Lori Borgman

It’s hard to be humble, but in fourth grade I was named “Class Poet.”

Once a week, students could read a poem they had written in front of the class. A lot of weeks—OK, almost every week—I was the only one reading a poem, which likely explains the “Class Poet” honor.

I have no idea why I thought I could write poetry, except that many in the older generation often recited interesting poems at length. “The Village Blacksmith,” and “The Road Not Taken,” come to mind.

I still remember one of my favorite poems I wrote, but only in part. It was about a trip to the zoo and ended like this: “There was a commotion in that cage like no other, because the cage contained my little brother.”

I doubt Robert Frost or Carl Sandburg ever felt threatened.

Funny how it is hard to forget what you memorized as a child (“I do not like them Sam-I-am, I do not like green eggs and ham”) but infinitely harder to memorize as an adult. If only I had been able to memorize all the social security numbers, policy member numbers, credit card numbers, family birthdays, anniversary dates, account logins and passwords I would need as an adult, back when I was a kid.

My guess is that most people over 35 remember their home phone number from childhood but haven’t memorized cell phone numbers of family and close friends because they’re all on speed dial.

Meanwhile, one of our grands is memorizing all the license plates in the family.

Another grand recently announced she is conducting a poetry competition open to family members and some friends.

How now, brown cow.

I thought most might pass on the invitation, but the contest host just sent out a terse email saying, “No more than three entries per person or your entry will be disqualified!”

Doesn’t that just get you in the pentameter?

In it to win it.

Of course, now everybody wants to know who is crowding the field with multiple entries in hopes of the big win. The one conducting the contest isn’t talking, which may be part of her ruse to heighten interest in the competition. There’s nothing like mystery and the threat of disqualification to crowd the field.

Rhyming verse, free verse and bad verse are shooting through cyber space.

I just received a copy of a 5-year-old’s entry, titled “Lunch.” It goes like this: “We had some root beer for lunch, We had a sandwich. Carrots are crunchy, Crunch, crunch, crunchity crunch.

Maybe she’ll place for alliteration.

I read another submission about flowers and another about a lost black sheep: “Where did you go? High in the mountains? Low in the snow?”

I won’t tell how it ends. Let’s just say it’s a cliff hanger.

I’m not entering a poem until I’ve memorized our son’s cell phone number.

 

There’s something about the end of summer that makes me lose my will to cook. Not my will to eat, mind you, just my will to cook. There’s a big difference between the two. About 2,000 calories a day.

Maybe it was that 400^th round of bruschetta with all those cherry tomatoes from the garden.

You’d think they’d be about done by now, but every time we step outside, they fire another barrage. Clearly, they’ve brought in reinforcements.

It’s hot outside, it’s hot inside; the last thing you want is to fire up the oven like a nuclear reactor. I used the crockpot the other day, but made it stay in the garage.

Throw something on the grill? The grill that gets white hot and radiates heat long after the sun has set? I’d sooner turn on the furnace and crank it to 80.

I keep pulling out cookbooks for inspiration, but it’s like reading a book on computer programming. The pages are turning and my eyes are moving, but my brain is on idle.

I lean on a three-step recovery program when I enter a cooking plateau.

Step one is “Rotation” where I move the food about to expire to the front of the ‘fridge hoping food-waste guilt will prompt us to eat odd combinations like wilting spinach, spongy red peppers, orange juice and sour cream.

Step two is “Chicken.” I cook one of those huge economy packs – the whole thing. We have plain chicken, quesadillas with chicken, chicken salad, chicken sandwiches, chicken marsala, chicken and veggie stir fry, chicken, chicken, chicken. Then, for some strange reason, we are tired of chicken.

You never see a pet turn away from something in a food dish they eat day after day after day. I wonder if they ever look at the food in their dish and think, “Ack! Chicken!”

Step three is “Get the Husband’s Wallet.” The grands often give us gift cards to restaurants. We put them in my husband’s wallet and forget about them. A year or two later we re-discover them and it’s like getting gift cards all over again.

We just checked his wallet and there are three gift cards – for Chick-fil-A.

