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.”
Like this:
Like Loading...
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.
Like this:
Like Loading...
by Kathy Brasby | Nov 4, 2014 | Stories
When the phone in our bedroom chirped, I opened one sleepy eye to check the time. Yep: 2:12 again.
Every night for months, at 2:12 am our phone emitted a sound like a choked cat.
Our phone ruled from the top shelf on the headboard of our bed in those days.
And generally my husband slept through it all.
But this night, as I was checking the time, he made a muffled growl and reached up for the phone.
I watched his arm snake upward. Then it lost its GPS settings and fell limply onto the phone which skittered off the shelf and onto my husband’s head with a solid ka-chunk.
“Oh, Honey,” I said. “Are you all right?”
He said, “Mmm..gr…..uhhhh” and started snoring again.
I did check for blood as I lifted the phone off his head.
I expected bruises in the morning. “Is your head OK?” I asked him just before he headed off for work.
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
There are hard heads and there are heads harder than Mount Everest. Especially when it comes to 2:12 am choked cat wake-up calls.
Like this:
Like Loading...
by Kathy Brasby | Oct 31, 2014 | Seasons
Darlene realized things had changed when she was called into the lab room to see her father at 88 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 | Oct 28, 2014 | Stories
I was more puzzled than miffed when our teenage son pounded on our bedroom door at midnight accompanied by the sound of a wailing baby.
“He won’t stop crying,” he said in a tone that would have shoved the baby in my arms if only he could.
Our son had brought his baby home from school that day complete with a pastel diaper bag, bottle, diapers and toys.
We’d taken pictures and even named the little guy.
But only our son had the key.
This baby was a mechanical doll from his family living class and it was programmed to cry randomly. Only the caretaker with the key could try to address his needs.
Did it need a new diaper? A bottle? Burping?
The caretaker used a magnetic wrist band to access the baby’s data bank before offering solutions.
This all sounds a little crazy but not nearly as crazy as being awakened at midnight.
I have some experience with flesh-and-blood babies. I didn’t even have a key for this one.
We learned later that the mechanical baby needed to be reprogrammed but, at midnight, our son didn’t care.
So I got up and offered empty advice and he finally took the baby back to his room where it cried all night despite his best efforts.
He carried the wailing baby into school the next morning where the teacher reprogrammed it.
But he’d lost so much sleep that he slept through the normal cries the next night.
Our son is a terrific father today to three sweet little boys but he also carries the distinction of being the only student in his class to fail Parenting 101.
Like this:
Like Loading...
