Lori Borgman

We are going to need a refresher course in social graces before rejoining humanity when this virus thing cools down.

I get dressed every day, but usually in workout clothes. Workout clothes don’t have zippers and waistbands. Do you know how dangerous that is?

If you saw what I wore every day, you’d think I am an exercise nut. You’d be wrong. At least about the exercise part. The husband dresses like he’s going to the gym. The gym has been closed since March.

A lot of businesses used to have Friday Casual, where the dress code was relaxed on Fridays. We’ve expanded Friday Casual to seven days a week.

I see nice clothes hanging in the closet, but I can’t remember the last time I wore any of them.

We need to revisit table etiquette as well. We now eat dinner many evenings with the television on because that’s when news updates about the virus are on. I used to insist the television be off during mealtime, but I no longer have the strength to say no.

We also used to clear the table for dinner and set a nice table. Now we just crowd our plates in next to the husband’s laptop, multiple external hard drives, a large scanner and towering piles of old family photographs he is archiving, also sitting on the table.

There was also a time we never had cell phones at the table. Now our cell phones are parked where our knives and spoons used to be.

I haven’t given up my will to live, just my will to nag.

Then there is the shouting. We both talk back to the television. Most every news report on the virus is contradicted by a subsequent report.

“Make up your mind!”

“Pick a side!”

One of the kids called the other night and asked what all the yelling was in the background.

“Your father is watching the news,” I said.

At least we both shower every day, although you-know-who sometimes doesn’t shower until late afternoon. The sun hasn’t gone down yet, so he says it counts.

Then there’s my hair. It’s like a large overgrown shrub in desperate need of a shearing.

It’s been 80 days since my shearing, but who’s counting. I thought the length might pull some of the curl out of it. It did.

Then the humidity came.

Humidity gives curly, frizzy hair more density, more volume and more frizz. My hair looks like the world’s largest dust ball that was ever swept from beneath a bed.

We were looking at a cell phone picture of one of the grands when the husband said, “Look at what smooth, beautiful hair she has. It’s perfectly straight.”

When he was in the other room, I may have stirred his old family photos and gotten the top few out of chronological order. He walked in and I said, “I was just tidying up.”

“Thank you,” he said.

“You’re welcome,” I said.

We’re making progress.

Last year on Mother’s Day I was taking notes on my cell phone in church as fast as my fingers could fly, hoping auto-correct would render them intelligible.

Our pastor had invited people to share about their mothers. He began, pausing occasionally to swallow a lump in his throat. He remembered passing his mother’s bedroom door seeing her kneeling beside her bed, praying “Lord, be with Tom.” He wasn’t in trouble and didn’t think he’d be in any trouble soon, but has always remember that his mother prayed for him. Regularly and faithfully.

A former state trooper said his mother took him to the opera in St. Louis on Saturdays in an outdoor pavilion. He listened to dialects he didn’t understand. He grew to love opera. Now every Saturday he listens to a radio station that plays opera in the afternoons, enjoying Italian voices and fondly remembering his mom.

A woman shared that she was only 17 months old when her mother died. Her father remarried. She values the things learned from her stepmother—how to keep house, cook and care for children. “But it wasn’t a mother’s love,” she said. “If you have a mother and you’ve known a mother’s love, don’t take it for granted.” She hopes when she gets to heaven, she’ll meet her mother there.

An entrepreneur was 9 years old when his mom let him skip school to take him out to lunch at a nice restaurant on his birthday. The car attendant said, “Why aren’t you in school?”

“My mom let me skip and is taking me out to lunch for my birthday,” he said.

The attendant said, “Your mom loves you like nobody else. Don’t you ever forget that, OK? And take care of your mom!”

“I grew up in a good home,” another man began. “I knew my father’s principles, but I knew my mother’s heart. I was loved from my mother’s heart.”

In his teen years there was something he wanted to do and his mother said, “No.”

He said, “Well, why not? There’s no harm in it.”

She said, “Son, you’re gonna ride that “No Harm Horse” to hell. Don’t tell me there’s no harm in it, tell me the good that is in it.”

A realtor shared that when he immigrated to the U.S. as a young man, his parents said, “Why do you want to go to America? There’s nothing for you there! You’ll die!”

He came anyway and landed in Fayetteville, Arkansas. He found a roommate and every weekend they drove to the roommate’s home where his mother had food prepared and waiting for them. They’d pick it up and have food for the week. The roommate’s mother became a stand-in mother with whom he has cherished a life-long bond.