I was with a group of women when someone asked a single gal if she cooked much. She laughed and said, “Yes! Two pieces of toast at a time—one with peanut butter and one plain.”

It’s that age old question: “Wattsfirdinner?” Doesn’t matter what season of life you are in; the question is always lingering in the air.

Kids ask what’s for lunch while they’re eating breakfast and what’s for dinner when they’re eating lunch.

It’s so bad here, my husband has quit asking. He astutely senses a culinary minefield.

Lamenting what to cook is a somewhat seasonal recurrence. It is a sign you are finished with one season and ready for the next.

Forget the cookbooks; I’m tracking forecasts on my weather app.

With the “Barbie” movie kicking up sparkle dust, I’d like to go on record thanking Barbie for my brief foray into sewing.

Lori Borgman | July 31, 2023

 

 

THE COUNTDOWN TO SEPT. 6, LINCOLN, NEBRASKA
(where it all began a long, long, long, long time ago) 

The event is free, but tickets are required. Reserve tickets now at: [email protected]

The turquoise backpack with flowers and a pink owl is jammed full with long-sleeved shirts, jammies, socks, underwear, a unicorn stuffie, and one slightly used sketchpad. She’s packed and ready to go.

Yes, it does appear she forgot to put in jeans and long pants, but who am I to criticize a five-year-old?

And, yes, the all-family trip to Michigan is not until fall, roughly another 12 weeks away. More precisely, 89 days or 2,136 hours. But who’s counting?

She is.

She’s waiting and thinking and daydreaming. She’s picturing herself in the hot tub, running up and down the steep slope from the rental to the lake and paddling one of the tomato red kayaks all by herself. As if.

She’s wondering when summer will end, fall will begin and everyone will pile into cars and head north for a four-day weekend with all the cousins and aunts and uncles.

And lasagna. Don’t forget there will be lasagna. It’s tradition.

The child is not simply counting down the days; she’s practicing the lost art of anticipation. Anticipating has all but disappeared in a world of instant gratification.

See. Want. Buy.

Scroll. Swipe. Click.

These days the most practice any of us have anticipating is tracking an online order. Yes, it has shipped! Yes, it is out for delivery! Yes, it will be here by 10 p.m.! The joy of hearing a thud by the front door has become our new Christmas morning.

It is not easy to anticipate much of anything when everything is at our fingertips. Literally.

I’ve read that looking forward to something causes our brains to release hormones along the brain’s reward system. It’s like chocolate, but without the fat and the calories.

Of course, there’s the other kind of anticipation as well, the anticipation of dread. Dwelling there can cause you to experience a dreaded event twice, once before it happens as you stew about it and then again when it does happens.

Where’s the shut off valve?

When a couple of our grown kids and their families lived a half-day or a two-day drive away, knowing the goodbyes would be hard, we often had a date on the calendar for when we’d next see one another. The seeds of anticipation helped ease the goodbye.

Anticipation is a form of delayed gratification. It is the waiting, holding in place, watching both the clock and the calendar, reveling in what is to come, the satisfaction of mapping out a trip, or outing, weeks in advance.

Even after the date arrives and the event has happened, there’s the anticipation of the road home, the vehicle turning into the driveway.

No doubt that little one also remembers the bonfire and the s’mores and is looking forward to doing those things again. Why have I not savored those same memories with the same intensity? Why don’t I have my jammies and toothbrush already packed?

I need to go find a suitcase.

 

We may be alike in that you, too, believed frog jumping contests had gone the way of Mark Twain, steamboats and rotary dial telephones.

Like me, you would be wrong.

We have been with the rural wing of the family, where you weave through a dozen or more mud boots scattered on the deck to enter the house. Dried mud, wet mud, layers and layers of stratified mud; it is a mud paradise.

As such, it is also a vacation destination for frogs. Beneath the shade of towering hickory trees, frogs cluster around pondings of still brown water, lounging in tiny bag chairs situated next to tiny charcoal grills and miniature frog-size RVs parked at the water’s edge.

Due to a burgeoning frog population growing by leaps and bounds, and the proximity of a small county fair hosting a frog jumping contest, the kids began eyeing the frogs in a new light. Visions of blue ribbons danced in their heads.

