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?
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.
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.”
by Kathy Brasby | Mar 21, 2014 | Seasons
“We want to train you in transfers. ”
That came from Mom’s physical therapist. Transfers?
Oh, yeah. If Mom was going to live at my house for a while, somebody would have to move her from bed to wheelchair to toilet. Her stroke had stolen her ability to stand alone.
In eldercare terminology, moving was called transferring.
“Her transfers have been kind of wonky,” the therapist said. “We’re still working with her. Can you come tomorrow and we’ll train you?”
Sure. I could do all things in the name of love. I could do this.
Planning was key to a transfer. I had to learn to think through the direction of the transfer. Where to park the wheelchair. Where to put my feet. How to protect my own back as I lifted Mom.
A gait belt helped. It was an adjustable fabric belt that provided me with a handle to grip.
But sometimes I had to grab the back of Mom’s pants to aid the lift. Sometimes a bottom boost helped.
Not things I wanted to do to my precious mother.
“Don’t worry,” she said. She patted my arm. “We can do this together.”
We did. The first transfer, completed before the experienced eye of a therapist, was awkward and embarrassing.
Often my sister joined us. We had a wordless system. One pulled the wheel chair out of the way, tore it down, stowed it in the trunk while the other transferred Mom and buckled her in the car.
The funniest transfer happened when I missed the seat and Mom settled onto the threshold of the car door. We faced each other, cheek to cheek, and both got the giggles which hindered the transfer a bit.
But Mom was right. Together we could do it. For that season of her recovery, we did it.
by Kathy Brasby | Mar 18, 2014 | Stories
I knew I had an issue when I looked out the back door of my new office to see my trailer house rolling down the highway.
I had been commuting 30 miles a day to the new job, waiting for a moving company to take my little trailer house to a new location closer to my work.
The nice thing about moving a trailer house is that you really don’t have to pack much. In fact, I hadn’t even bothered to drain my water bed yet.
I had instructed the moving company to give me some advance notice before they hauled the house to the new place.
They’d promised they would.
And they didn’t.
I jumped in my car and raced after the trailer house, which was being backed into its new site by the time I got there.
The crew hooked up all the lines and the foreman wandered over.
“I thought you were going to call me,” I said.
He shrugged. “I guess nobody did.”
“Yeah, well, there’s a full waterbed in the back of that trailer that I intended to drain.”
He studied the house for a long moment, searching for cracks in the back wall. Then he shrugged again. “Well, that explains why it was so goosey in the back end while we were on the highway.”
Good news: the bed didn’t come out the back wall of the trailer. Bad news: it did come off the pedestal, resting against the back wall.
There is a moral to this story. When you’re 20-something and think you don’t have to drain your waterbed till the last minute, sleep on the couch a few nights instead.
