Lori Borgman

A cousin sent an email saying she had been out mowing for two hours in the hot Nebraska sun and the smell of new mown hay was in her nostrils. She said it reminded her of her dad “alone in a hayloft, waiting for the next hayrack full to be ‘dropped’ on him to scatter.

“Not a breath of air in there, work shirt buttoned at the neck and cuffs, unbearable for all the crew but Dad. At lunch break, Dad would have a couple of sandwiches and skip the iced tea. He’d have creamed coffee right out of a glass jar wrapped in a tea towel. That was my hero, my life example . . . my Daddy – loyal, very, very hard-working, so wonderful. Funny what a whiff of new mown hay does.”

Her dad and my dad were brothers. There were five boys and four girls in the family. The boys were cut from the same cloth. Every one of them enjoyed hard work. I have an idea they took after their dad. He died shortly after I was born, but the stories still live.

It wasn’t easy raising a large family during the Depression, yet their farm was the first one for miles around to have electricity. Their dad cobbled a small power station together using batteries. Resourcefulness was second nature.

When my parents married, they had a card table and two orange crates for furniture. When they got a dog, Dad built a doghouse from scrap lumber using the only tool they owned – an ax. Nobody claimed it was pretty but it did the job and the dog never complained.

I think of my dad when I see a charcoal grill flame. He loved to grill. Burgers, dogs, steak, ribs. For years, he and Mom hosted a huge Fourth of July brunch and he’d grill pancakes and sausage before the neighborhood parade.

He loved grilling out most of all when the temperatures soared – 90 was good, even 100 wasn’t daunting. That was also his favorite time to mow. He and all of his brothers were most comfortable outside. It came from the farm imprint, spring planting, summers in the fields and fall harvest.

At my dad’s retirement party (they used to have such things), at a large university where he had worked his way up to purchasing director, he was standing by himself, looking at the crowd, having a good time when he chuckled and said, “I never did want a desk job.”

I don’t think I realized until that moment how much our dad had loved us. Oh, he had enjoyed his career and the people he worked with, but ‘til the day he died there was nothing as beautiful as a stand of wheat or a field of corn.

Here’s to dads everywhere who work hard and do what needs to be done for the love of family.

Now somebody light the grill.

There’s a new addition under consideration for the endangered species list – the middle child.

Researchers who track such things say that more couples are having fewer children, often stopping with one or two. Middle children are disappearing, to which middle children everywhere respond, “We’re surprised anybody noticed!”

Middle children will tell you that theirs is the most forlorn place in a family. Squished in the middle, theirs is the birthday Mom is frequently confused on, the one for which Grandma forgot to send a card.

They claim nobody notices that they even exist. Or gradually cease to exist in this case.

There’s even a movement to formally recognize Middle Children Day. For a group that claims to be overlooked, they do a good job grabbing the spotlight.

When our middle child said she felt invisible, we told her that being the middle child was special—like being the filling in a sandwich. Her siblings were simply the bread on either side. Which would she rather be—the yummy filling or plain ol’ bread? We told her not to tell her siblings we had referred to them as plain ol’ bread.

We told our oldest that he had a special place in our hearts because he was our first, the first baby we held in our arms, our first tiny miracle. We also told him to keep that to himself and that, no, he could not put a sign on his bedroom door that said, “A Miracle Lives Here.”

We told our youngest that her older siblings were like the first pancakes—test pancakes because you’ve got the skillet too hot or not hot enough. But by the third pancake, you’ve got it down to a perfect golden brown. She smiled knowingly. On weekends she’d ask for pancakes and turn up her nose at the first two.

I come from a family of two children and am the firstborn, the proverbial bossy big sister, three years older than my brother. I had some size on him and gladly wielded my power over him for a few brief fleeting years. They were good years as I recall. Then he shot up, grew to be a good foot taller, a great deal larger, and is still paying me back.

Middle children help shape a family in a unique way. They keep life off balance. When there are three or more children in a family, kids learn how to scramble for a window seat in the car. Singles and pairs never get that opportunity. They grow up thinking everybody gets a window seat. Life is setting them up for disappointment.

Three or more siblings learn how to form alliances. One day you side with an older sibling, the next day you may team with a younger sibling. It’s great training for the business world or a career in politics.

My sister-in-law grew up in a family of eight children. She has amazing coping skills, quick reflexes and is fearless—all of which she learned sandwiched smack in the middle of four brothers.

Never underestimate the value of the middle.

In a time of crisis, it is helpful to review the basics.

The most trustworthy basic I know is the Golden Rule. An expert in the law heard Jesus debating in public, admired his answers and so asked, “Of all the commandments, which is the greatest?”

Jesus answered, “Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind and with all your strength. ’The second is this: ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’ There is no commandment greater than these.”

It sounds so easy; but we all know it’s hard.

For starters, we’re terribly busy these days. That “love the Lord your God” business gets pushed down further and further on the To Do list.

Then there are our “hearts and souls” shriveling from poor nutrition and outright neglect.

Our “minds” are occupied with social media, browsing the net, online shopping, and streaming Netflix.

“Strength?” It sounds so, well, tiring. Maybe someone will make an app for it.

Moderns have put a spin on “love your neighbor as yourself,” claiming the verse is actually a command to love yourself first because you can’t love others until you love yourself. That might be true for a few but, for most of us, love of self comes naturally. Often, too naturally. Dangerously naturally. It is our loving others that needs cultivation and examination.

C.S. Lewis, author “The Chronicles of Narnia,” once wrote, “There are no ordinary people. You have never talked to a mere mortal . . . ”  It’s a shocking claim on the surface, but the reason there are no ordinary people is that we have been created in the image of God.