They collected a dozen assorted frogs and placed them in a large plastic tub filled with pond mud and water and topped it off with a lid with holes drilled in it for air. Naturally, they named the frogs. Every single frog was named “Winner.”

But they noticed the frog population dwindling. Every morning another frog or two was missing. Meanwhile, a large bull frog seemed to be growing. The frog count dropped from a dozen to nine to seven. And then there was one.

No one wanted to think the worst, however, a bit of research found that though it is commonly believed frogs are insectivores, they are actually “generalist carnivores.” This means they will eat any small critter they can swallow, including their own kin.

A moment of silence, please.

Now a moment of disgust.

And now a moment of gagging.

It’s a frog-eat-frog world.

The kids, all entered in different time slots and age categories, agreed to share the remaining alpha frog.

Given the signal, contestants were to place their frog on a faux lily pad. They could not touch the frog but could tap around it, blow on it or yell at it. If the frog did not jump within 30 seconds, it was disqualified. If the frog jumped, three jumps were measured and that was the entrant’s score.

In the baby-to-age-5 category, Winner scored 25 inches in three jumps. In the 6-to-11 age category, Winner jumped 25 inches for one of the kids and sat motionless for another.

With the 12-to-15 age category about to begin, the 11-year-old handed off the frog to his older brother seated in the row in front of him. As he passed the frog over an older woman’s shoulder—by her head—one of the frog’s legs accidentally, and ever so slightly, grazed the side of the woman’s face.

Both boys emphasize the “ever so slightly” business, as if being slightly grazed by a frog is far superior to having one smacked directly in your kisser. They may have a point.

Nonetheless, the woman shrieked and jumped. They say it was an amazing jump. No frog in the county has ever jumped that high – or that far. Nobody knows how far she jumped, but if she ever stops running, she can probably collect a blue ribbon.

The excitement must have energized Winner. Ture to his name, he made three jumps totaling 65 inches and cinched first place in the 12-to-15 group.

 

 

 

 

On people names going to the dogs . . . 

One of my college classmates, who grew up on a farm, had several dogs and cats and he named them all after his friends:  Bob, Sandra, Lois, Steve, etc.  No ambiguity there.
-Mike M.

Ours was Bagel the Beagle!
­-Rebecca N.

I have a 100 pound chocolate lab that I suspect has some Irish Setter in  his family tree. When he’s in the sun he is more red than brown. As a result I decided to name him Clifford after Clifford the big red dog. I learned shortly after he came into my life that he likes to snuggle, so Clifford didn’t work. As a result his name now is Teddy as in bear.
-Eugene M.

We have Derek the cat. He is our 5th cat and the first with a person-related name.  We were out of ideas. We had Tuffy, Sneads, Snarles (who really was a pussycat, so he needed a tough sounding name), Buddy and now Derek.  Derek seems to like the name.  He comes when called, but usually food is involved.
-Carolyn G.

My son’s two dogs were Copper and Nickle….he’s a chemist.
-Millie W.

We’ve been encountering confusion with people names and dog names lately.

Some of the grands have a new puppy named Emmie. That’s cute. But when you call “Emmie” from a distance it can sound like “Emma.”

The kids with the new puppy have a cousin named Emma, there is an aunt in an adjoining wing of the family named Emma and all 11 grands have at least one friend named Emma. Emma is the number one most popular baby girl name.

When you yell Emmie real fast and it sounds like Emma, you never know if a kid you are related to, a puppy, or someone you’ve never met before, will come running.

Charlie and Max are among the most popular names for dogs.

We have, or have had, both in the family. Max was a small dog with a bad hip rescued from a Chicago pound. Max often nipped at feet under the table and barked and lunged at black leather jackets and motorcycles.

The Charlie in the family is my better half. He does not nip at people’s feet, nor does he wag his tail. Unless I make ribs.

Some of the grands have a little cousin on the other side of the family named Milo and there is also a dog in the family named Milo. Toddler Milo weighs about 25 pounds and the German Shepherd Milo weighs 85. One Milo you want to pick up and hug, the other Milo you want to brace yourself against a wall when you see him charging toward you.

