by Kathy Brasby | Oct 29, 2020 | Humor, Stories, Winter
When an arctic blast of winter air hits Colorado, I’m reminded of the year I learned the value of keeping one’s thinking well-thawed.
Many years ago, our group of 20-somethings been told that the best time to ski the Colorado Rockies was on New Year’s Day because there were no crowds. We weren’t party people anyway so the idea of no lines sounded too good to pass up.
We arrived early at the ski slope, hauled equipment to the lodge, and began putting on our gear for the day. The snow squealed as we walked and my hands wanted more heat before we even got the day started.
We Didn’t Check the Temperature Immediately
“It’s cold,” I told a friend. “I think I’ll stay inside by the fire and drink hot chocolate.”
She nodded. “I might join you.”
Just then, one of the guys in the group burst through our fair-weather group with lift tickets in his hand. “I got enough for all of us. I figured there’d be lines later, but there weren’t any now.” And he began handing out the tickets. The expensive, no-refund lift tickets.
I studied mine. Could I re-sell it? I studied the lodge. Some skiers had their tickets already. Prepared like us. Some were settling into comfy chair near the fire, feet clad in thick wool socks already exposed to the fire. Not likely I could re-sell to them.
So no takers looked likely.
So I Buckled Up
I snapped the stiff, cold buckles on my ski boots and hobbled outside, where the frigid air slapped both cheeks and froze the gloss on my lips. Oh, good. What a great start to the day: my lips already frozen.
I popped my rigid boots into the ski bindings and skated to the lift. Nothing seemed to bend. Not the boots or the bindings. Or my knees, for that matter.
Well, surprise. There was no line at all for the lift. Usually I had to wait ten to thirty minutes for the privilege of plopping my cold bottom onto a lift bench and riding through the icy air to the top of the mountain. That day, the white expanse of snow was unmarred. No skiers on it yet.
Those who told us there’d be no lines had been right. New Years Day didn’t have a crowd.
Although I quickly discovered another reason for the lack of a crowd. As I settled onto a lift bench, I got a quick glance at a blackboard nailed to the outside of the warming hut. Written in shaky white letters was the news of the day: it was -38 degrees.
What Was I Doing?
I was outside at 38 degrees below zero? I pulled my stocking cap a little lower on my head. My hair crackled stiffly.
“Follow me.” This was the same guy who had bought the lift tickets. The whole group followed anyway. We were cold sheep, obviously. We let the lift push us through slashing cold air to the top of the lift and then glided toward another ski lift.
“Where are we going?”
“To the top of the mountain. The skiing is great up there.” This from my enthusiastic ticket friend. Although I was questioning the term friend.
The weather doesn’t get warmer as you go up the mountain. Instead, the snow squealed with each turn of the ski. We were cautious. Nobody wanted to fall onto the crunchy slope.
The Lodge Looked Like My Friend
At the top, I made a fast run to the midway lodge with the air slicing through my eyelashes like ice spikes. I couldn’t feel my nose. My ski bindings squealed and my fingers were ten slender ice cubes.
Our group ducked inside the lodge for hot chocolate and a fireplace. The guys with mustaches sported icicles from their upper lips which began to drip in the warmth of the lodge.
Any exposed skin was either bright red or white.
This was fun, right? We paid for this, right? I threw an icy look at my ticket-buying ex-friend but he was deep into coffee and didn’t notice.
An employee wandered by. “We’re watching for frostbite. If we see anything suspicious, we’ll send you back to the lodge.”
Understood.
Out We Went For Round Two
Still working hard to get our money’s worth from those tickets, we finished off the hot chocolate and went out again. We were all inspected before we could ride a lift and one of the women who had sat in the lodge the longest flunked.
“You have to go in now,” the lift attendant told her.
“I have been inside for an hour,” she said.
He shrugged. Her cheeks were white as ice, and she went back in to thaw out more.
The rest of us made another fast run back to the midway lodge and stopped for more hot chocolate. The hot drink vendor was making a killing.
Are We Skiing All Day?
When we were all seated around a table, hats and gloves thawing as we drained hot drinks, I asked, “Are we going to ski all day?”
“Why not?” said the ex-friend. “The snow is fantastic.”
An employee came up to the table before I could toss a thawed-out retort. “You all OK?”
“Yeah, but minus 38 degrees is pretty challenging,” I said.
“Oh, it’s not minus 38,” he said. “Up here, it’s minus 50 with wind chill.”
Turns out we’d been told correctly: there were no lines on that New Year’s Day. Not everyone had frozen brains.
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by Kathy Brasby | Oct 15, 2020 | Family, Humor, Stories
When it comes to communication, I am a pathetic representative of my generation. I’d rather send an email than stick a letter in the mail. I’d rather text than call.
