by Kathy Brasby | Apr 7, 2015 | Hope
“You have to help me with this,” my mother said, swollen with a belly containing my younger brother. “I can’t do this alone.”
I pulled away from her. Dad had heard dogs in the night and chased them away, but not before they had torn into the lambs my older brother and I were bottle-feeding.
Death seemed to hover near the little shed where my lamb lay and I, at age 5, had a pounding heart and heavy feet.
Mom held out the glass bottle with a black nipple stretched over the mouth. “You have to help me.”
I gripped the warm bottle, the sweet smell of milk tickling my nose, and followed Mom out the back door of our farmhouse, across the yard and into the low shed where the two lambs lay in a bed of thick yellow straw.
My brother’s lamb struggled to its feet and searched out the bottle Mom held.
My lamb lay on its side, too weak to get up. I had named him Johnny and I whispered his name while stroking his wooly head. I tried not to look at his raw leg, slashed open by dogs’ teeth. It smelled like death to me.
I dropped into the thick straw, smelling its sweet scent, and lifted his tiny head. He could still suck on the bottle so I held it for him, his head cushioned in my lap.
He drank most of it and then closed his eyes and slept.
We trekked to the shed three times a day for weeks to feed little Johnny. He gained strength and soon was able to stand while he took his bottle.
In that time, my brother was born and then Mom took me aside. “You’ll have to change the name of your lamb,” she said. “We’ve named your brother ‘John.’”
I nodded quietly. The deed was done; the baby had been named.
So I didn’t argue with my mother about renaming Johnny. But, after all my lamb and I had been through, I didn’t do it, either.
by Kathy Brasby | Apr 3, 2015 | Seasons
“This exercise is for our memories,” Sharon, the activities director, said. She stood in the center of a group of gray-haired aged elders, most in wheelchairs or in chairs with their walker parked close.
Then she turned to Mildred, who had problems walking because of a swollen foot but her mind was still clear.
“Mildred, can you say a nursery rhyme for me?”
“Come back to me, “ Mildred said. “I’m blank.”
So Sharon went to the next person in the circle.
“Three blind mice…. And that’s all I remember!” Charles laughed. “How does it go again?”
Several chimed in with “…see how they run.” And he chuckled. “That’s it.”
Jim remembered “hickory, dickory dock, the mouse ran up the clock.”
Sharon laughed. “What’s with mice today?”
Hazel, who was next in line, shrugged. “Eh, mice. We used to have a lot of them on the farm. We always had a cat for them. Lots of barn cats, of course.”
Sharon turned to her. “Do you remember a nursery rhyme?”
“Not right now. My mind is on cats and mice, I guess.”
“Ok.” Sharon worked her way around the circle until she got back to the start, where Mildred sat in her cloud of stuffed animals and fluffy pillows. “Let’s do another question.”
“Wait!” Mildred said. “I’ve been thinking the whole time you went around the room. I’m ready.”
“All right!” Sharon said. “What did you come up with?”
“Mary had a little lamb, her fleece was white as snow and everywhere that Mary went the lamb was sure to go.”
Sharon clapped her hands. “Excellent, Mildred. Can you say the second verse?”
Mildred frowned slightly. “Well, no. I didn’t rehearse that far.”
by Kathy Brasby | Mar 31, 2015 | Hope
Hollywood’s car chases keep getting faster, louder, more explosive and destructive. Where would we be if Jason Bourne hadn’t destroyed innumerable police cars, several taxis and a few SUVs?
But my favorite car chase included a few cell phones, corn fields and an arrogant thief.
After holding up a convenience store on the Interstate highway in western Nebraska, the young man leaped into his car and raced away. As his speed zoomed over 100 mph at times, he probably assumed he could outrun the State Patrol.
Soon he had the Patrol out in full-force following him into Colorado. The driver soon realized he couldn’t outrun their radios and that reinforcements were assembling in front of him.
A couple of towns flashed by, hardly blips in his vision at his speed, before he swung onto an exit and headed into farm country.
Out where only corn and wheat fields swayed in the wind. No State Patrol. He could hide.
So the driver flew down dirt roads with no worries. He’d lost his trackers.
But he didn’t understand the nature of the rural mind.
Farmers tend those corn and wheat fields. And they know the traffic on those country roads. When an unknown car flashed by at high speed, a farmer grabbed his cell phone and called a neighbor. That neighbor called a neighbor.
Before long, the sheriff was alerted as farmers tracked the car careening through the farmland through cell phone calls.
While the racing thief thought he had outsmarted law enforcement, the network of farmers calmly plotted his course and helped the sheriff lay out a plan.
The sheriff and his deputies blocked the road ahead and behind because they knew exactly where their man had been. And was going. He was nailed.
So, don’t think that you’re hiding in farm country. You’ve never been more exposed.
by Kathy Brasby | Mar 27, 2015 | Seasons
Lola had already staked her spot in the front row before the singers arrived because she knew them and planned to catch up on life.
They were, after all, on the outside while she was tethered to her walker and assisted care. She was anxious for news.
They came in late and she settled in her chair, knowing she’d have time afterward for some news.
This was a weekly hymn sing in the nursing home and the group made their way through a dozen hymns before the singers closed out the morning’s entertainment.
“Susan,” Lola called out as Susan and the others gathered the hymnals. “Susan, you all need to talk louder. I couldn’t hear a word you said.”
“Really?” Susan came over to the table. “Not a word?”
“Nothing. I think you need to bring a microphone or something. You all have such soft voices. I couldn’t hear anything!”
Tess joined Susan at the table. “We have soft voices?”
Then Susan brightened up. “Lola, did you put in your hearing aids this morning?”
“No,” Lola said. “I need new batteries. Why?”
Susan and Tess smiled at each other. “Oh, just wondering.”
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.
