by Kathy Brasby | Nov 25, 2019 | House rehab, Humor, Stories
I haven’t told a story about our property rehab projects in a while. My sister Ann and I have done almost 25 different rehab projects in the last 5 years, and the tales go on and on.
This is one of those stories.
Patricia Valerio at Unsplash
The backyard in this account looked like the county dump except the dump is better organized. The best way to handle this, short of tipping the earth and letting the garbage slide into the alley, is to get to work with trash bags and rakes.
We always don safety glasses and gloves just in case. It’s amazing what you can find in a heap.
The backyard of this project had some promise. It was small and could be charming except for the bags of debris along the back fence. Well, and the litter all over the grass. Well, assuming there was any grass left under the junk. But you get the idea.
We started clipping hedges and trimming evergreen limbs that swept the ground.
And there we found a trash can, completely hidden behind the canopy of branches.
The trash can was overflowing, of course.
I grabbed a handle, but the trash can was too heavy for me to move alone. “I need help,” I said.
So Ann gripped a handle, and we lifted. We pretended to lift, I mean. This trash can must have been full of concrete.
We drug the can to the alley, leaving nice trench marks behind.
“Huh, it’s full of water,” Ann said. So, not concrete, as it turned out. All the rubbish was marinating in rainwater.
We decided to tip the container onto its side to let the liquid flow out. If this had once been rainwater, it had been transformed into swamp sludge. We hoped nothing had died under the junk, but it sure smelled like it.
An hour later, our nostrils had cleared out enough to return to the project.
Seizing both handles, we started our dragging strategy again. The trash can was lighter, and we were able to get it to the dumpster in the alley.
This trash dumpster was a metal monster with a wide-open mouth hungry for garbage. We hoped it didn’t gag when we added our treasure to the feast.
The fact that the front jaw of the dumpster was about four feet tall presented a new problem. We couldn’t lift this trash can that high.
But Ann had an idea. There were brackets on the front of the dumpster where the truck could grab and pour the contents. “Let’s lift the cab up and set it on that bracket,” she said.
We were confident we could hoist the container halfway up, to the bracket, reposition our grip and tip it over into the dumpster.
Maybe the trash can fumes had done something to our brains because this idea seemed totally doable.
And so we bent down and lifted.
Somewhere between the ground and the bracket, somebody’s hands slipped, and the trash can fell to the ground.
I was now convinced there was concrete as ballast because the trash can landed square on the ground, sending a geyser of bog sludge over both of us.
There we stood, baptized in marshland mud.
But all was not lost: we should be inoculated against every germ known to mankind.
Like this:
Like Loading...
by Kathy Brasby | Nov 18, 2019 | Cats, Country life, Family, Humor
Many years ago, I was a country woman who was milking goats, feeding out bucket calves, and raising kids.
My husband had constructed a nifty room in our barn with a door that closed tightly, allowing me to heat the room and keep out all the barn cats. Barn cats get addicted to freshly squeezed milk and make themselves a leaping, milk-seeking nuisance. I kept them out, or they were all over the room, even trying to dip their paws in the milk bucket.
Photo by Remmington Wanner on Unsplash
This particular morning, I entered the milking room with my four-year-old daughter and brought in the first milking doe. My daughter perched herself on a large feed box.
I had just started squeezing out milk when my daughter said, “Mom, there’s a cat back there.”
Ugh. There were not supposed to be any cats in that room. If a cat got trapped in the room, it couldn’t get out. How long had it been there?
I was afraid to ask. “Is it dead or alive?”
She studied the gap between the box and the wall. “Dead. Can I pick it up?”
No!” Good grief.
My husband always seemed to be working 40 miles away from home when these ugly situations came up. It sure would have been nice to turn that dead cat over to him. But, no, I was home alone.
Well, me and a curious preschooler.
“Leave it alone,” I said before she got any more ideas. You need to understand that this girl had once gone with me when I had a baby goat autopsied. She begged the veterinarian to let her watch the procedure and nearly got her nose cut off because she peered so closely into the body.
He was willing to show her the location of the lungs, the stomach, the liver after she asked a tumble of questions.
My point? This girl wasn’t traumatized by a dead cat.
I toyed with the idea of leaving the project for my husband, but I really didn’t want that dread hanging all day long. Besides, my daughter would probably want to sit with the dead cat until her dad got home.
Better get it over with. I finished milking the goat, took the milk into the house, and gathered my supplies. Trash bag. Check. Hand sanitizer? Face mask? Gloves?
I marched back to the barn with my little girl hot on my heels. She wasn’t about to miss this next step in her veterinarian experience. What a kid.
I leaned slowly over the feed box, my breath wheezing through the face mask. I had put a mask on my daughter, but she had slid it on top of her head. Sigh. Next, she’d be snapping the rubber band between her fingers. Not too concerned about this mess.
I was more concerned. I did not want to see roadkill in my milking room, but I finally focused my view into the gap.
There, tattered and soiled, munched and bent, was a purple and white stuffed cat toy.
