by Kathy Brasby | Mar 24, 2015 | Stories
I didn’t think we were going to Cuba until two days before we boarded an airplane at Cancun and headed east. “Americans can’t go to Cuba,” I told our missionary host.
Fortunately, he ignored me and we went.
Four days were spent in Havana and the trip also included a van trip across the island to the mountains at the east end.
Our first night in Havana, we went to a fancy restaurant where waitresses wore black dresses, white aprons and white caps. Like old-fashioned maids. Glittering crystal adorned each table with heavy silverware resting on starched napkins at each place setting.
And a pianist filled the air with sweet music.
When he saw us, he recognized us as Americans. Americans are rich in Cuba. No matter what money we had.
So he immediately began playing tunes by Frank Sinatra. Cuba, in case you haven’t heard, is largely lodged in the 1950’s and the musician must have assumed that Sinatra melodies would net him some nice tips.
Emboldened by his strong Sinatra performance, the pianist then approached our table. “I know many American songs,” he said. “What would you like to hear?”
My husband leaned toward him. “Could you play Amazing Grace?”
The man frowned slightly as he searched his memory banks. He finally shook his head. “I do not know that one.”
We smiled at each other and then my husband surrendered. “How about some Sinatra?”
“Oh, yes, sir!” The pianist scurried back to the piano and ironically played instead I Did it My Way.
Like this:
Like Loading...
by Kathy Brasby | Mar 20, 2015 | Seasons
Darlene knew things had changed when she was called into the lab room to see her father sitting on the examining table clad only in his underwear.
Merle was the most modest man she had ever known. She turned away from him to face the doctor, hoping he’d find his clothes while she heard the report.
“Your father has hardening of the arteries in his legs,” the doctor said. “That affects his walking, of course.”
They discussed the treatment plan and then Darlene checked on her dad out of the corner of her eye. He hadn’t moved.
“Uh, Dad, why don’t you get your pants on?”
He stared at the wall.
Darlene scanned the room and located his pile of clothes on a chair. She edged to the chair, still keeping her back on her father.
“Here, Dad.” She held out the jeans and shirt and, when he didn’t take them, laid them on the table behind him. “How about you put on your clothes? I can wait outside.”
“I can’t do it.”
Darlene felt her throat tighten. She had dressed her children just short of 10 million times when they were young. But never her father.
“You’ll have to help me.” He spoke softly, his voice hoarse.
So Darlene threaded his thin arms into the sleeves of his shirt and buttoned it. Then she pulled his jeans to his knees and helped him stand.
He gripped her shoulders while she finished with his pants.
“Thank you,” he said.
There might have been a tear in his eye. She couldn’t tell for sure.
But, for a reason she didn’t understand, she wrapped her arms around him. “Oh, Dad, you’re welcome.”
Merle had never been much of a hugger but he didn’t shrug off her arms. He patted her shoulder.
“Let’s go home,” Darlene said. But winds of change had already come.
Like this:
Like Loading...
by Kathy Brasby | Mar 17, 2015 | Stories
When our younger son turned 13, he informed me that, although he needed a new bottle of shampoo, he did not want the cheap stuff he’d been using for years. “I want manly shampoo,” he announced.
I understood he might not want to use foofoo shampoo like lilac or rose, but what’s wrong with strawberry and coconut? If it’s good enough to be in dessert, it’s good enough to wash hair.
But I have not yet untangled the male mind. I thought, having two brothers, two sons and a husband, I could get some insight. Why not ask them?
When my brothers were boys, they had contests to see how much fruit they could cram in their mouths. One day my younger brother stuffed so much banana in his mouth that he couldn’t move his tongue until the banana dissolved.
So, after we were adults, I cornered him. “Remember the banana incident?”
“Yeah,” he said drawing his words out like cold molasses.
“So why did you do that?” This was a prime decoding opportunity.
He lifted his shoulders. “I don’t have a clue.”
Some help that was.
