawn Order.

More simply put, it is Grass Warfare. Pro-wilding advocates are squaring off against pro-manicured lawn advocates.

One article on the turf wars featured a photograph of Prince Charles standing in a suit and tie with a boutonniere in a lovely meadow of tall grasses and wildflowers. The implication being that he was gazing about in approval of the naturalization, but for all we know he may have been wondering what was for lunch.

What was missing were subsequent photos of when the prince returned to the castle, violently shook out his shirt, tie, suit coat, suit pants, socks and the undergarments he was wearing, then endlessly twisted about with a hand mirror checking his body for ticks.

We received a birthday party invitation from our oldest granddaughter about to turn 12 who lives in the country surrounded by woods and tall grasses. She thoughtfully specified dress requirements for the party: “Wear long pants, socks over your pants, tuck a long shirt into pants and don’t forget bug spray!” No mention of a suit and tie.

Her mother routinely finds several ticks on a couple of the children every day. Checking for ticks on a child’s skin is far different from checking for ticks on aging skin. My left arm alone has enough freckles and markings that one can visualize the entire Milky Way in the stretch of space from my elbow to my wrist.

The husband’s skin is similar, which is why the last time I checked his legs for ticks, I may have drawn blood with the tweezers. What I thought was a tick was a very tiny mole. I was told that “sorry” is not a legal defense for medical malpractice.

Tall grasses are home to ticks carrying nasty diseases, as well as snakes, chiggers, mosquitoes, small vermin and invasive weeds. This is why even people who live in the country mow the green space around their homes. Reptiles, insects, weeds and vermin are not known for respecting boundaries. And I am sure, that this is surely not a problem only in the UK, but also, in countries like the USA! No wonder many would opt to have artificial grass installation in Castle Rock (or similar services in their vicinity) done in their backyards at least!

However, some on the naturalization side have put forth a compromise suggesting that people only mow the lawn once a month. This is referred to as “managed messiness.”

We once had neighbors who practiced “managed messiness.” Here it was a naturalization choice and all that time we simply thought they did not know how to start a lawnmower.

Going natural always sounds so free and wonderful, but in the case of not mowing lawns, unintended consequences could have some serious bite. Not to mention scratching, swelling and redness.

The important thing is that we respectfully listen to one another’s ideas and – above all – stay grounded.

She is five years old, skipping across the parking lot with a paper map squeezed beneath her arm and against her body like it is a top-secret document. She shakes wild curly hair out of her face and reminds the group that she has the map the park ranger handed us on entry to the state park. She shouts this with an air of importance as though being in possession of a map will elevate her standing among her older cousins.

A map is a novelty to a 5-year-old; built-in dashboard GPS navigation is not.

In-car navigation is still somewhat of a novelty to me; a map is not.

Ten of us cross the parking lot and regroup near trailheads.

She shakes the map loose from its folds and it billows like a parachute. She wrangles it under control, studies it intently, traces lines with her finger and yells, “Trail 7! Let’s take Trail 7!”

“Trail 7? What’s on Trail 7?” the group murmurs.

“Look at Trail 7, Grandma!” she demands.

“I can’t see Trail 7 because I can’t find my glasses,” I holler over the wind.

Isn’t that how all good navigators respond?

Lewis says to Clark, “Well, we’re lost again, and I can’t find my glasses!”

Clark says to Lewis, “Where did you last see them?”

Lewis snaps, “If I knew where I last saw them, I wouldn’t be looking for them!”

The tiny navigator points to the top of my head, indicating the location of my glasses, just as a strong gust of wind rips one side of the map from her two-handed grasp.

We jump and lunge and flail against the wind, and finally the cumbersome map is once again under our command. I begin studying the map, which is somewhat of a challenge as the dotted lines marking the trails are very faint. What’s more, I need to find our position in relation to the parking lot, but I am having trouble finding it.

“You do know you’re growing up in the digital age where everybody does everything on their phones, right?” I ask.

She squints her eyes and glares. It’s a menacing glare, even from a half-pint.

“I don’t have a phone,” she deadpans.

Good point.

The kid wants to use the map.

I point out that we are standing by the start of Trail 1. “I’ve been on Trail 1 before,” I say. “It’s wonderful.”