It is good tell others what your mother, or someone who has helped fill that role, means to you. But if your mother is still living, it might also be good to tell her.

 

Now that panic buying of toilet paper and hand sanitizer is subsiding, people are moving on to the next phase of panic buying—hair clippers. Sales are moving at a fast clip.

Hair dye is also a hot seller. Covid gray is an official color.

Home barbers and hairstylists are sprouting everywhere. I am among them. I’m even contemplating a salon name. My two top contenders are “It’ll Grow” and “Oops!”

A neighbor cut her husband’s hair with kitchen scissors and a comb. She started the cut two weeks ago and still hasn’t finished. Every time she sees a spot she missed she tells him to sit still and cuts a little more.

His complaint is that he has no hair on top. The man hasn’t had hair on top for five years, but now he has someone to blame.

I used to cut our son’s hair when he was little. The key is to start with the trimmers on the long setting, then move to progressively shorter and shorter settings to cover your mistakes.

As an adult, our son asked why he is bald in all the old family photos. I told him his hair was late coming in—age 14 is normal for some kids.

He and his wife have their own set of clippers. In an online family get-together, their two boys displayed fresh haircuts. The sides of their heads were shaved with a strip of longer hair on top.

Then our son took off his ball cap displaying the same cut.

I offered them use of the “It’ll Grow” name for their home hair salon.

Our son-in-law saw the haircuts and thought why not? He’s working from home and wouldn’t be seeing anybody soon. His wife revved up their clippers, rendered him nearly hairless on both sides, leaving a thick bushy strip of hair on top running down the back of his head. He looks like a bald guy wearing a squirrel on top of his head. A handsome bald guy wearing a squirrel on his head, but nonetheless.

Photoshopped. Thankful our son-in-law has a sense of humor.

A few days later, he received notice about an online conference call. Higher ups at the company he works for wanted to check in with different division managers. He was invited to video chat—with the CEO.

He adjusted the computer camera so the top of his head was out of view. The CEO probably thought he was super eager about the call.

I mentioned to the husband that his hair is getting long and that I could fix that for him. He flashed on the haircuts I used to give our son and recoiled at the suggestion.

A few days later I looked over at him and gasped.

“Cut your own hair, hu?”

“Yeah. It didn’t go so well.”

“Don’t worry. It’ll grow.”

“Not at my age it won’t.”

Oops!

Many years ago, the husband and I took personality tests that were supposed to tell us about ourselves and each other. Under the category measuring how social we were, I ranked in the 98th percentile and he ranked in the 2^nd percentile.

I always thought those test results were skewed, as the husband can be quite talkative and is often the life of the party. But the stay-at-home mandate we are under has me wondering if the test might not have been spot on.

The new restrictions are not the least troubling to him. He is perfectly content sitting on the sofa with his computer, working on projects, hours at a time.

This is a man who, in pre social-distancing days (even though retired), worked out every other day at the gym, scoured second-hand stores for treasures, played ball with the grandkids and was busy working around the yard or the house, often until after the sun set.

I ask if it bothers him to be so suddenly sedentary. He smiles and says not at all, that he enjoys staying home and is “in his zone.”

I point out that his zone appears limited to one sofa cushion and that he may be creating a permanent indentation.

He moves to the middle sofa cushion.

He ranks in the 100^th percentile for accommodating.

A neighbor from around the corner says he also enjoys the mandate to stay home. He is thrilled he no longer needs to make excuses for not wanting to go out. In fact, he is toying with the idea of continuing to stay home even after the mandate is lifted.

I, on the other hand, am among those occasionally challenged by the restrictions and may have left scratch marks in the wood, clawing my way down the front door. The nose prints on the window glass belong to me, too.

I routinely find myself pacing when I take phone calls. I walk fast like I’m in a hurry to get somewhere, but the only place I get is from room to room. Thank goodness we live in a house with a circle floor plan.

The husband, without looking up from his computer, claims I am wearing a path in the hardwoods.

Very funny, coming from someone who can sit perfectly still for more than an hour. Sometimes I walk by and hold my finger under his nose to make sure he’s still breathing.

I’m in the group that could score a 98 for restlessness some days. I was born to move. We were all born to move—extroverts, introverts, couch sitters, floor walkers and all the in between—but not all at the same speed. Learning to accommodate speed differences may be the secret to happiness.

Personally, I am thankful that with 98 and a 2, we make a full brain.

