by Kathy Brasby | May 13, 2014 | Stories
Because my nephew was a tall strapping young man with a healthy appetite, we got to pop open the can of grass jelly.
I had prepared the meal for our family plus my nephew but decided we might be a tad bit short of food. I knew he ate like a linebacker.
So I scoured the pantry for a can of something to add to the meal at the last minute.
I spied the can of grass jelly.
This can had come from an oriental specialty market in Denver as part of a class project. We had been assigned to purchase items and peruse different foods.
We got to see live squid and aquariums where goldfish (well, they looked like goldfish) could be netted and bagged for the next meal.
We saw cans of exotic peppers and bags of noodles.
And cans of grass jelly.
My can ended up in the pantry for a time like this.
I pried off the lid to find a dark gelatinous mass. It reminded me of cranberry sauce in the can at Thanksgiving.
So I tipped the can and let the cylinder of jelly slide into the plate. I sliced it like cranberry sauce and served it with the rest of the meal.
There were questions. Lots of questions.
But I encouraged them all to be daring and taste it. My nephew twisted his mouth to one side.
“What is grass jelly?” he said.
“I don’t know. But it is food,” I assured him.
He nibbled the chunk on his fork. “Food? This tastes like it was made out of motor oil.”
Everyone dumped their helping back on the serving plate. And that was the end of the grass jelly experiment.
Except my nephew won’t come to a meal at my house without checking my pantry.
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by Kathy Brasby | May 9, 2014 | Seasons
I sat at the table in the lobby just to wait until my mother was dressed and ready to leave her room.
But Doris clicked her tongue at me and grinned widely. “Sweetie,” she said. “Good morning.”
“Good morning,” I said. “How are you?” It’s hard to know what to say to the residents of the nursing home.
“I’m all right. Could you tell me what day it is?”
“It’s Saturday. A beautiful day today. The storm has moved on and it’s lovely out there. Have you been outside today?”
She shook her head. “No. I don’t go outside.” She smiled at me again. “But I like robins. Tweetie, tweetie.”
Well, yes. What to say now?
“I like robins, too. When I see a robin, I know it’s spring.” Couldn’t I come up with better than this? I glanced at the clock on the wall. Mom wasn’t ready yet.
“Yes,” Doris nodded. “Tick tock.” She’d seen me look at the clock. “Hickory dickory dock, the mouse ran up the clock. The clock struck one, the mouse ran down.”
She winked at me then. “Hickory, dickory, dock.”
“Oh, I haven’t heard that song in a long time. I used to sing that with my kids.”
“Excuse me,” she said, “but could you tell me what day it is?”
“Saturday.” How did I talk to a resident? What could I say to brighten her day?
“Thank you.” She looked down the hallway. “Do you live here?”
“No.”
She nodded again and studied the hallway. A big smile crept across her face. “Could you tell me what day it is?”
“Saturday.” I heard the door to my mother’s room open and I got to my feet. “I’ll go now. I think my mother’s ready.”
Doris gave me another wide grin. “Thank you so much for visiting with me this morning. So special, sweetie.”
And that’s how you talk to residents at a nursing home. With patience, kindness, and presence.
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by Kathy Brasby | May 6, 2014 | Hope
All four of us kids were huddled around our old propane heater holding mugs of hot chocolate and surveying the snow outside. Yesterday’s blizzard had dumped a thick mat of snow that filled ditches and hid sidewalks.
It had also forced the school buses to stay in the garage and so we were enjoying this white wonderland.
Our farm house sat at the top of a hill and we could see into the valley. The county road that ran past our house dipped into the valley and then rose to the top of the next hill.
The storm had filled the valley with heavy snow so that the road wasn’t visible for a quarter mile.
While we sipped our hot chocolate, we saw a milk truck lumber to a stop at the top of the next hill. This was a large semi tractor-trailer considering his options.
“Don’t do it,” my mother said.
“Go for it!” said one brother.
“He won’t go,” said the other.
The truck rocked forward and back for a bit with indecision and then took a step back before barreling down the hill.
An explosion of white filled the air.
“He won’t make it,” said my mother.
As the snow filtered back into the valley, we could see the truck. Snow covered the hood and packed tight against the doors. The truck hadn’t gotten a quarter of the way through the valley’s snowpack.
Dad trekked down in his tractor. Unlike over-confident milk trucks, tractors can go about anywhere. They managed to tow the truck backwards and Dad reported that the snow was like concrete around the engine.
On the farm, you learn many things in childhood. One of the bigger ones was one of the simpler: when in doubt, listen to Mom.
And don’t plow into snowfields.
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by Kathy Brasby | May 2, 2014 | Seasons
Rosalie pushed her fork into a chunk of chicken and raised it as a pointer. Or a weapon.
“I like it here,” she told me as she popped the chicken in her mouth. “I kept falling and I knew I needed help. So I checked myself in. I like it fine.”
She sliced more chicken.
“It’s not fair to my family,” she said. “I’ve always been single so I don’t have a husband or kids. My sister and brother don’t need to worry about me.”
She surveyed the nursing home dining room. “Some of these people don’t have a choice. Well, maybe I didn’t either. But I thought I needed to make these decisions while I could.”
I sipped the glass of water before me and waited. Rosalie liked company and the conversation seldom lagged.
“I bought my burial plot already,” she said, sliding her fork under the mound of mashed potatoes. “And I picked out the headstone, too. Those are all paid for. I didn’t want my family to worry about that stuff.”
I wondered if she’d planned her own funeral service.
“No, not really. That’s not a big deal to me. I won’t be there so I don’t care what they decide to do.” Rosalie dipped her spoon into the cup of pudding at side of her plate.
Rosalie might have been the only resident in the room without children but other residents had absent children for one reason or another.
Sometimes children lived in another state and visited when they could. Sometimes they lived across town and visited when they had to.
Either way, some residents weren’t so different from Rosalie. They might not have someone prepared to take care of after-death details.
But they should.
I’m not sure how to help that situation but I’m thinking about solutions. Suggestions?
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by Kathy Brasby | Apr 29, 2014 | Hope
In the stone age of mountain skiing was the T-bar and there it should stay.
A T-Bar Lift consisted of a steel rope looped over a series of wheels. A bar hung down from this steel cable with a horizontal cross piece at the bottom. Think of the idea of an upside-down T.
The cable ran up the mountain and skiers were expected to rest against the horizontal piece which would push them up the mountain.
Two skiers could go up the same T-Bar and that’s where my problem began.
My college roommate and I were out for a day of skiing at a small ski area that featured several T-Bar lifts. No problem. We weren’t beginners anymore.
We glided up the mountain together several times before things went a bit haywire.
As we were sliding over the snow, my roommate developed problems. Her skis caught and she weaved from left to right to left, bucking the T-Bar with her wild maneuvering. I clung to my balance until she lost hers.
It was over then. The T-Bar heaved skyward, pitching me into the air.
I landed on my back with the end of my ski hooked over the horizontal bar. Up the hill I went, dragged by the now-calm T-Bar.
I jerked my leg like a fish trying to shed a hook and, after a couple of eons, kicked myself free from the lift and roll into the deep powder alongside the lift track.
I could no longer see my skis under the powder. I rolled and kicked until I worked my way onto the ski run itself. Hard-packed snow never looked so good.
Sweat ran down my shoulder blades as I stood for a few minutes to let my heart rate drop under 200.
And then my roommate slushed up beside me. After falling off the T-Bar, she’d skied to the bottom, caught another ride, and beat me to the top.
She ran her eyes from my snow-caked boots to my powdered cap and shook her head.
“What on earth happened to you?”
T-Bars… you can keep them.
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