by Kathy Brasby | Nov 21, 2014 | Seasons
A salt shaker was the last thing on my mind but it lasted the longest.
“You need kitchen things,” my mother told me. “You can’t move into an apartment without those.”
I was a sophomore in college and outfitting a kitchen wasn’t high on my list. But we spent time that summer shopping thrift stores.
I found four melamine plates, some scarred table ware, and two dented pans. Good enough for me.
I checked off that project.
I managed to squeeze in a week’s visit to my grandmother’s house with Mom.
The topic of my apartment came up.
“You need kitchen things,” my grandmother said.
That sounded really familiar.
But she didn’t say any more until dinner time. As we sat around her table with the savory scent of roast beef drifting from the serving plate, she handed me a little bundle.
These are the actual shakers from my grandmother.
“You can have these for your new kitchen,” she said.
I opened the bundle. Two salt shakers. One with a red screw-on lid, one with a clear lid pressed on. But both had a kind of crystal look to them.
“They almost match,” she said.
And, with my kitchen outfit, they really did.
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by Kathy Brasby | Nov 18, 2014 | Hope
I knew things were going to get a little sticky when I uncovered an ink refill for a printer that I don’t remember owning. I had cracked open my archive box to find it filled with interesting treasures.
“Archive box” sounds fancy, doesn’t it?
My archive box is a plastic box with lid that contains CDs from programs I’ve installed. What a great idea, I thought when I got it. All my CDs were safely stored in one place and protected from dust and stuff.
I don’t know why the ink refill was in the box. The printer must not have lasted long enough to even earn a refill.
I don’t visit my archive box much but my computer crashed and I was re-installing programs.
But opening that box was like a trip down memory lane but without the warm fuzzy emotions. What I felt was mostly confusion.
For example, I uncovered a CD with a big black question mark scrawled on the label.
What in the world? Who labels their CD with a question mark?
Me, obviously.
Although nobody accuses me of being well-organized (well, someone did once but that was before they saw my desk), I took some pride on my box as a shred of planning.
Every program CD went into that box after installation.
I am proud to say that there were no 5 ½ inch floppies in there. Using my system, that’s a miracle.
So I lifted the lid to pull out the programs for re-installation.
I found programs that won’t run on anything newer than Windows 98. I found programs for pre-schoolers. (Our youngest is 19.) I found a CD from our classical music days.
I’d like to blame this on the kids but they never open the box. They just run the programs and don’t mess with the details.
Wonder where they learned that?
I’m sure there’s a major life lesson in all this. Something about staying organized. Those lessons tend to roll off me like tumbleweeds crossing the prairie.
Sometimes simple is better. So here’s what I learned: I’m cleaning out the box.
That way there’ll be more room for further archiving.
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by Kathy Brasby | Nov 14, 2014 | Seasons
The flowers felt like a brick in Chuck’s hand as he walked the hospital hallway to his father’s room. Why had he brought flowers? Dad would mock that choice.
Maybe things had changed.
Chuck stepped into Dad’s room. His father’s thin frame only added some wrinkles to the blankets. His head was small against the pillows. How many tubes and wires were hooked up to him?
“Dad?” Chuck stepped to the foot of the bed.
His father opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling.
“Dad, it’s Chuck.” He leaned a little closer. How did one navigate through all these monitors?
Dad groaned. “Water.“
“I brought you flowers. I thought maybe we could reconnect a little. Darcy said you were —“ How could he tell his father what Darcy had said? That there wasn’t much time left.
“Water.”
“What? Oh.” Chuck searched for a cup. Nothing. “Dad, I wanted to get things right between us.” He looked down at the flowers, wishing he had written down his speech. “I was angry for you for the way— well, the way you used to insult me. You didn’t believe in me. I was angry. I shouldn’t have left but I did.” He took a deep breath. “But I’m back. We can clear the air before—“
“Water.”
A nurse bustled into the room. “Mr. Jones, let’s get you something.” She took a swab, dipped it into a container, and painted his tongue with a gel. “That should help.”
Chuck stared. “Can he talk?”
“Not really.”
Chuck needed him to talk. He needed his father’s apology. His father’s blessing. That wasn’t going to happen now. No reconciliation.
“We’re keeping him comfortable now,” the nurse said.
Chuck held out the flowers. “Could you put those where he can see them? And—“ He glanced down at his father’s still face. “And could you show me how to swab his tongue?”
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by Kathy Brasby | Nov 11, 2014 | Hope
There’s a place for tending to baby bunnies and there’s a place of driving home the victory.
Victory is mostly the point in the world of college football.
My mother was no big fan of college football when her teenagers discovered the game on TV. So she busied herself with popping popcorn and baking chocolate cookies that were served while still warm and gooey.
But when she placed the cookies on the coffee table in our living room, she settled herself into a chair to watch the game.
“Who’s playing?” she asked.
“UCLA and Stanford,” my brother said, reaching for a cookie without missing a moment of the game.
“Who’s winning?”
“Stanford is up by four points.”
Mom smiled and nestled into the chair. “Go, UCLA!”
I grabbed a cookie, too, wishing she’d brought hot chocolate as well. “Why are you rooting for UCLA?”
“Because they’re behind. I feel sorry for the underdog.”
Before long, the UCLA quarterback fired a pass into the end zone.
“UCLA is winning now, Mom,” my brother said.
“Go, Stanford,” Mom replied. To our puzzled looks, she shrugged. “I feel sorry for the losing team.”
And then Stanford scored. Mom switched teams again.
The game was winding down and UCLA trailed by four. “I’m still rooting for UCLA,” Mom told us. “Poor guys. They’re losing.”
And then, in a flurry of color and motion, the game was over and players were leaping and slapping each other.
“What just happened?” Mom asked.
My brother scooped up the last bits of popcorn. “UCLA scored on the last play of the game. Your team won, Mom!”
“What?” She stared at the screen. “Football is so strange.”
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by Kathy Brasby | Nov 7, 2014 | Seasons
Ira shifted the tools in his box, sorting the pliers by length and putting the wrenches in order by size.
“Hey, Dad, what are you doing?” His daughter settled into a chair beside him and leaned over the table.
“Just getting organized,” he said.
“I had an idea for you,” Cheryl said. She pulled a big box onto the table and lifted the lid. “Justin got this but he’s never finished it. I thought you might like to give it a try.”
Cheryl pulled the framework for a dollhouse from the box and set it on the table. Then she lifted assorted pieces and parts. “Would you like to build this dollhouse?”
“Sure,” Ira said. “I can do that.” He’d rebuilt engines and problem-solved his way through a a balky hay swather. He’d kept all his machines running for his whole life. He’d done most of the finish work on their new home he’d put up years ago. A dollhouse was no problem.
But his hands trembled as he picked up the tiny pieces. Where was this rod supposed to go? Were there pieces for the roof? He saw the instruction sheet but the words just swam before his eyes.
He pushed a wooden block against round edge. It looked like trim but it didn’t fit right.
And where was this flat piece of wood supposed to go? On the roof? On the front step? Was there a front step?
Ira pushed the pieces away from him. He saw his tools in the box, neatly ordered. He closed the lid of the toolbox. “Take this to Justin. I can’t do this anymore. I’m so sorry.”
Cheryl hugged him. “I’m sorry, too, Dad. I thought you’d enjoy this but it’s not important.”
He cried that day. So did Cheryl.
Some chapters close hard.
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