I quit giving cards with gifts to the family because they opened the card long enough to read who the gift was from and then moved on to the gift.
If they want to know who gave the gift, I can do that easy enough. I use a Sharpie to write my name on the outside of the wrapper. 
But I keep a few cards in a box for emergencies. I have a few generic birthday cards and some thank you notes. I am not totally without class.
Today I pulled out a nice “I miss you and glad you wrote to update me” card. It was decorated with soft blues and linen surrounding a gentle photo of an orange and yellow flower arrangement. I was impressed with the beauty of this card and knew that it was perfect for my friend, who prefers letters to email and cards to texting.
Technically, she requires letters because she doesn’t have an email address. It’s amazing we’re still friends based on my communication skills.
I jotted a few lines to my friend, wrote her address on the card, and then finished up the project by sliding the card into the envelope.
I had a new problem. The card and envelope didn’t match. The card was too big. What in the world? The envelope was even the same creamy linen color as the card. They had to match. But, nope.
Now I had a card with a handwritten note. I hardly wrote anything by hand after I learned to type. Cursive is over-rated when you can grab a keyboard. I wasn’t willing to re-write that note.
I went searching for another envelope in my box. I found a graduation card for my niece who has now been teaching middle schoolers for 9 years. A high school graduation card.
I found a birthday card to my brother, signed, sealed, and never mailed. Oops.
The last time I went to a funeral with my sister, she brought a sympathy card for me. She knew. My card inventory is like a six-inch rain in the desert: a drop every six inches.
So I went back to my perfect card and tried again, hoping somehow that the envelope would stretch. Maybe over time, it had mellowed into a larger size. Nope. Wishful thinking is sometimes synonymous with foolish thinking.
Then I spotted my paper cutter. I slid the top of the card under the knife. Zip. Voila! Now it fit.
I hope I didn’t cut off my signature, but what are return addresses for, anyway?
So that card is now in an envelope and ready to go to the mailbox.
With my track record for mailing cards, I hope I can remember how to do that.
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by Kathy Brasby | Oct 1, 2020 | Country life, Family, Humor, Stories
The other day, I opened our upright freezer and watched the Abominable Snowman ski down the ice and into the bottom drawer.
Hmm, I thought, maybe it’s time to defrost.
Take pity on my family. Decry my lack of character. But I like defrosting a freezer as much I like trimming toenails on our dog. But, speaking of the dog, there was an idea.
Our dog is a friendly guy and he eats like a healthy teenage boy. I don’t need to just toss him a bone. I can toss him a sliced eggplant and he’d give it a try. Birthday cake, zucchini, sour cream – all snarfed up quickly.
He even drinks almond milk if it comes his way.
So Scout was intrigued by the carton of vanilla ice cream I managed to tug from the icy grip of the freezer.
To be honest, there was only about an inch of vanilla ice crystals in the bottom of the carton but Scout licked all the ice cream and then tore the carton to shreds.
So, for my project tally: one item out of the freezer and now lying like confetti in the backyard. Score. I think. The jury may still be out on that.
I found five ice cube trays filled with egg whites and yolks. One year, when I had too many eggs, I thought this would be a good way to save excess eggs. Maybe it was but it would have been better to take the egg cubes out of the trays after they froze.
I mean immediately because when I did take them out of the trays the other day, they were powdered eggs. Surprisingly, Scout didn’t care much for them.
I rescued some frozen cookies. They weren’t too bad and, besides, is there really a bad home-baked cookie? They got eaten – and not by Scout. I have young men around and they still remember the pleasure of teenage eating patterns.
I found a quarter of a bag of Brussel sprouts encased in ice. When did I buy those? I can’t think of one recipe I use that calls for Brussel sprouts and I don’t think anybody in the family will touch them.
You’re thinking that Scout might but I didn’t give them to Scout. I have chickens for things like that. This may explain how Scout sometimes gives them the evil eye when he wanders past their run. They got a treat he missed out on.
I also uncovered a bag of sausages. Or hot dogs. Or aged cucumbers. I was not really sure so I left them for further review. Later. And I stepped away slowly.
There were shelves of question-mark bags that will need review. They seem to fall into the category of “Why on earth did I save that?”
But, in watching Scout’s joy as he pulverizes a carton of frozen bone broth, maybe I have my answer.
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by Kathy Brasby | Sep 24, 2020 | Country life, Humor, Stories
Every fall, when the sweet scent of our goat ladies fills the air, Rocket the buck lifts his massive head and lets the perfume of females push any semblance of wisdom out of his brain. He is focused on romance and nothing else matters.
Like fences, for example. Fences don’t matter.
