by Kathy Brasby | Dec 6, 2013 | Seasons
The day that my father went searching for his pajamas in the attic, I thought it was time to have a talk about forgetfulness.
He cocked his head to the side like he had done a million times in my life and I knew he was digging in for the long fight. “I’m not forgetful.”
“Well, sometimes you are.”
“Prove it.” He hadn’t moved his head yet but his chin was pointed toward me now. When I was younger, this was when I took cover.
But not this time.
“Remember the time you couldn’t find your back brush? And it was hanging in the shower where it was supposed to be.”
His eyes glazed for a moment and then sharpened. “Everyone forgets things sometimes. You forget things, too.”
I didn’t want to do this. “Not like that.”
“Give me a test.”
“All right. Do you think you can count backwards from a hundred by threes?” I’d read that test in an article somewhere and figured it was worth a try.
“Of course I can. One hundred. Ninety, uh, —“He drew in a long breath. “I don’t want to do it right now. But that doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong. You can’t do it either.”
So I did, counting from 100 to 90 before stopping. “Please, Dad. I just want to see if there’s something to help you. That’s all.”
“You think I have Alzheimer’s, don’t you?”
“I really don’t know. That’s why I’d like a diagnosis.”
“Well,” he tossed his head back now. “I don’t. I decided a long time ago that I wasn’t going to get that. So I don’t.”
I gave up.
He lived two more years and never visited a doctor about his forgetfulness.
We didn’t learn how severe the dementia was but I do know that, without a doctor’s assistance, my dad remembered his family members until the moment he passed on.
And maybe that was enough.
by Kathy Brasby | Dec 3, 2013 | Hope
I wouldn’t have invited my friend if I hadn’t thought it was a good idea.
She was less sure.
“Just why are you inviting me to your house for tea?” she said.
“We just haven’t had a chance to sit down and catch up on things.”
“Huh.” She seemed unconvinced. “We live in the same town, you know. You saw me at church and at the picnic last week. Do you need to talk about something?”
“Of course not. Just tea. We’ll sit down and enjoy my tea.”
“Let me see if I have a free afternoon. Serving crumpets, too?” She had a sarcastic edge sometimes.
“Just tea.”
“Wait a minute. Are you still trying to get rid of that box of acai banana tea?”
Busted. “Maybe.”
“Dump it in the trash.”
“But it was a Christmas gift.”
“It tastes weird.”
I sighed. “Did you give it to me for Christmas?”
“You don’t know who gave it to you. So, if you throw away the tea, you’ll be insulting someone you don’t even remember?”
“Quit using logic.”
“Sorry.”
There was a short pause and I took a deep breath. “So, are you coming for tea?”
Believe it or not, all I heard was a dial tone. Busted.
by Kathy Brasby | Dec 2, 2013 | Hope
As you know, this blog is about meaning through stories. Here’s an interesting article about the Science behind Storytelling.
by Kathy Brasby | Nov 29, 2013 | Seasons
My dad once rescued an angry mama cow by luring her into a runway where she thought she could mash him flat as a Gumby toy. He let her stay close to his heels until he reached the door into the barn.
Then he grabbed a fencepost and vaulted onto the top railing while the cow’s momentum carried her into the stall. Not easy but effective.
My brothers slammed the gate behind her and she was penned in a safe place.
That memory of a lithe and strong man of resource has held firm in my mind as I watched his abilities wither along with his body.
The family woke up to Dad’s challenges when he set his pickup engine on fire. Dad was a master mechanic and, even in his 80s, he wasn’t afraid to crawl under the hood and adjust a carburetor.
Something went wrong. Something that wouldn’t have gone wrong 10 years before.
The fire scorched the pickup engine and underside of the hood.
Dad was nearly in tears for his clumsy mistake.
We were nearly in tears at the thought of a fire stealing him away from us.
We could have grounded him, taking away his vehicles and finding ways to keep him tethered to a recliner and television.
We didn’t.
We became very interested in his projects. We hung out with him as often as we could, turning a wrench when he started a repair. We listened when he discussed maintenance.
Just like Dad had rescued that angry cow even though she didn’t know it, we had to do the same for Dad.
He’d taught us to solve problems creatively. If he could vault the fence to save a cow, we searched for ways to save him from himself. Not easy but effective.
by Kathy Brasby | Nov 26, 2013 | Hope
Inventory control is not always as boring as it sounds.
I once was in charge of ordering parts and verifying shipments. I ordered an unusual oil filter for a customer. What I got was a little cellophane bag holding a single bolt.
Who sees “oil filter” on the order form and thinks that a bolt is a worthy substitute?
Another order requested six spark plugs. In came six pickup bumpers. Think about the difference in box size for spark plugs and bumpers.
I don’t know; I’d think the shipper would have noticed.
It wasn’t unusual for a part number to have a substitute. For example, a can of grease might originally be S102. Then it would have a substitute number, maybe S112.
The can of worms potential was incredible.
I ordered a case of S102. OK, the order form substituted to the new number: S112 and I got a case of fan belts. No cigar.
But here’s my favorite. Each part’s package, whether box or bag, had the pick ticket attached. That pick ticket was a computer-generated card which included our dealership name and the part number with description.
So one day I got in, pick ticket attached, a 2-foot square of cardboard.
I spent the rest of the day trying to conjure up the scenario that would have allowed a shipper to think a headlight looked like a flat piece of cardboard.
Inventory control is not always boring.