“But I want Trail 7.”

“Well, we’re nowhere close to Trail 7.”

Another eye squint.

“Trail 1 has a suspension bridge,” I say.

The glare softens.

“And it takes us through a deep canyon carved into enormous rocks.”

Her eyes widen.

I lean close to let her in on the best part. “And we might see a teeny tiny waterfall.”

She’s all in.

“Tell you what, next time we come we’ll do Trail 7. OK?”

She relents and relinquishes Trail 7. But not the map.

 

When the husband announced we were getting a sizable tax refund this year, I froze. It was one of those moments when you remember where you were and what you were wearing. (Middle of the kitchen, black workout pants, gray hoodie – same thing I’ve worn every day since the pandemic began.)

“That’s terrible,” I whispered, barely able to talk.

“I know,” he said, visibly shaken.

“It’s all right,” I said, “we still have each other.”

Refunds terrify us. Not only because it means we miscalculated and overpaid estimated quarterly taxes, but because anytime we get a windfall of any sort, it is always followed by another wind. Something along the lines of a tornado.

Our first rule of finance is that unexpected money means unexpected expenses. They’re coming. You know they’re coming; you just don’t know when they’re coming.

The first one hit – literally – the next week. Heavy rain turned to ice and coated all the needles on all the branches of a large white pine next to the house. Branches at the top cracked under the weight and took lower branches out with them, hurling themselves against the house then crashing to the ground. It sounded like a wrecking ball in slow-mo.

We surveyed the damage. Nearly one entire side of the tree was on the ground. Branches had dented siding, scraped brick, cracked a window frame and ripped the electrical box for the AC off the house.

“It could have been worse,” I said, which is our second rule of finance right after “unexpected money means unexpected expenses.”

The next day we bought new windshield wipers for the car. The nice man who put them on said he heard a little sing-song noise from the engine that we might want to have looked at. We took it to our mechanic who called within the hour. He said it was bad news and that we needed to take it to the dealership. “It’s gonna cost big time,” he said. “Hope you guys got a tax refund.”

That night I said, “Well, the house has spoken, the homeowners claim has been filed, the car is at a spa at the dealership enjoying two grand in the sun, but at least the appliances are all working.”

“How could you say such a thing?” the husband snapped. “You think appliances don’t have ears?”

The refrigerator let out a wicked laugh, followed by a clunk, dropping the last ice cubes we would ever see. For five days we hit the on/off switch to the ice maker and tripped the little bar. Then we bought a bag of ice from the grocery. Now, since I routinely forget to buy ice at the store, we make our own ice cubes in two blue plastic trays. We’ve gone retro.

I have a dental appointment this week. Last year, the dentist replaced two old fillings with crowns and has his eye on a third. If we go for broke on another crown, I will insist on being called “Her Majesty.” It may not stop the outflow of money, but I’ll enjoy a new title.

Once upon a time, shared rottenness was a widely acknowledged common denominator that united us. Seeing ourselves through a lens of reality often gave us some modicum of compassion for the other guy. It was a “been there, done that” and “there but for the grace of God” mindset.

Today there is little compassion for others. Cancel culture is constantly on high alert, armed and eager to cancel any who dare disagree. Not just the people, but their jobs, their companies, their families, their security, their hope for any future. Cancel culture has such a ravenous appetite for destruction that it even cancels the dead. Such actions may satisfy bloodthirst for a time, but what goes around comes around.

Maybe you heard your mother or grandmother caution that when you point a finger at someone else, you always have three fingers pointed back at yourself.

Cancel culture is not new; it dates to the time of Christ. Jesus was teaching in the temple courts when some men brought to him a woman caught in adultery. (I know, I know. Where was the man?) They announced that the law demanded the woman be stoned.

Jesus bent down and began writing on the ground with his finger. Nobody knows what he wrote. Perhaps it was the Ten Commandments or the names of women with whom some of these men may have committed adultery.

Finally, he said, “Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.” There was likely an awkward silence followed by murmuring and shuffling of feet as the woman’s accusers dispersed one by one.

Walking away was an admission of guilt, a public acknowledgement that they, too, were far from perfect.