When I was a kid, we had a dog named Smoky. That dog died and we got another dog and named him Smoky. Creative, right? When my brother moved out, he got a dog and named it Smoky. Then my brother thought it would be fun to list himself in the phone book as Smoky. Somehow, I began getting mail for Smoky even though I was living on the opposite side of the country to my brother and his dog.

Smoky received offers for life insurance policies, car insurance and magazine subscriptions.

Even more difficult to explain is my husband’s family that had a cat named Fish.

People often name pets and offspring after famous people, so again with the overlap. A friend had a dog named Winston, as in Winston Churchill. A cigar in the pooch’s mouth would have fit just fine.

Maybe it is time to branch out with the dog names. Perhaps name dogs after the planets: Saturn, Neptune, Mercury, Jupiter. You don’t run into a lot of people with those names, but that’s just me. Another family somewhere might have the entire solar system covered.

Maybe we could draw on the table of elements: Titanium, Magnesium, Lithium. But then, names that end in “-um” are never good yelling names and a good yelling name is crucial in naming both pets and children.

Who knows if people names have inspired dog names or if dog names have inspired people names. It’s like asking which came first, the chicken or the egg, or the baby or the pup?

Every Friday one of us called our nephew Luke or he called us.

We started with the weather. He always knew the highs and lows, if it was a pleasant day or storms were stirring. He couldn’t see what was happening outside – he started losing his vision at age 12 — but he knew.

We talked about ball teams, outrageous headlines in the news and building projects his dad and brother had undertaken. He was always upbeat. We chatted about what his 5-year-old nephew and baby niece were up to. We shared antics happening in our wing of the family, stories about rascally grandkids, a frog-jumping contest and outdoor adventures, all the things he enjoyed as a boy.

Our phone calls grew louder over the years. He had lost most of his hearing. Ours isn’t great either, so we were entirely comfortable with the volume on high.

As Luke’s condition rapidly deteriorated, we drove back to Missouri for a final visit, flying along hours of interstate, finally turning onto small highways that wind through golden pastureland and tree-covered hills. Each up and down of those hills is an invitation to reach out and touch the deep blue sky.

Luke did just that. He reached out and touched the sky. He slipped the bonds of earth and suffering and returned to his Creator.

My mother anguished terribly over her grandson’s situation. When he lost his sight she would say, “I wish I could take my eyes out and give them to him.” If she could have, she would have.

Someone commented that there are a number of people in heaven glad to see Luke. They may even be fighting over him. If they are fighting, the consensus is that it will be my mother who wins.

Most people with Kearns-Sayre syndrome don’t make it past 30. Luke made it to 38.

We covered a lot of ground in our Friday conversations, but there were some things we never heard him say.

He never said, “I quit.” Or “I can’t.” Not when the mitochondrial disease targeted his sight, his hearing, his balance, his heart and every major system in his body. He came by fortitude naturally. He got it from his parents.

His mom and dad never said, “I can’t” or “I quit” either.

They leaned into the wind. Gale force wind, the kind that whips your hair, burns your eyes and sucks the air from your lungs. With each setback, each punch in the gut, each round of awful test results, they leaned in harder.

They are my heroes.

Few people in this world have their kind of strength. It is a strength fueled by a mother and father’s undying love.

Fridays will never be the same.

 

It is common knowledge that Washington, D.C. in the summer is a brick oven, a solid mass of heat-reflecting concrete. You sizzle like a slab of beef slowly turning over an open flame.

Despite this well-known fact, our daughter and her family spent four days with their kids in D.C. touring the Capitol, the White House and visiting memorials and monuments.

We took a similar trip years ago when our kids were school age.  We toured the White House, sat in the gallery of the House of Representatives, walked the National Mall and visited monuments. Ask them what they remember, and they will say, “A man with a huge snake wrapped around his body standing outside the Smithsonian and the heat. Mostly the heat.”

So much for educational vacations.

Our daughter’s family logged as many as 30,000 steps a day in the blistering heat and humidity of D.C. They also played a game to see who could go the longest without complaining.