She was right: it wasn’t alive.
Like this:
Like Loading...
by Kathy Brasby | Nov 11, 2019 | Family, Humor, Stories
I’m all for trying new things, and so, when my daughter gave me a bottle of vanilla extract that she had made, I figured I’d check into the recipe.
I’m not cheap: I’m curious. I keep telling myself that, so hush.
I’m suspicious of the recipe blogs which promise, “It’s effortless,” but they were right this time. It was easy!
I had to locate some vanilla beans (probably the hardest part of the project) and then put a few vanilla beans in a bottle and cover the beans with cheap vodka. Let sit for a few months, and you have the best smelling vanilla extract around.
But this isn’t a recipe blog. You can Google the recipe if you want.
I made a batch a few months ago and pulled out the first bottle to use on my famous chocolate chip cookie recipe. You know, my everybody-snitches-the-dough chocolate chip cookie recipe. Google the recipe.
I mixed up the ingredients, and the snitchers wandered by. Each one took a sample and said, “Weird. This has an odd aftertaste.”
So I tasted, too. And it did. Blech.
I had already put the first batch in the oven, and I’m averse to throwing away a batch of cookie dough. I mean, it has butter and eggs in there. That’s like liquid gold. So I waited out the baking process.
When the cookies came out of the oven, and I tasted one, they were fine. No aftertaste. Pretty much like normal.
What in the world? Where had the aftertaste gone? Curious minds like mine need to know.
Some who have a scientific mind would formulate experiments. They’d try the recipe in different ways until they uncovered the cause. They’d waste a lot of time, in other words.
Not me. It was faster to do some thinking. What was different? New?
Aha, the new batch of vanilla.
I unscrewed the lid and took a sniff.
This was not a lovely vanilla scent. This smelled of pure alcohol. I had not added the vanilla beans four months ago.
No vanilla beans giving up their sweet aroma. No vanilla beans adding flavor to the cookies.
The odd aftertaste was the vodka, which burned off when I baked the cookies.
My daughter, one of the snitchers, put it best: “You served us vodka cookies?”
Well, only to the snitchers, I guess. Glad my grandsons weren’t around that day.
Like this:
Like Loading...
by Kathy Brasby | Nov 4, 2019 | Family
I am on vacation this week but my stories will return next week. With new adventures undoubtedly.
Like this:
Like Loading...
by Kathy Brasby | Oct 28, 2019 | Country life, Family, Humor, Stories
I don’t like to go fishing. I respect those that do and am sure that I am missing out on a ton of fun. I am saying this so none of my love-to-fish friends mail me a catfish in a padded envelope.
Several years ago, some of our kids were invited to a special party at the local fishing pond. They couldn’t drive yet, so guess who had to go? 
I thought I could set up a seat at the water’s edge, get out a book and a cold drink, and enjoy the late summer afternoon while all the children flung hook and bobber into the murky depths. That didn’t sound so bad.
I settled into a comfy lawn chair and had read a couple of chapters when I heard my daughter shout. She stood on the dock, pole held high in the air, fish squirming at the end of the line.
Great. She’d caught a fish. Notice: no exclamation mark in these comments.
She wanted me to bring the tackle box. I jammed the bookmark in place and marched through the thick grass to the dock.
“Look at my fish! We gotta get the hook out before it gets hurt.”
What could get hurt? The fish? The hook? My reading time?
I set the tackle box on the rough wood of the dock and gazed into the tangle of hooks, bobbers, weights. How did one get a hook out of a fish?
She sensed my confusion. Or just got impatient. I’m never sure which. “Grab those pliers, Mom.”
OK, I knew pliers. I lifted the metal tool and held it out to her.
“I can’t do that,” she said with a voice that sounded like the whine of a jet engine starting up.
Like I could? “I don’t fish,” I said. Clearly, a boundary was in order here.
“I’ll hold the fish, and you get the hook out,” she said, gripping the squirmy fish in her nine-year-old hands.
Um, I don’t get hooks out. I stared at the fish, which gaped back. This was no time for a “who blinks first” contest. Do fish blink?
I drew a deep breath. Parenting involves more courage than you’d think. Extricating a hook from a fish’s mouth ranks pretty high on my “don’t want to do this” list, but it had to be done. I stepped closer.
My daughter squeezed the fish’s mouth open, and I raised the pliers, trying to find the right grip. Stalling.
And I got hit in the face with a blast of green pond water.
I looked up to see my five-year-old son standing a few feet away from me, holding a stained and wrinkled paper cup.
He gazed at the fish while I glared at him.
Then he saw me staring, and he shifted his weight. “I grabbed the cup from the edge of the pond,” he said. “And I scooped up some water.”
Why?
“I didn’t want the fish to die before you got the hook out, and I thought it might take a while,” he said.
“So, you scooped up the water and threw it in my face?”
He shrugged and tossed the cup down. “I missed.”
I still don’t like fishing. Don’t mail me catfish.
Like this:
Like Loading...