Today’s cancel culture does not disperse or walk away—they pick up stones and throw because, in their eyes, they have no guilt. Only others do. Those in the cancel culture of Jesus’ time had the courage and honesty to admit they were, or potentially could be, as flawed as the one they longed to destroy.

Those ready to stone the woman were able to see themselves through the lens of reality. The self-righteous had a moment of self-examination. And so it was that they peeled off, one by one. Only Jesus and the woman remained. Augustine said, “The two were left alone, misera et misericordia.” Translation: misery and mercy.

“Is no one left to condemn you?” the Man of Mercy asked the woman.

“No,” she said.

“Then neither do I. Go and sin no more.”

It was not an acquittal; it was a pardon. It was cancellation of an entirely different sort. The goal had not been annihilation, but redemption and transformation. The transgression was canceled, not the person.

On Resurrection Sunday, Christians around the world celebrate the cancellation of personal sin and transgression. The cancellation is a cleansing of the heart, soul and mind that gives refreshment and renewal to the whole being. Not only is the slate wiped clean, but doors open to new beginnings and fresh starts. Easter celebrates a cancellation that leads to life, not death.

My greatest strength as a gardener is my willingness to uproot plants once they start to annoy me.

Last year it was lamb’s ear. Sweet name, docile animal, aggressive plant.

When it spreads, it lolls. It doesn’t stand up straight; it just sort of flops here and there with no respect for boundaries. The last thing I need when I’m working in the garden is to watch some plant lolling about when that is the very thing I’d rather be doing.

The year before that it was creeping thyme. I had gleefully planted a lot of it believing claims that it naturalized in a lovely way and would fill in nicely among rocks.  Fill nothing. It came, it creeped, it conquered. Smothered everything within reach. Besides that, it dried up, faded and looked like a mass of untamed hair in need of conditioner and color.

All gardening aggression aside, there are some plants I would never turn on. Hydrangeas are among them. I could never turn on a hydrangea. It would be ungarden-like. I feel the same way about moss phlox with tiny pink and blue flowers on a cushion of green. They will always have a home here. I put lilacs in that category, too.

Lilacs are to be revered, then cut into beautiful bouquets and shared with friends or left on doorsteps.

I could never turn on anything that grows from a bulb either. Tulips, daffodils, crocus, hyacinth, I love them all. The only way I could love them more is if they bloomed all season.

Our youngest daughter is putting in garden beds and asked if I would give her some ideas. I’ve told her she overestimates my abilities. She scoffed. Then I reminded her of the lamb’s ear and creeping thyme incidents. There was silence on the phone.

The gardens she really needs are the kind my mother and grandmother planted. Their gardens more beautiful than those in magazines. The funny thing is, I don’t remember either of them ever weeding or watering. To the best of my memory, they simply stepped outside and threw seeds over their shoulders (entire packets of seeds, they didn’t even bother to tear them open). The next thing you knew freshly sliced cucumbers were on the dinner table alongside plump, red tomatoes and crisp radishes.

Jams and jellies appeared out of thin air. A short while later there would be pickles—all different kinds along with corn relish and sweet relish. Who knows how all that produce sliced and diced itself and squeezed into those pretty glass jars.

The details of how previous generations gardened may escape me, but I vividly remember going with my grandmother to the melon patch when I was very young. She gave all the vines a good watering, then stretched out her arms and melons jumped directly into them.

Sadly, I’ve never had the good fortune of previous generations of gardeners, but the real shame is I never learned where to find the magic seeds.

Three hundred and sixty-five gallons of milk, 300 pounds of flour and 13 gallons of syrup is not a load for a wagon train re-enactment, but the tallies some of the grands came up with after calculating what their large family uses in one year.

It was the syrup consumption that jolted this big-city-turned-country wing of the family into taking a run at making their own. So it was that we received a call asking if we wanted to help boil maple sap they had been collecting for weeks.

As grandparents, we knew our “helping” would largely be standing around, generating some conversation, but not so much conversation that we became annoying. It is a fine line.

On arrival, I noticed a digital deep fryer thermometer with six ports near the firepit. I wondered out loud if pioneers had those tools, then asked where our son found such a thing.

He said it was a gift. To his wife. For her birthday. He said, and I quote, “Whatever it takes to keep her happy.”