A parade of trucks and heavy equipment arrived down at the corner an hour after sunrise. A jackhammer pounds with ear-splitting force and metal keeps scraping concrete. Even the most grating sounds of life are welcome these days.

A bird outside my window just chirped in agreement.

It is a Carolina wren, a small noisy bird sporting a dazzling array of rich, earthy browns.

A lethargic cloud cover finally pushed on a few days ago. People leaned out of windows, flung open their doors, pumped their fists in the air and wildly cheered the arrival of the sun. Not really, but we should have. Sun therapy. We could all use a session—warmer rays, bluer skies, brighter colors, renewed hope.

The pandemic continues, yet the magnolias have remained resolute and undaunted, once again gracing the earth with saucer-size blooms radiating pink.

Snap peas have been tucked into the soil in neat rows. I check on them every day. I’d have time to pull up a chair and watch for them to sprout if I wanted to.

Surely there will once again be small hands pulling pods off the vines and popping peas directly into their mouths. Eating peas directly off the vine is a communal affair here. No pea has ever been eaten alone. Small consolation that is to the peas.

The raspberry bushes show new green growth, a good sign since they were recently transplanted. I move plants like other women move furniture. The raspberries are in a new bed with a big plastic owl standing guard. A robin has taken to perching on the owl’s head and a squirrel frequently swings by to take a few swipes at the new starts.

We would fire the owl, but there are already far too many out of work.

Peonies are breaking ground, eager to unfurl. Giant red, white and pink ruffled flowers will bust out the end of May. Hopefully, we will all have busted out by then.

I have saved the best for last—eight ivory duck eggs with just a hint of green and tiny brown flecks. One of our girls and her daughters discovered them nestled beneath their lilac bush.

Naturally, their first question was, “Can you eat duck eggs?”

The answer is yes, they have larger yolks and denser nutrients than a chicken egg and are very popular with the paleo crowd.

The second question was, “How do you know there’s an egg inside and not a baby duck?”

“You’d have to break one open and have a look!” Screams and squeals on the other end splintered my phone. The duck eggs are safe, as I knew they would be, and will rest undisturbed.

I have requested, after the eggs have hatched and the ducklings are ready to leave their mother, that they map out the route to our house and point a few in our direction.

The peas are lonely and long for company.

The peas speak for all of us.

 

 

Picture-perfect celebrations frequently fade into oblivion. The celebrations that are somehow off are the ones we never forget.

There was the Halloween in Chicago with unbelievably brutal winds. Trick-or-treating was cut short. Our son and daughter-in-law scooped the little ones into their arms and we protected ourselves from the cutting cold by plastering our bodies up against store fronts every few feet on the walk home.

Our oldest daughter’s 25th birthday was unforgettable. She had open heart surgery at a heart hospital. She was the youngest patient they operated on that day. We rarely talk about that birthday, but we sure remember it.

When our youngest was still in college, she hosted a Thanksgiving celebration at our house and invited friends from campus. The international student bringing the turkey had never cooked a turkey before.

He arrived late, removed the foil tent, and revealed a beautifully roasted turkey surrounded by brilliant orange, yellow, turquoise and purple hard-boiled eggs alongside colorful vegetables nestled beneath the turkey, beside the turkey and protruding from the orifices. Best. Turkey. Ever.

Every one of those days are etched in memory because they were out of the ordinary. They were off—in unexpected and unforgettable ways.

What hasn’t been off lately? In the wake of the Covid-19 pandemic, life has been turned inside out and upside down. We’ve seen live-streamed funerals, weddings in parking lots, bar and bat mitzvahs without the parties and attend church online.

A 7-year-old grand sent a picture of the calendar she keeps. Every square for the month was blank except for one where she’d written, “milk expires.” There are moments when that feels about the sum of it.

Yet these odd times are a perfect fit for Easter. That first Resurrection Sunday was preceded by terrifying uncertainty. Followers of Christ watched their loved friend and teacher, beaten and bloody, hang from a cross, cry out and breathe his last.

They were engulfed in emotions familiar to many today—anxiety, grief and fear of the unknown. They thought it was over. Everything. Then the women went to the tomb on the third day and found the body gone. Talk about a surprise ending. You think a story is going to end one way and then it ends another. God does that.

Christians believe Christ broke the curse of death and was raised from the dead. The message of Easter is a proclamation of greatness, a spine-chilling chorus of trumpets declaring that God is greater than—greater than our sin, greater than our fear, greater than our grief, greater than our weakness, greater than our pain, greater than our loneliness, greater than the chains of death.