Rocket spent several months in his own private pasture – his bachelor pad complete with shed, water tank, and lots of green grass. All he needed was a popcorn machine and he’d be set.
Until fall came. Suddenly the fence between him and the girls was nothing more than a slight distraction. There was actually a small but empty pasture between him and the does but he somehow appeared in the buffer pasture.
The second fence line was no different than the first but two fences in a row were apparently too much to manage. So far. But we didn’t like our odds because if he could clear one fence, he could clear another.
So why didn’t he? Maybe we were assuming incorrectly about his fence ability. We hid behind the trash dumpster and watched.
Wouldn’t you hide behind a trash dumpster if you wanted to watch your male goat scale a fence? Yeah, well, the neighbors sure speeded up as soon as they saw the scene. Pedal to the metal, zoom, and they were out of sight. Like your kids when you announce it’s time to clean the house. Zip, zoom, gone.
We ignored the neighbors so we were watching when Rocket reared back, put two front hooves midway up the fence, and pulled it down. Our boy wasn’t a pole vaulter. In fact, he was barely a hurdler. Once he pulled the fence down, he was more of a hopper.
He made a beeline for the second fence and I raced into the pen to grab him before he used that hip-hop strategy again. I led him back into his own pasture and straightened up the woven wire. Maybe if I laced some 2x4s through the wire, he couldn’t push it down.
I turned my back to look for boards and he was at the second fence again. Like Star Trek transport. Fading out and then fading in at the fence line. This was handy stuff for our Rocket in love.
Back he went to his own pasture.
I then started for the second fence, to study any weaknesses there. He beat me to the second fence.
That was pretty fast hip-hop. “Scotty, beam me up” fast. “Look at me, Mom” while riding a bicycle down a steep hill kind of fast. Rocket on jet skies.
His big fluttering eyes and flashing white teeth impressed me much less than the does and I took him back to his pasture. Maybe I was a little grumpy this time. I’m not admitting to anything.
I blinked and he was at the second fence again.
We had words.”Rocket, you will get your time with the girls. Just not yet. You gotta wait a little while.”
He went over the fence again.
We finally ran a single strand of electric fence along the top of the woven wire. The next time Rocket had Scotty slide the levers for transport, he got a little jolt of electricity on the nose. He was pretty shocked at this development but circled around like a kid zoning in on the cookie jar.
It only took lovestruck Rocket two buzzes on the nose until he stayed in his own pen.
He might not have had much wisdom in that lovestruck brain but apparently an electric fence spoke his language.
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by Kathy Brasby | Sep 17, 2020 | Country life, Family, Humor
In the spring, when the world ran out of toilet paper and gallons of milk were rationed, I naturally decided this was the year to plant a garden.
I’ve planted gardens before but I avoid them because of a character defect: I hate to pull the weeds in the garden.
But this year, I vowed, would be different. That is my usual garden spring vow but let’s not go there. It had been years since I planted a garden and I figured I had matured a bit.
My dear husband had a better idea. Why didn’t I use raised garden plots so I didn’t have to get down on my knees to weed? And he happened to have some plastic 55-gallon barrels that we could cut in half, drill holes in the bottom for drainage, and have the garden we’d always dreamt of.
You know, low maintenance and high produce.
We put in compost and fertilizer and top soil and then planted. Tomatoes. Peppers. Acorn squash. Pumpkin.Onions. Zucchini.
The plants started to grow with great gusto. I watered, I weeded, they grew. Reasonable partnership, I thought.
And then I noticed the tomato plant leaves were starting to curl. What in the world? I checked. The ground was moist. There were NO WEEDS in the pot.
Soon the other tomato plants began to wither. The green pepper plants lost their leaves and the pumpkin greenery sprawled on the ground like a sloth.
The zucchini vine threw out a single squash and then breathed its last. One tomato plant produced three tomatoes but had no leaves left. Once the tomatoes were plucked from its twiggy trunk, it went into hibernation. That’s commitment to your offspring, I’d say.
The jalapeño plant looked great, however, and there hung several fiery-red peppers about an inch long. I could almost hear them snarl when I removed them from the plant. If bugs were the issue, as I was starting to suspect, they apparently had no taste for feisty jalapeños.
So, from my grand garden plans, I harvested 3 pink tomatoes, one zucchini squash, and 12 microscopic but muscular jalapeño peppers.
At this point, my garden resembles a bomb site with green sticks standing askew in the barrels.
There’s good news and bad news to this story. The good news is that I don’t have to can or freeze or dry any produce. The bad news….
Well, as my daughter said, “Mother, you managed to kill a zucchini?”
But there were no weeds in its pot, so I guess it’s all good news.
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