Kathy Brasby Blog
No more postcards
One summer I blended a bright idea about how to get more mail with a chain letter opportunity and sideswiped a poor teenage girl. I was 14 at the time and wanted to bring mail into the house that was addressed to me. So when I ran across a 4-H list of places I could...
Selling the pool table
Our pool table resided in the basement, piled high with boxes of outgrown clothes and books to be donated. I listed the pool table for sale. That way the boxes could go away. A young man showed up with his buddy. I had asked $35 for the pool table because I had bought...
My second black eye
My second black eye (see That eye for the first one) earned me a variety of responses. This one came a few years after I was married. I stood at the checkout counter of the grocery store with two kids, a full load of groceries, and a deep black swoosh under my eye....
That eye
I’ve had two black eyes in my life. They both came in events so innocent that I can share the stories later. That’s pretty amazing in itself. I blame the first one on needing to pick up an elective class in my last semester of college. I chose an auto mechanics class...
A snow toy
Never had the first snow of the season been so anticipated as it was by our neighbor who was armed with a new snowblower. The day came, of course. The first snow. On the plains of Colorado, snow often comes as crispy shards driven by a dry wind. This snowfall was one...
Cleaning out the archive box
I knew things were going to get a little sticky when I uncovered an ink refill for a printer that I don’t remember owning. I had cracked open my archive box to find it filled with interesting treasures. “Archive box” sounds fancy, doesn’t it? My archive box is a...
Strange watching
There’s a place for tending to baby bunnies and there’s a place of driving home the victory. Victory is mostly the point in the world of college football. My mother was no big fan of college football when her teenagers discovered the game on TV. So she busied herself...
Hard heads
When the phone in our bedroom chirped, I opened one sleepy eye to check the time. Yep: 2:12 again. Every night for months, at 2:12 am our phone emitted a sound like a choked cat. Our phone ruled from the top shelf on the headboard of our bed in those days. And...
That baby
I was more puzzled than miffed when our teenage son pounded on our bedroom door at midnight accompanied by the sound of a wailing baby. “He won’t stop crying,” he said in a tone that would have shoved the baby in my arms if only he could. Our son had brought his baby...