Then the husband asked if some of the cinder  blocks in the chimney portion of the firepit were straight, further noting that he had seen maple syrup made years ago and they had done it a different way. At that point, we had crossed the line.

Now, after watching more and talking less, we understand the process.

You place two pans of sap over a fire that is hotter at the back than the front. When the pan over the high heat grows too hot, you cool it down by ladling sap from the cooler batch.

When wood supply for the firepit grows sparse, you have your five-year-old bat her big eyes at your father-in-law who abruptly disappears, but soon returns with a big load of wood and dumps it near the firepit.

Then tell your 9-year-old it is his lucky day because he can learn to split wood. Thrilled, the boy begins channeling young Abe Lincoln.

The fire roars louder, the wind blows and the smoke shifts. Everyone begins moving around the pit waving smoke from their eyes.  It’s like line dancing in a circle.

Hours later, some say the hotter pan is taking on an amber glow. Others say it is not. Others say to look at it from a different angle and our son tells the kids they can take Grandpa and Grandma into the woods to see the trees they tapped.

We walk a good distance when one of the kids says, “When we go with Dad, he takes the Gator and we can make it to the trees in about five minutes. On foot it takes half an hour to get there and a half hour back.”

We kick leaves, slide in the mud, gather some moss, enjoy the scenery and the company and check a few buckets for sap. The boys insist we follow the creek back to the path, as there is something interesting for us to see. It is a dead squirrel frozen to the ice.

Eventually we return to the fire where the sap truly is taking on a beautiful amber glow. We head for home and late that night receive a picture of five pints of maple syrup in glass jars. Only 12 gallons and three more pints to go.

(A note to subscribers who received my column via email this morning. The email said my book is available “Wednesday, March 16th.” Thanks to the many pointing out that March 16th is Tuesday!” And, no, my head is not screwed on straight.)

One of the great things about young children is their ability to see the world through unvarnished eyes. They call ‘em like they see ‘em with no holding back.

Our eldest daughter was given a handmade card from her youngest saying how much she loved Mommy. Mommy told the little one that she was going to keep the card forever, to which an older sister said, “Wow. That’s nice. Usually you trash everything we make!”

It was a reminder to be careful of what treasures we dispose of and who’s watching when we dispose of them.

Their tendency toward the literal is equal parts surprising and funny.

Some of the grands were here for the evening when things got rambunctious and one of the girls tumbled off the sofa into the coffee table. Putting an ice pack on her bruised cheek and swollen eye, I said, “Looks like you’re going to have a black eye.”

“No!” she shot back. “My eye is brown!”

Another of the girls started kindergarten able to read well and spell words like chrysanthemum. She spelled chrysanthemum for our son when she was only four. He looked at me and said, “Is she right?”

She was. She’d learned a lot listening to her older sisters do their lessons. So, when she started kindergarten it wasn’t exactly challenging. She came home one day and her mother asked, “Did you learn anything in school today?”

She thought a bit, then said, “No, but I think the other kids did.”

Friends once drove 10 hours to visit their grandson’s school for Grandparents Day. In the kindergarten classroom they were celebrating the number 100. Questions had been posed and the students had written their answers.

Question: “What would you do with $100?”

Little boy’s answer: “Buy a motorcycle.”

Question: “What will you do when you are 100?”

Little boy: “I will brush my teeth, sleep and not ride my motorcycle.”

Children often have accurate and even wistful thoughts on aging.

One of our grands blew out the eight candles on her birthday cake and said, “Wow! I’m really getting old really fast!”

Aren’t we all?

Another little one was at the pool one day and announced, “I’m looking like Daddy. My legs are hairy.”

One of the boys, living in Chicago at the time, was working on his ABC flashcards, rolling along with, “A, B, C, D, E, F, G, H, I, J, K, L, M, N, O –” He paused before P then yelled, “Parking!”  Living in the city, they are always looking for the red and white signs with P’s in search of parking.

You never know exactly how they see things.

I was putting on eyeliner one day, squinting in the mirror, when a little voice squealed, “You look like a pirate!”  Three of them began making “grrr matey” faces in the mirror, when another little voice said, “You don’t look like a pirate, Grandma— you look like a queen.”

What’s not to love?