Perhaps they didn’t know D.C. is a city built on complaining. It is a prerequisite that you complain about the heat. I think they even sell t-shirts in D.C. that say, “We came. We saw. We complained.”

You don’t go to Maine and not get lobster. You don’t go to the beach and not get in the water. You don’t go to D.C. in the summer and not complain.

Complaining is the foundation of democracy. If we hadn’t complained against the British, we wouldn’t be a nation.

I asked the youngest if she had complained. She said not out loud, but she did in her mind—about the heat, her feet hurting, wanting to stop and wondering if there was a bench anywhere.

Another admitted that she complained out loud about the heat and the humidity. She also volunteered that her mother complained about their father not complaining.

For the most part nobody complained until late in the day, which was remarkable consider the heat index.

We joined them on the last two stops of their trip, Mount Vernon and Monticello. They asked if we wanted to take the No Complaining challenge. We said sure.

We had this. We were “in it to win it.” We were fresh off the bench and they were worn slick. Wet noodles. The youngest even looked like she didn’t feel well. At the very least we could outlast her.

We asked what the prize was.

There was no prize.

We both complained, but only to ourselves.

The first morning in a hotel together, I returned to our rooms after wandering through the hotel lobby.

Someone asked if I found any coffee.

“No,” I said. “There was nothin’!”

Two minutes later I was informed I was out of the competition. One of the kids reported that I had complained there was no coffee.

“I was merely stating a fact,” I offered in my defense.

I was told that my tone was complaining.

What did they expect? There wasn’t any coffee.

Barely after 7 a.m. and I was knocked out of the competition.

I inquired about a do-over. No.

A second chance? No.

Three strikes and you’re out? No.

The first one awake and the first one busted.

Where does a woman go to complain?

That rich Nigerian prince fellow must have found someone to take all his money because he hasn’t emailed me in ages.

I’ve also noticed that my friends have become better at international travel. I no longer receive emails from “close friends” (whom I haven’t heard from in years) allegedly stranded overseas, desperate because they were mugged, had their passport stolen and now urgently need help to buy a Google Play card for a grandkid’s birthday.

If I were stranded with no money, identification or passport, the last thing on my mind would be a grandkid’s birthday. (Sorry, kids!)

Nigerian princes and international travelers have disappeared, but other scammers fill the abyss. Most of their correspondence routes directly to my junk file, but a few slip in now and then.

“Mr. Bernard” recently emailed that he has money to give me as a charitable gift. To receive the gift, I will need to send some pertinent financial information. He says he will be waiting.

It’s going to be a long wait, Bernie.

Gordon Cole QC, solicitor at law and investment adviser to my late relative, says my late relatives left behind cash and properties. The solicitor would like to open the floodgates to wealth once I confirm my lineage, surname and country of origin. Gordon hopes to hear from me soon.

Not gonna happen, Gordie.

I have also received notification that I am an heiress. Just when I start pondering what to wear, where to build my estate, and whether Elon Musk will be my friend, along comes another bogus email saying I have unpaid bills. The latest scammer claimed Microsoft Office365 has overlooked my delinquency for some time, but no more.  Unless I open the attached document, all my programs will immediately stop working.

I’ll set fire to my own computer before opening a document from an unknown sender.

A laugh out loud email needs “information necessary to complete Lori Borgman employee’s salary package.” I’ve been writing for 30 years, and I’ve never had a salary package!

All I would have to do is “evaluate the modifications and immediately sign consent to the handbook in section 4.” I’ve never had a handbook either!

The message continued: “This policy’s objectve (sic) is to keep salaries and benefits competitve (sic) while garuanteeing (sic) that the business can keep providing for its clients and staff. Sincerly (sic), Lori Borgman Human Resources Department.”

The only thing that might remotely convince me that I sent an email about myself, to myself, on behalf of myself, was all the typos.

Here’s what always gets me: The people who run scams, commit fraud, credit card and identity theft, and turn people’s lives upside down, probably have a decent measure of intelligence and enterprise. What a waste that they don’t channel those same abilities toward something productive and good.

They could earn a living, and probably a decent one, the way their victims do – by working for it.