Easter does not offer a panacea for pain and suffering. Far from it. Christ was called a Man of Sorrows. Easter celebrates that in all life brings our way, from the beginning of life, until the very end, in every joy and heartache, in every moment of wonder and in every moment of angst, we need not walk alone.

Easter is a message of good news coming once again at a good time.

Some of our grands are so young they will not remember this time of social distancing and isolation amid a global pandemic. Others are old enough that they will remember schools closing, playgrounds off limits, no visits with their friends, cousins or grandparents.

My father-in-law, Hub, had a phenomenal memory. He often told of the time his family home was quarantined. What struck me every time he told the story was the detail about the teddy bear and how that was permanently seared into his memory.

He was 5 at the time. His older sister, Alice, was 8 and his oldest sister, Mabel, was 12. Alice got sick and the doctor diagnosed it as scarlet fever. Outbreaks of scarlet fever in the early 1900s were often deadly or left children with lifelong disabilities. It was also highly contagious.

The doctor said Hub and Mabel had to stay away until Alice got better and the house had been fumigated.

Later in life, Hub put his memories to paper filling one yellow legal pad after another. He wrote, “There was no place to go except to Grandpa and Grandma’s, just down the road. We were packed up and sent off to their house. I had a little coaster wagon that we put our clothes in, and a few of my toys, and we walked down the road.

“On the way, my little teddy bear fell off, and when we discovered the loss, we went back to look for it. A man who was working with a crew paving the road found it and gave it back to me.”

He recalled days spent waiting out in the front yard, watching the men work on the highway and waiting for his sister Mabel to return from school.

His dad often brought them food, cereal, fruit and milk for the grandparents to feed them.

“My grandparents were old and poor and didn’t have very many pieces of good furniture. The mattresses were muslin bags filled with corn shucks. They weren’t too happy about having us there. They talked in German between themselves, most of the time, and we surmised they were conversing about us. Whether this actually happened or not, we do not know for sure, but we thought so.”

They stayed with their grandparents three or four weeks. “It was a happy day when Dad came down and told us we could go home.”

What will be our memories of this time in history?

I hope we remember family, friends and neighbors checking on one another, caring for one another. I hope we remember the exhausted medical personnel and first responders risking their own health, the truck drivers, food service workers, and all the clerks and cashiers who kept grocery stores open. Never forget the garbage collectors—and that the mail kept coming.

I hope we remember private industry retrofitting plants for the manufacture of facemasks and ventilators, scientists, researchers and pharmaceuticals racing to find therapeutic treatments and a vaccine.

I hope we remember how fear cast a long shadow. May we also remember renewed soul searching, fervent prayers and leaning hard on God.

We are writing history. May we write it well.

The hardest part of social distancing during a pandemic has been ignoring the little table and chairs in the living room that periodically heave deep sighs of loneliness.

Then there is the basket of children’s books I step over each morning when I raise the shades. They’ve grown surly. Some days “The Hungry Caterpillar” nips at my legs.

On Sunday, I texted a list of my accomplishments to the daughters, just to let them know things are happening at a breakneck pace here, despite the isolation:

Got up early

Answered emails

Hyperventilated while reading headlines

Did workout on YouTube while casting Ina Garten on Food Network to TV

Went to church online

Filled old nail holes in family room with Dap

How about you?

The first and only answer I received in response:

Slept in

Ate breakfast

Showered

Broke up fighting

Threatened kids

Separated kids

Started laundry

Made kids read in separate rooms

Church

Heating up lunch

Many of the grands have been doing a great deal of travel despite staying at home and attempting to drive their parents batty. Last week all 11 of them had ballet lessons with the Cleveland Ballet from 2 to 3 in the afternoon, followed by a tour of the Cincinnati Zoo at 4. Normally you couldn’t make it from Cleveland to Cincy that fast, but Facebook works wonders.

Some popped in at the National Eagle Center in Wabasha, Minnesota for an update on bald eagles that follow the Mississippi River.

After that they dropped in for a tour of impressionism paintings at the Musee d’Orsay in Paris.

There have been music lessons with Zoom and even a jam session for strings.

We shrank the distance between us and the Chicago brood with FaceTime the other night. It was good to see them—up their nostrils, into their eyeballs, close-ups of their tonsils, the ceiling fan, the floor, the ceiling fan, the side of someone’s face smashed against the phone and back to the ceiling fan and overhead lights. It wasn’t the first time a virtual visit caused motion sickness.