One day I watched our 12-year-old son and friend challenge his 6-year-old sister to foot races. Every time the boys crossed the finish line ahead of the 6-year-old, they did a victory dance only matched by my mother when I came home with an engagement ring.
I described the scene at dinner to my husband. “Why would those boys get any joy out of beating a little girl in a foot race? They were older, faster, bigger. What fun was that?” Surely my husband could shed light on the issue.
He lifted his shoulders. “Testosterone causes brain damage.”
Like that was helpful.
Those stories clanged around in my brain as I stood with my younger son at the shampoo aisle. Still trying to learn about a guy’s thinking, I turned him loose. He was my newest study.
We came home with manly shampoo. He rushed to the shower. In the middle of the afternoon.
This was the boy who showered like the cowboys in the westerns: after every cattle drive. And we didn’t have cattle.
Still damp, he rushed out of the bathroom and held his dripping hair under my nose. “Smells manly, huh?” he said.
“Oh, yeah,” I assured him. Then he thrust his forearm in my face.
“Smell that.” Apparently he had manly soap, too. I told him he was very manly and he was satisfied.
I might ask what banana-stuffing, footrace whupping and woodsy shampoo have in common.
Apparently they’re among the pieces in building a man.
Like this:
Like Loading...
by Kathy Brasby | Mar 13, 2015 | Seasons
Mildred’s eyes lit up when I approached her table at the dining room and I patted her hand.
“It’s so good to see you,” I said. Mildred had just transferred from an assisted-living facility to the nursing home. Now she wore an oxygen tube blowing air into her nose with a tank hooked to her wheelchair.
She gave me her familiar broad smile. “It’s good to see you, too. You’ll have to remind me of your name.”
I had lead a devotional class at her assisted-living home for several years and Mildred never missed.
“I look forward to this every week,” she’d told me more than once. She always made good comments, recalling stories from her youth and sermons from her pastor.
I hadn’t been to her facility in several months and she had re-entered my life at the nursing home where I visited.
“Remember me from the Cedars?” I asked. “I used to see you every week there.”
“Oh?” Her eyes searched my face and I could see her mind trying to make connections. “My memory isn’t as good as it used to be.”
But her smile was still good.
Whenever I see Mildred, I always touch her hand. “It’s so good to see you,” I tell her.
And she always responds, “It’s so good to see you, too. You’ll have to remind me of your name.”
And I always do.
Like this:
Like Loading...
by Kathy Brasby | Mar 10, 2015 | Stories
When our hobby farm was at full capacity, we milked several Nubian goats every day. One morning, when I started chores in our milking room, my 4-year-old daughter climbed onto a large wooden feed box at the back of the room and peered behind it.
“Mom, there’s a cat back there.”
Oh, great. There weren’t supposed to be any cats in that room. “Is it dead or alive?”
She studied the gap between the box and the wall. “Dead. Can I pick it up?”
“No!” Yeuck. What now? Why did my sweet husband go to work 40 miles away when it would have been nice to turn that dead cat over to him? I was home alone. Well, me and a curious preschooler.
“Leave it alone,” I added before she got any new ideas for exploration. She huffed and crossed her arms but stayed atop the box with her feet dangling on my side.
I drew in a long breath, avoiding any images of this dead cat smashed against the wall.
I had to deal with it on my own. Where there any empty feed bags around? How was I going to pick up this thing?
Maybe I milked a little slower that morning. Why did adults get to be the responsible ones?
Believing strongly in the principle that it’s better to face the horror than have it hanging over your head all day, I finished the barn chores and took a deep breath.
Hand sanitizer. Check. Thick trash bags. Check. Facemask. Check.
Back into the milking room I marched, my daughter close on my heels. She wouldn’t miss this for the world. Sigh.
I leaned slowly over the feed box and looked down the gap. There, tattered and soiled, lay a purple and white stuffed cat toy.
“You said it was dead,” I said to my daughter.
“Well, it’s not alive.”
A lesson on the nuances of words. Check.
Like this:
Like Loading...
