by Kathy Brasby | Sep 2, 2014 | Hope
I remember the Christmas where Mom found the perfect gift for Dad. It was so perfect that he got two of: the one Mom bought and the one he bought five days before Christmas.
As Mom put it, “He can just have two of them then.”
She wasn’t smiling when she said it.
That was Dad’s MO: when he needed something, he bought it.
Buying gifts for Dad was always a challenge. He didn’t care about fun gifts. He wanted practical. For a while, we rotated gifts between wallets and pocket knives because he was sure to lose one between birthdays.
But my husband stumbled on an even more perfect gift.
Matt assured me that he would take of Dad’s Christmas gift one year after he found cases of antifreeze on sale at the parts store.
He didn’t even bother to wrap the case. He popped on a bow, wrote Dad’s name on the cardboard and let Dad cut it open. With a gift pocket knife, I suspect.
Dad was thrilled.
At a case of antifreeze.
It is no wonder that I never scored a great gift for Dad.
And the best part of the antifreeze? Matt then shared how great a price he’d gotten on the case. Dad couldn’t have asked for anything better.
That was the year I quit buying gifts for Dad. I was obviously clueless.
by Kathy Brasby | Aug 29, 2014 | Seasons
It really is about focus.
Elsa shuffled her walker to the nursing home patio every afternoon unless her ankles were too swollen to allow shuffling.
“Have you seen the baby birds? ” Her face brightened as she looked to the ceiling of the patio. “There are four or five babies up there. I watch the mother ad father bringing food every day.”
She settled on a bench with a grunt and then craned her neck. “This is the second family this summer. I watched when the first babies finally flew away. They were almost bigger than the nest.”
Elsa rearranged her walker and leaned onto the top. “I come out here every day to check on them. These new babies ought to start flying before winter.”
Elsa’s legs were stiff and swollen enough she couldn’t tuck her feet under the bench. She ignored that.
“The father of that bird family helps with all the feeding. He’s as busy as the mother.” Elsa glanced at us. “I love watching these birds.”
I don’t know what causes Elsa’s swollen ankles. I don’t know why she shuffles along with a walker. I think she’d tell me if I asked.
I don’t ask.
It is about focus. Mine, a little bit, but mostly, hers.
by Kathy Brasby | Aug 26, 2014 | Stories
The cowboys, with their sleek horses, found lassoes and saddles fall flat when dealing with sheep.
We were at the county fair where the sheep had done their duty for the mutton busting contest, which featured the preschoolers riding sheep with helmets and determination.
The rides were timed and the kids stuck like a burr until the buzzer sounded.
Soon all the sheep were milling in the arena. It was time to get them back to the corral.
The cowboys with their uniforms of Stetson hats and starched shirts headed their horses toward the flock.
The horses pressed against the edges of the flock but sheep aren’t easily herded.
They scattered, leaving the cowboys with nothing to herd.
After several minutes of scattering, the cowboys reined their horses and mulled.
What to do with these sheep?
The sheep gathered to the far end of the arena, ready for round 2. They could scatter all day. Those horses were no match for mutton bustin’ sheep.
But then George came to the rescue.
George knew sheep. He pulled a white 5-gallon bucket from the bed of his pickup and headed for the arena.
He stood at the gate and raised the bucket, pounding his hand against it.
At the thumping, the sheep lifted their heads, their ears rotating.
Then they honed in on the sound. And together they surged forward to George and his bucket.
With George thumping the bucket, the sheep followed him into the corral and got ready for round 2 of mutton busting’.
Cowboys had no chance against tradition.
Those sheep knew a feed bucket when they saw one.
by Kathy Brasby | Aug 22, 2014 | Seasons
Eating fish with decent flavor proved to be one of the many struggles for Bob and Iris as they worked to remain at home in their twilight years.
Iris had picked up some bland tilapia and hunted for a seasoning to spice up the fish. She found a bottle on sale- a victory. For the most part.
But the victory picked up a little patina when she tried to pop off the plastic covering to peel away protective seal. The plastic cap refused to budge.
Iris couldn’t see well enough to locate the seam between the cap and the bottle so, after several tries with a table knife, she handed the project over to Bob.
Bob’s hands were stiff and weak with arthritis but he gripped the cap with determination. He tried a paring knife and a pair of scissors.
“They put super glue under this cap,” Iris declared.
“Food quality glue,” Bob added.
He finally tore the cap loose and freed the trapped seasoning in the bottle.
“The manufacturers must mean this stuff for nimble fingers,” Bob said.
“Or for people who can see,” Iris said.
For Bob and Iris, most jars could be conquered with a electric bottle opener or a pair of pliers.
This was all part of their survival strategies. They were always on the lookout for tools to conquer products that weren’t sympathetic to fading eyes and stiff fingers.
But the work was worth it.
“The fish was delicious,” Iris said.
by Kathy Brasby | Aug 19, 2014 | Stories
Sometimes a mom needs to re-examine the smart remarks when the kids get older.
Here’s what I mean: Few things torque a tall teenage boy more than having to slide his long legs into a cramped front seat of a car.
Or so it seemed when my son, all 6’1” of him, stuffed himself into the driver’s seat of my car.
“This is crazy. Who can get into this?” he asked as he shoved the seat to its far limit.
Moms need smart remarks in these instances. When the kid towers over you, outweighs you, and knows more cool technical terms than you do, snappy remarks are important in the arsenal.
So I fired a smart remark back. “Well, it is not my fault you have such long legs.”
I settled into the passenger seat feeling certain that he’d settle into his seat with his hands on the wheel and his mouth shut.
Then we stared at each other.
My husband is two inches taller than I am, but my legs are two inches longer than his. I stand 5’9” – fairly tall for a mom.
“Um, maybe it is your fault,” my son said.
Yeah, maybe it is.
Looks like I need a snappier comeback.
