by Kathy Brasby | Jun 16, 2015 | Stories
I know you know where chocolate milk comes from and that red cows don’t produce strawberry shakes.
But rural people often laugh at the misconceptions that non-rural people have. Some of the simpler wrong notions include the idea that black cows give chocolate milk or that bulls have horns and cows don’t.
And it is frustrating to hear people comment that we don’t need to have all those dairy cows because people can get their milk from Safeway instead.
I once had a college roommate mock me because I didn’t know that buttermilk came from melting butter into milk. The fact that I had seen buttermilk come from the actually making of butter in a churn didn’t impact her at all.
But one of my favorite stories came when a non-rural family came to visit.
“Can we come over this evening and watch you milk your goats?” This phone call came from our neighbor who had weekend guests wanting to experience some rural flavor.
So they came. The neighbor brought a dad with two teenage boys. The dad, Jim, had experienced a slice of farm life from his days visiting his grandparents on their farm. This was warm nostalgia for him.
Not so much for the teenage boys.
They were willing to wander around outside pestering the ducks before Dad ordered them into the milking room.
“This is cool,” he said. “Get in here and watch.”
So I milked and answered questions from Jim while the boys leaned against the far wall with their hands in their pockets. Then they all went home.
My neighbor called me the next morning. “Jim said thanks for letting them come over.” And she laughed. “And the boys came back here to announce that, after seeing where milk came from, they are never drinking milk again.”
“Whew,” I said. “Good thing they don’t know where eggs come from, then. They might never eat again.”
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by Kathy Brasby | Jun 9, 2015 | Stories
The secretary and I were the only two women working in this shop. There’s something about rubbing elbows with a bunch of guys with oil stains on their hands that can give you willies at night.
The secretary was deathly afraid of mice. We’re talking leap-over-chairs-on-your-way-to-the-parking-lot kind of afraid. This was not a good thing to reveal to our crew but there it was.
I wasn’t overly fond of them myself but determined not to admit to it. But they still tested me. I was in charge of checking in shipments – large and small – at our business and so one day found a small plastic bag on my desk. This wasn’t unusual and I flipped the bag to check the shipping tag.
A dead mouse was stapled inside the bag.
I dropped the gift and looked up to see our service manager and parts manager peering around the corner. The service manager threw his hands in the air.
“It wasn’t my idea!”
And the parts manager put his hands up, too. “I didn’t put that bag on your desk.”
I ignored Tweedledee and Tweedledum.
They didn’t harass me again. They were in search of more hysteria. But one day our secretary came back from lunch to find a brown lunch bag on her desk. Stapled shut. Shuddering with mystery.
She ran screaming to the break room, certain they had trapped a live mouse for her.
After shaking her hands and sobbing, she still refused to enter her office. So the service manager retrieved the bag from her office and brought it out, where he sliced off the top and set the trapped frog free.
Tweedledee and Tweedledum spent the afternoon freshening up the secretary’s desk before she’d return to work. Boss’s orders.
Something good did come out of it, though. Whenever the two guys got the idea to go in search of mice, they remembered four hours of scrubbing a desk and sat down until that idea passed.
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by Kathy Brasby | Jun 5, 2015 | Seasons
The first time Dad fell at home, Mom called the logical people for help: her two daughters.
We both arrived on the scene with plenty of concern and zero medical experience.
“Should we call the EMTs?” my sister asked.
“I hate to bother them just to get him into his bedroom,” I said.
“I know. We can do this.”
We’re the two-trips-is-for-wimps sisters. We could do this.
My sister wrapped her arms around Dad’s chest, I got his knees and we carried and dragged and dropped him into his bedroom.
It happened again the next day. Dad was in the bathroom and lacked the strength to pull himself up. He fell between the toilet and the tub.
So the click-and-drag sisters got another call.
This time, we decided he needed to go to a doctor. And so we lugged him to the car and drove to the emergency room.
He was admitted overnight and then sent home.
The next day, he fell again.
“Let’s call the ambulance,” my sister said.
“Is it serious enough for an ambulance?”
“All I know is I’m tired from hauling him around. I think it’s time for an ambulance.”
We didn’t have to do the rock-paper-scissors thing to decide who called. She decided: “You call.”
So I did. “I’m really sorry to disturb you but my father has fallen and we could use some help getting him up.”
“It’s not a problem.” The woman’s voice was kind and clear. “That’s what we’re here for.”
Within minutes, a police car pulled up at our house followed by the ambulance from which two EMTs emerged with medical gear.
They checked Dad’s blood pressure and pulse. They listened to his heart. They decided a hospital visit was appropriate. And when it was time to take him to the ambulance, they gently lifted him onto a stretcher, buckled him in, and rolled him out.
So here’s what I learned: First, when an elderly person falls, the ambulance crew does not see my call as a bother. Second, the EMTs know a lot more medical information than I do.
And, third, I’m pretty sure Dad was glad not to get towed on the carpet again.
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by Kathy Brasby | Jun 2, 2015 | Stories
For some people, their car defines their image. For others, their car just reveals it.
We were filling our car at a little gas station when we noticed a young man pushing his car up the driveway of the station. He was a skinny guy but he had the driver’s door open so he could steer while he ran alongside the car, pushing. He was persistent.
His car like a faded tank that gulped gas. It must have run dry somewhere nearby.
All the gas pumps were occupied so he guided his old vehicle to the curb of the convenience store and waited. He leaned against the front fender, his arms folded, ankles crossed. He was patient.
Finally a spot cleared and he walked confidently to the front bumper, bent low, and heaved.
The car rolled like a lumbering ox to the open pump. He skittered to the driver’s door and punched down the brake. He was inventive.
By this time, we had sympathy for this man who obviously collided with a touch of bad luck by running out of gas before he got to the station.
He settled his car near the pump like a mother tucking in her toddler and pulled out his wallet.
Relief was in sight.
Then he pulled out $5 and slid it into the payment slot.
He pumped his gas in less time than it takes to read this paragraph. He tightened the gas cap and drove away.
I knew then why he rolled his car with such confidence. Yes, he was persistent and patient and inventive.
But mostly because he had done it before. Recently.
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by Kathy Brasby | May 29, 2015 | Seasons
The door was shut but Agnes waited in the hallway, her hands folded in her lap as she faced the long hallway.
“Good morning,” I said, bending down and squeezing her shoulder. I was on my way to visit someone else in the nursing home but I always made time for Agnes.
I remembered the day when she was able to navigate using a walker. Then as her feet and legs began to fail her, she switched to a motorized wheelchair. Now her memory loss had made the motorized controls too confusing. So she made her way with a simple black wheelchair.
Her round face broke into a wide smile. “Good morning to you as well.”
Back in the day when Agnes could still walk, she and the hobbits had one thing in common: height. Well, the lack of it. Now Agnes sat in a short wheelchair so that her legs didn’t dangle like a toddler.
“Are you getting your hair done today?” I had glanced at the sign on the door and knew the hairdresser was due any minute.
“I’m just waiting,” she said. The smile got bigger, if that were possible. “I like to watch legs.”
“Legs?” And then I bent again to her view.
“You see bow legged people. Knock kneed people. Long steps. People in sandals and people in boots.”
Standing had deprived me of a unique view. “I never thought about that.”
Agnes nodded. “I don’t mind waiting. This is kind of interesting.”
“Enjoy,” I said, patting her on the shoulder again.
But when I walked on, I did double-check to see if she was watching my stride, too.
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