by Kathy Brasby | May 19, 2015 | Stories
Grandma would watch the toddlers and our husbands wanted to watch the cars at the race track. So my sister and I decided on one of those free-spirit moments we’re good at.
In our little town, that meant a trip to Walmart.
As we wandered past the fragrance aisle, Sis decided we ought to try out some new scents.
Sample bottles littered the shelves but the fragrance doesn’t smell the same on the spray tip as it does on one’s skin. So we began, spraying a scent on a wrist. Then trying a different fragrance on the other wrist.
When there are over 30 bottles available to try, you run out of body places after awhile.
We had scent on the inside of each arm, with new spots of fragrance from wrist to shoulder. We spritzed the tip of each finger and thought about trying ankles and knees.
Even for us, that was too weird.
So, not finding a scent that really wowed us, we moved on.
Far from the fragrance aisle, I picked up a scent that I liked.
“Smell this one.” I thrust my forearm under her nose and she took a deep draw.
“I do, too,” she said. “I guess it took time to blossom. Let’s go get it.”
We headed back.
Sample bottles of fragrance do not smell the same in the bottle as on the skin.
We sniffed spray tips and spritzed fragrances in the air. But sample bottles of fragrance don’t smell the same in the bottle as on the skin. We couldn’t find our special scent.
We left the fragrance aisle smelling like the flower truck had collided with a fruit stand.
Smart women would have kept a chart of fragrance and location on the arm so it would have been simple to connect the sample fragrance with the label.
I called us free spirits. I never said we were smart.
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by Kathy Brasby | May 15, 2015 | Seasons
My mother lived with us for a couple of months after her stroke before complications forced her into nursing home care.
But during that time with us, I was responsible for transferring her in and out of bed, to the toilet, and into the car.
And I took good notes. Here are a few little adventures we had:
During our evening routine, as I helped her put on pajamas and get ready for bed, I jigged when she jogged and bumped her cheekbone.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Oh, don’t worry,” she said, “that’ll just knock off that double chin.”
One night, at 1 a.m., on my third trip into her room to help her get to the toilet, she peered into my eyes.
“You look tired,” she said. Always a mom.
It was after midnight when I answered her call.
“I need you to put me into bed,” she said.
“Mom, you are in bed.”
“Oh, I am?” She looked down at her body.
“Do you want to go to the bathroom anyways,” I asked.
“No,” she said. “That was all I needed.”
One afternoon I helped her transfer from her wheelchair into a recliner in the living room. We’d done this a number of times but something slipped this time. She landed in the recliner and I landed on top of her.
“Well,” she said, patting my shoulder like I was a child sitting on her lap. “We didn’t do so well that time.”
One afternoon she took my hand with concern in her eyes. “I’m worried that I can’t afford all this.”
I smiled at her. “Dad did pretty well planning for you. I think you’ll be OK financially until you reach 110.”
“And then what?” she said.
Caretaking involves many skills but one of them is making memories.
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by Kathy Brasby | May 12, 2015 | Stories
Pushing the beaters into my mixer was guaranteed to bring at least one small person into the kitchen. A little like how the cat responded to the electric can opener.
No, exactly like the cat’s response.
So my four-year-old son appeared at my elbow right after I clicked in the beaters.
“Let’s make shape cookies,” he said, pushing a chair to the counter.
Impressive. The process to make sugar cookies cut into shapes with cookie cutters took longer. But I would teach him.
We mixed our cookie dough. “Now, we start with a ball, like this.” I scooped a handful of dough from the bowl and rolled it in my palms.
He watched intently, his nose drawing closer and closer to my hands. Yes, he was being a good student.
“Then I put the ball on the counter.” I set it lightly on the flour I had sprinkled out. “And then we use a rolling pin to flatten the dough.”
His eyes were glued to the dough. I rolled out the mixture into a smooth thin pancake and let him press the cookie cutters into it.
He selected a star. “That one looks like an explosion.”
What a creative idea for a cute little guy.
“I’ll do it this time,” he told me after the first batch was transferred to cookie sheets.
Maybe I was training a future chef. He took initiative and had obviously absorbed my careful directions.
He grabbed a handful of dough from the bowl and squeezed it hard.
“Well, you might not—“
Too late. He slapped the crushed dough onto the counter and began pounding it with the side of his fist until the mixture surrendered into an uneven flat lump.
For me, baking cookies is about the aroma and flavor.
For my would-be little chef, apparently it was more about hand-to-hand combat.
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by Kathy Brasby | May 8, 2015 | Seasons
As the competition was coming to the finale, Chuck glanced up at the clock.
“Will we be done in time for lunch?” he said. His eyes traveled around the room where several residents sat in wheelchairs. The sun poured into the room through several large windows, warming things up enough that some residents had dozed off.
Sharon laughed. She was leading activities this morning and held several colored balls in her hands. “Here, Clara, let’s finish up this game. Roll your ball close to the target.”
Clara shifted her jaw from side to side as she considered her target and then pulled her arm back. She sent the ball shooting across the floor, bouncing off another wheelchair on the other side of the room, before resting under the coffee table by the large sofa.
“She loses,” Chuck said. “Now let’s get to lunch.” He didn’t wait for Sharon to confirm things. He charged down the hallway toward the dining hall.
“Yep, it’s time for lunch,” Sharon said. She starting gathering the balls scattered across the floor. “Who needs help getting there?”
Some residents gripped the wheels of their chairs and began slowly propelling their way down the hallway.
“I wouldn’t turn down some help,” Clara said.
Sharon rolled Clara’s wheelchair into the dining hall and helped her get settled at a square table.
“Please be careful of my foot,” Clara said so Sharon bent over to see where the wheelchair footrests hit the table’s legs. And then she noticed that Clara had a bit of toast on her chest.
“Here, let me get that for you,” she said, scooping up the morsel. “It looks like you may have dropped something from breakfast.”
Clara glanced down and then cocked her head. “Well, there went my snack.”
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by Kathy Brasby | May 5, 2015 | Stories
I got fresh insight yesterday into why God gives us sons after the snake convention.
Training to compete in 5K runs is totally misusing the word “compete” but there I was yesterday, getting in another two-mile run in preparation for my next 5K run. I compete only in the sense that I can outrun the walkers. For the most part.
But yesterday I decided to take one of my favorite running routes. I jogged on the road beside an irrigation canal, where I can watch the calming waters flow past me while the long green grass framing the road reaches out to touch my legs.
It was a peaceful run until something moved beside me as I ran. Something big. Something worth stopping and turning around to look.
A 30-foot long snake as thick as a car tire was coiled up, its tail shaking in fierce anger while its tongue darted in and out. At least that was my first impression.
And I ran within a foot of this furious monster.
I finally went on after my heart rate settled a bit, returned cautiously, and then came across a second snake sprawled across my path. At least it didn’t curl into a hissing coil as I sprinted by.
I had to tell someone this story so, when I got home, I marched into the computer room where both sons happened to be discussing some video game.
I told them what had happened.
Had our daughters heard this first, they would have gasped with fear or concern.
“Are you all right?” they probably would have said. “Were you scared? Did you get light-headed?” Stuff like that.
But I got to tell the sons first.
After I finished my tale about running with snakes, the older leaned forward with something sparkling in his eyes and said, “I’ll bet that really helped your pace today.”
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