Jewish World Review August 27, 2004 / 10 Elul, 5764

Lori Borgman

Lori Borgman
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Consumer Reports

Savor life's fleeting moments | says the word savor means "to relish."

I am thinking of the word savor while riding in the backseat of my Dad's new silver Taurus. The car has leather seats, a built-in compass, miles-per-gallon digital display and a moon roof. There is another amenity in the vehicle; my 18-year-old daughter sitting in the passenger seat messing with the CD changer in a compartment between her and my dad Seated behind them, looking at the juxtaposition of age and generations, I know that this is a moment to savor; to relish.

"Ever open the moon roof, Grandpa?"

"Only had it opened once, we haven't had the car all that long," he answers.

"Mind if I open it?"

He tells her to go ahead, and explains the three options: shade back, but window closed; shade and window open at a tilt; or shade and window both fully open.

She hits the button that opens the shade and window. Fresh air rushes in, encircling our hair and faces. It's late afternoon, encroaching on twilight. The air is unseasonably cool, 15 degrees out of character for the peak of summer in the landlocked Midwest. We are rolling along a two-lane road toward my brother's place in the country.

"Do you like Liberace?" my father asks.

"Never heard Liberace," she says.

My father turns on the CD player and Liberace turns on the ivories. I try to explain Liberace but give up somewhere after sequined evening jackets and before gilded candelabras. It doesn't matter. She's car dancing to track No. 2, "As Long As I Have You."

The terrain around us is pancake flat. In these wide-open spaces you can see from house to house, farm to farm, from produce stand to distant silo. Redwing blackbirds dot the fence posts and an occasional goldfinch provides a brilliant flash of yellow.

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The Super Thesaurus says savor means to enjoy, to "smack one's lips over," to appreciate. Savoring requires self-discipline and objectivity, two commodities I often find in short supply. Problem is, the moments worthy of savoring don't come with bells, flags or warning buzzers. You have to be waiting and watching, willing to sweep everything else aside, at least for the present.

"Tell you why I have this CD," Dad says. "'The September Song.' You like "'he September Song?'"

"Never heard it," she says, playing an imaginary piano accompanying Liberace on the "Twelfth Street Rag."

"Punch on through," he says. "September Song is toward the end."

Well, it's a long, long time from May to December, but the days grow short when you reach September . . . And the days dwindle down to a precious few . . . September, November . . . And these few precious days I spend with you. These precious days I spend with you.

We turn onto a gravel road, recent recipient of a chip and seal. Chip and seal is good news when you live in the country, where dust weasels through the cracks of your doors and windows. It is also good news when you drive with the moon roof open.

The smell of corn wafts into the car. The sun is sinking in a flaming ball of orange and horses are silhouetted against the sky.

Once again, summer has barreled through like a locomotive on an express line. In addition to puffs of smoke and a lonesome whistle, it left behind a few pleasant remembrances, fleeting moments here and there to savor, relish and enjoy.

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JWR contributor Lori Borgman is the author of , most recently, "Pass the Faith, Please" (Click HERE to purchase. Sales help fund JWR.) and I Was a Better Mother Before I Had Kids To comment, please click here. To visit her website click here.


© 2004, Lori Borgman