The occasional shared video, having some cyberspace family time and “coffee with friends” via cellphone all help to fill the void.

For now, the best way to love one another is to stay away from one another. It is a small thing to do if it helps break the chain of transmission and lessens the suffering and death.

The little table and chairs are sighing again.

“Hang in there,” I whisper to them. “One day, one day soon.”

I recently read “Things Successful People Do Before 8 a.m.” It was 9:30 a.m. at the time. Successful people were already ahead of me by an hour and a half.

Successful people get up early, work out, eat a healthy breakfast, survey the morning headlines, overview what needs to be done for the day and make To Do lists.

If success were measured by To Do lists, I’d be at the top of the mountain. My life is a never-ending trail of sticky notes. A million things to do scribbled on little pink and yellow squares: project deadlines, appointments to keep, calls to return, errands to run, meals to plan, people to see, things to fix.

So many things to do, so little time in which to do them.

I so relish crossing things off a To Do list that I sometimes add things I’ve already done to a list just for the joy of crossing them off. It creates the illusion of productivity.

See there—a big black line through “Fill the bird feeders.”

A friend floated the idea of keeping To Be lists instead of To Do lists. Scratching through those would not be an exercise in speed.

At the top of my To Be? A better listener, a person who doesn’t just hear, and is quick with solutions, but one who truly listens with understanding.

Recently, I was digging through my purse for a pen when a woman stopped me to say something very kind. I made eye contact, but it wasn’t until she finished that I realized I kept digging for a pen the entire time she spoke. What’s the matter with me? Please don’t answer and, if you do, hold it to 10,000 words or less.

To Be? A person who knows that time is not a commodity, but a gift—a gift given to us and a gift we give others.

To Be? Generous. To freely share all that I have. No strings attached, no thank you expected, simply to give because giving is good.

To Be? Attentive. I know the clerks and cashiers and the produce people at the grocery where I shop by their faces, smiles and voices, but not their names. I see many of them weekly. Common courtesy says I ought to pay attention to their names.

At the end of the day, I nearly always wish I had been more in the moment.

Things on a To Be list won’t be checked off as quickly as those on a To Do list. By the time I get through some of those To Be items, the glue on the back of the sticky notes will be dried and worthless. But slow progress is better than none.

By the way, John is the name of the man who stocks produce in the early mornings.

One To Be down and a thousand more to go.

We have a number of number people in our family. Sadly, I can’t tell you exactly how many because I’m not one of them. As non-number people are prone to do, let’s just round up and say it is a lot.

Number people often obsess with remembering historic dates, record-breaking high and low temperatures, anniversary dates, what the water bill was this month compared to the same month last year and what a haircut cost in 1994. For a number person, a really good time is approximating how many shingles are on the roof.

My father-in-law was a number guy. He worked as an estimator for General Motors, estimating the time various stages of manufacturing would take to complete. He often did computations in his head and was wary of people who used calculators for simple things like figuring compound interest to the fourth decimal point.

He was also vocal about his frustration with younger co-workers who didn’t know what pi was. Hint: It’s not apple, cherry or blueberry.

Sometimes, just for fun, the kids would throw out math problems for him to solve. Occasionally, he picked up a pencil and did a little scratching on the edge of the newspaper. Others thought he was doing the computation, but I’m certain he was writing down names of those who couldn’t keep up with him.

The husband shares a common denominator with his father in that he, also, has excellent recall for numbers. It’s a convenient trait for a spouse to have, although at times it is like being married to an almanac. He can (and will) tell you the anniversary dates of major historical events, birthday anniversaries in the family (both living and deceased), the last time we both went to the dentist and how many days we have been without rain.

We recently discovered the number gene growing exponentially in one of the grands who is 9. She fastidiously tracks the birthdays of all 10 of her cousins, paying keen attention to the youngest in the brood who is 20 months old. She fixates on the youngest because she suspects this tot will be the last addition to the extended family.

So, she marks the date of the month that little one was born on each page of a monthly calendar. When the date arrives, she takes a few moments to lament that the family is one month closer to being completely out of babies. The rest of us lament that the babies in the family are getting older too, but not with such precision or flair for drama.

I only hope that my birthday isn’t on the radar of our number-loving grandchild. I don’t need anyone tracking my age, as though counting down days to the apocalypse. More importantly, if there’s any crying to be done, I’m perfectly capable of doing it myself.