by Kathy Brasby | Apr 8, 2014 | Stories
Not long ago I noticed that I have a slight fear of heights.
The seeds might have been planted when, as a child, I didn’t climb the trees clear to the top like my brother did. I may have missed an opportunity to immunize myself to heights at an early age.
A photo opportunity during my reporter days took me to the top of a grain elevator. Those tall white cement tubes stood at least 100 feet tall and the manager who offered me the photo shoot also offered me a rough elevator ride to the top.
But that was nothing compared to watching him jump from one elevator to the next. The distance between the two was two feet or less – an easy jump any time except when seeing a 100-foot drop under your shoes.
I did it.
Twice. Coming and going. And got some spectacular aerial shots of our little town.
But my heart pounds a bit just telling the story.
But things got worse once I had children. Our family visited some beautiful bluffs one day and I got to watch my offspring scrambling up and down the rock formations.
That was OK until we all wanted to see how far up we were standing, on the top of the bluffs.
If the elevator was 100 feet, this bluff fell down 200 feet. I don’t know, maybe more. You lose that assessing ability when your eyes fog over.
I scooped up the four-year-old and found myself wanting to hang onto the belt of the other two, even if one was 8 and the other was 14.
And then I had to watch the Fellowship of the Ring gang run across the Bridge of Khazad-dum, a pencil-thin bridge through Moria. Yeah, yeah, I know it was a movie and, yeah, I know it was totally computer generated.
I still hung onto my chair as though the entire fellowship might slip over the edge into oblivion.
Heights.
If I had another chance to jump two feet over a 100-foot drop, I might give the camera to my brother.
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by Kathy Brasby | Apr 4, 2014 | Seasons
Howard stepped off the city bus, straightened his jacket, and limped into the nursing home.
“I used to do that job,”he told me, pointing his head at the bus. “Before I retired.”
He made his way into his new job. Howard’s home was an assisted living facility across town.
His wife, Mildred,had been transferred to the nursing home a few months ago.
Howard spent his days with Mildred. “I get my breakfast at the Oaks then take the bus here. The last bus runs back to the Oaks right after supper so I can eat lunch and dinner with Mildred before heading back. “
Later Howard sat with Mildred at a round of bocce balls, a game a little like shuffleboard but using only balls. He took his turn, aiming his ball at the target. “Turn left. More!” He directed his ball. “Aw, it doesn’t listen very well.”
Then he gently pressed Mildred’s ball into her gnarled hand. “Roll the ball. Knock that blue ball out of here. “
Mildred stared at the floor. After his third direction, she lifted her head and dropped the ball. It listed to the left and stopped.
“Pretty good,” Howard said. “Maybe our team will win.”
One day he arrived with matching hats for the two of them. Mildred wore hers all day without saying a word. In fact, she didn’t say much any day.
But Howard came every day.
“We both lost our spouses to cancer,” Howard told me one afternoon. “We’ve been married 15 years.”
Long enough to cleave for the rest of a lifetime.
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by Kathy Brasby | Apr 1, 2014 | Hope
We called it Canal Street for a reason, even though its official name was Fletcher Street.
But it took a newcomer just one rainstorm to understand Canal Street, where water from the entire town met to form a rushing river from curb to curb.
As April Fools day approached one year, my staff at our little newspaper decided to capitalize. We wrote a story about Canal Street.
Canal Street, according to our account, had been selected to have a dam built to hold back the rain water. We described the benefits of blocking rain run-off.
We included a photo of a dam against a big lake to illustrate the intended project.
We had quotes from engineers and government officials, funding numbers and a project timetable.
A bold headline was pasted on the story and we published it, with a disclaimer at the end: “April Fool’s Day!”
The worst part about this was that nobody said a word to us after publication. Not one word.
After the initial disappointment, our staff debated. Did everyone get to the punchline and laugh?
Or, worse, did nobody read the article at all?
Or, even worse than that, were we the April Fools that year?
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by Kathy Brasby | Mar 28, 2014 | Seasons
Fred knocked lightly on the door before leaning into the room. “Mama?”
Then he saw me sitting beside my mother’s bed. “Oh, excuse me. “
His mama and my mama were roommates in the nursing home. He had to walk through our space to get to his mother.
“You’re fine,” I assured him. I was reading a book while Mom slept.
Fred was tall with more salt than pepper in his hair. About my age. I’d already noticed that most of the visitors at the nursing home were about my age.
For most of us, our mamas -and a few papas- lived here. This is our time of life.
“She’s sleeping.” Fred could see his mother in her bed. “Maybe I’ll come back later.”
“Don’t worry about that.” The voice was my mother’s. She looked at Fred. “We can sleep anytime. She can’t see you anytime.”
Fred still hesitated. Mamas train us well. Who wants to awaken a napper? We learned that with younger siblings a millennium ago.
My mother glanced at me and then at Fred again. “She will be disappointed. I would be. She wants to see you. “
Even at our age, Mama still gives good advice. Fred nodded and then tiptoed into the room.
Maybe he tiptoed so that he didn’t wake his mother before he woke her.
“Mama?”
I could hear a slight rustle. And then “Ooooh. Fred. It is so good to see you. I am glad you came. How are you?”
“I’m good.” I could hear Fred drop into a chair.
Mamas still know best.
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by Kathy Brasby | Mar 25, 2014 | Hope
When I saw the pictures on Facebook commemorating the woman who sewed tiny teddy bears for her pet mouse, I knew I could take on this topic.
You know. Mice.
I’ve never sewed teddy bears for a pet mouse. Here’s why: I don’t sew and I don’t keep pet mice.
I trap them.
That’s the hard line, I know, but I have my reasons.
Beyond mice seeds in the pantry, I mean.
Reason #1: There was once a mouse drunk on warfarin. He climbed the drapery in my living room, tottered across the top of the rod, and continued on when the rod ended. He fell to the carpet, staggered to his feet, and then toppled to one side.
I expected to see four legs in the air and X’s in each eye.
Not the sort of memory that makes a pet mouse look cuddly.
Reason #2: When my family moved to our current rural location, we had to carve our homestead into an alfalfa field. We put up a new garage and house.
We hadn’t factored in field mice.
So our older son would jump into his little pickup to go to school only to watch mice climbing up the gear shift and out of the glove box.
Think Birds, only four-legged.
Not cute.
Reason #3: The annual influx of mice from the nearby fields once the weather turns bad keeps our cat busy – and crumpled mouse bodies laid outside our bedroom doors. Gifts, I guess.
So, when I see a mouse darting across the far corner of the utility room, the one thing I don’t think of is “sew that buddy a teddy bear.”
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