Lewis went on to say that our greatest joys in life come from relationships between people who take one another seriously with no flippancy, no superiority, no presumption—relationships in which people think before they act or speak. If only. Yet, things impossible to man are possible with God.

There is one more “basic” that keeps running though my head. It is the prayer that never fails. It was told to me by an older gentleman, a former Marine thrust into World War II as a young man with brief preparation. He and his fellow Marines were basically abandoned on the battle-entrenched island of Guadalcanal. They were sick with dysentery and malaria, surviving on meager rations. When one of them threatened mutiny, he knew he had to act quickly, so he prayed the prayer that never fails, “Lord, help.”

A fine prayer then and a fine prayer now.

The husband has a “Best Grandpa Ever” hat. I happen to know that the same kids who gave him that hat also gave one just like it to their other grandpa. “Best” isn’t as exclusive as it used to be.

I wonder what would happen if every grandpa wearing a “Best Grandpa Ever” hat or T-shirt ran into one another at a large gathering. Would they have a Grandpa Showdown to determine who is the best once and for all? What would a Grandpa Showdown look like?

I imagine it would include older men giving kids horsey rides on their backs, holding kids’ hands while letting them walk up their legs and then flipping them around.

Grandpas could also toss babies in the air and catch them. In a process of elimination, grandpas would be ejected from the contest the instant the babies’ mothers yelled, “STOP THAT RIGHT NOW!”

A Best Ever Grandpa game show has possibilities featuring an entire category for Creative Greetings and Farewells. One grandpa we know stands by the family car when it leaves and runs alongside the car throwing little plastic dinosaurs in the car at the kids through the open windows.

I was at a funeral where someone mentioned the deceased always kept a pack of gum in his shirt pocket for his grandchildren. It was so sweet and touching, you could hear soft sobs. Surely, I wasn’t the only one crying.

There could also be cooking categories including a milkshake contest based on speed and another competition for baking frozen pizza the fastest.

Moms and grandmas don’t seem to receive as much of that “Best Ever” line of gifts and clothing. Although, I do have a fluffy white bathrobe monogrammed “Best Grandma Ever.”

One of our daughters saw me in it and asked who gave it to me.

“Why does it matter?” I asked.

“I’d just like to know.”

“Fine,” I said. “I got it for myself.”

“You bought yourself a robe that says ‘Best Grandma Ever’?”

“Yes,” I said. “I bought the robe online and saw you could get it monogrammed for only a few dollars more. One of the sample monograms was ‘Best Grandma Ever.’ So, I got it and I love it every time I wear it. Sometimes even a grandma needs a little pick-me-up.”

She looked bewildered, so I reminded her about the time that her grandmother, my mother, had an on-line credit with a florist. She was feeling weary one day, so she used the credit to send herself a cheery bouquet with a note on the card that said, “Get Well Soon.”

“It runs in the family,” I said.

The doorbell rang.

“It looks like a delivery truck outside,” my daughter said. “Maybe a florist?”

“It’s nothing,” I said, rushing past her. “You stay put; I’ll get the door.”

 

We are opening back up here. Slowly. At the speed of a turtle. Make that a turtle in its shell, but it is happening.

Some want a faster open, some want continued closure. Some say it is time to get on with it, others would wait until the last coronavirus micron has been eradicated.

We have become a nation of armchair quarterbacks. We will all know what the perfect decisions would have been after some imperfect decisions have been made.

Sounds of traffic from the interstate reverberate on our patio in the early mornings. Traffic is picking up. Select businesses are coming back to life, while others are poised and ready, waiting for the green flag.

Hardware stores, along with lawn and garden stores deemed necessities, have been open all along. We passed a family-owned nursery the other day and saw their parking lot filled. Overflow cars lined the street.

Tucking annuals into spring soil, planting tomatoes and peppers, oregano and rosemary, are affirmations of life. A declaration of better days to come.

Social distancing guidelines are easing. It has been two months since we have hugged a grandchild. There are so many factors to consider. For starters, we are in a high-risk group. I was as shocked as anyone to learn this. I was reading about risk factors one day and called out to the husband, “Am I elderly?”

“You’re over 60. Yes! You’re elderly!”

When did that happen? I still feel 17 inside.

We have a nephew, young and strong, who got the virus and was sick for several weeks, flattened by extreme fatigue. The parents of classmates our kids went to school with got it. They were hospitalized, released, and recovered. Elderly parents of an acquaintance both caught it. He survived, she did not.

The pandemic is a complicated equation with many variables. A lot of people during this time have been worried if they’ll even have a future so they have been preparing just in case which is completely understandable. Friends in Denver have said how they have discussed with a Denver probate lawyer and estate planning attorney their will and what they want to happen if this sickness was to befall them. It’s upsetting but it is life and we all have to approach this with caution.

Social gatherings of 25 are allowed where we live. Still, caution abounds.

On Saturday, I dropped some things off at our youngest daughter’s house. Her little girls were outside chalking the sidewalk and running circles in the grass. Their “baby” is our youngest grand. She turned 2 last month. We had wished her happy birthday through a plate glass door.

She’s talking up a storm these days, saying words like quarantine, “pandemica,” and corona.

The toddler and momma invited me to walk with them. So we walked. Apart. She’s so young, I’ve often wondered what she remembers about us. Then she took her momma’s hand. I saw it but pretended that I didn’t.

Her momma said, “We’re not against holding hands, Grandma.”

As if on cue, that chubby, silky soft hand reached for mine. It was a mix of emotions, joy for the moment and sorrow for the many losses that have swept the world.

Of course, when our walk was over, we all resumed obsessive-compulsive hand washing.

But for a moment, I held the promise of better days to come. Slowly, but surely, they will.

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.