by Kathy Brasby | Mar 11, 2021 | Country life, Family, Humor, Stories
The first time I saw the movie Jaws, I almost gave myself a concussion. Don’t read on if you don’t want spoiler alerts, but, come on, that movie came out in 1975. If you haven’t seen it, you deserve spoilers.
I was sitting in a cushy theater seat when the shark came up out of the water and nearly bit the camera. And me, it seemed like at the time. I jerked myself back in the seat and hit the knee of the guy behind me.
Because of that movie, I’ve always believed in shark attacks. I mean, I saw one up close and personal. Since I don’t live near the ocean, that movie was like a documentary on sharks for me.
So imagine my surprise when I heard a radio host recently reading statistics. According to him, more people die of cow attacks than shark attacks.
Apparently, more hippos kill humans than sharks. In second place are cows.
This was mildly disturbing to me since I live around cows. No hippos or sharks in sight but cows, well, right across the road from me.
Just to clarify, I am not afraid of cows. I grew up with them and, for the most part, they care more about eating grass than goring humans. Unlike sharks. Sharks don’t even eat grass. Just saying.
But I do remember an adventure my mother had when I was a teenager. Our family had a small cow/calf Angus herd. If you know anything about Angus, and you may not, they are sweet cattle until babies are born. Then they become slit-eyed, dripping-incisor Mama Bears. Red eyes, teeth bared, the works. You get the idea.
So Mom went into the corral one day with a stick to help chase the cows out to pasture. We did this often but this time, the mama cow lowered her head and charged at Mom. Her baby wasn’t even that young but apparently, Mom and her stick looked like a roaring mountain lion.
So the cow charged.
Mom slammed her stick down on the cow’s head. The cow hesitated and then lunged forward again. Mom began beating on the cow’s head over and over. The stick broke off a little each time she struck.
Mom was out of stick when the cow finally backed off and Mom went scooting over the fence.
We all learned after that to take something a lot more substantial into the corral. A pitchfork handle worked very well.
So cow attacks are a thing.
But after hearing the shark attack claims, I did a little more searching (here’s the article) and found out that here’s the attack order:
- Hippos
- Cows (they put horses in the same category although any self-respecting farm kid knows those aren’t the same thing at all.)
- Dogs
- Snails (They were stretching it on this one.)
- Ants
Sharks weren’t even on the list.
The radio host did speculate about chicken attacks but by then his credibility was shot. I had seen Jaws and I knew: shark attacks were a lot higher than chicken attacks.
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by Kathy Brasby | Nov 5, 2020 | Country life, Humor, Stories
When I was 13, I noticed that my parents got a lot of mail while I, meanwhile, got exactly none. What fun was it to pick up the mail for them when there was nothing for me, day after day after day?
Leaping into action
Not being one to sit idly and complain, I leaped into action. I had a 4-H brochure that showed places where I could send off for free resources. So I manufactured my own mail.
Before long, I received a colorful cardboard chart showing 12 different ways to tie a knot. Soon, a brochure comparing Angus and Hereford breeds of cattle arrived in the mail – addressed to me. You can see where this going.
I started getting mail.
Somewhere in that time frame, I also received a chain letter from a friend. In those days, chain letters were the rage.
A chain letter
A chain letter would appear in your mailbox with the promise and the plea. Most of them held out the lure of money “Send a dollar to the first person on the list” and in a week or so, you’ll get dollars from all the people on the list.
Sure. Junior High school Ponzi schemes.
I am a skeptic. I have always ignored chain letters. My mailbox is where they came to die of lack of love and sunlight. My Facebook Messenger, too, but that’s another story.
This chain letter intrigued me. There was no money involved. Instead, you sent a postcard to the person at the top of the list and forwarded the letter to three of your friends. In a couple of weeks, you would get postcards from hundreds of people. Somehow exponential growth came into play.
What if these actually work?
Maybe I shouldn’t be presumptuous. Had I ever tested my skepticism? Why not see if any of those chain letter schemes actually worked? Maybe I had been missing out on some great rewards.
And, I had a free postcard.
Among my manufactured mail was an advertising postcard. Imprinted in bold, glossy colors was the head of a goat with floppy ears and a massive ear tag. The company that sent me the postcard sold ear tags.
That’d work.
Yes, I did: I addressed that postcard to the girl whose name was at the top of the list. I think she lived in Washington state. Somewhere far away, fortunately.
I gave it a try
I sent the three letters on to my friends. This seemed like such an easy chain letter that maybe it would work and I would get some postcards.
It didn’t work. I got nothing out of the deal.
But to this day, I think of that poor girl in Washington who sat by her front door dreaming of mail! Of colorful postcards with striking mountain scenes or lovely flowers or peaceful ocean waves. Postcards are usually like that.
Instead, she got a postcard of a goat and its ear tag.
Let that soak in for a minute.
But there is a moral to this story: don’t send me a chain letter unless you like ear tags.
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by Kathy Brasby | Oct 1, 2020 | Country life, Family, Humor, Stories
The other day, I opened our upright freezer and watched the Abominable Snowman ski down the ice and into the bottom drawer.
Hmm, I thought, maybe it’s time to defrost.
Take pity on my family. Decry my lack of character. But I like defrosting a freezer as much I like trimming toenails on our dog. But, speaking of the dog, there was an idea.
Our dog is a friendly guy and he eats like a healthy teenage boy. I don’t need to just toss him a bone. I can toss him a sliced eggplant and he’d give it a try. Birthday cake, zucchini, sour cream – all snarfed up quickly.
He even drinks almond milk if it comes his way.
So Scout was intrigued by the carton of vanilla ice cream I managed to tug from the icy grip of the freezer.
To be honest, there was only about an inch of vanilla ice crystals in the bottom of the carton but Scout licked all the ice cream and then tore the carton to shreds.
So, for my project tally: one item out of the freezer and now lying like confetti in the backyard. Score. I think. The jury may still be out on that.
I found five ice cube trays filled with egg whites and yolks. One year, when I had too many eggs, I thought this would be a good way to save excess eggs. Maybe it was but it would have been better to take the egg cubes out of the trays after they froze.
I mean immediately because when I did take them out of the trays the other day, they were powdered eggs. Surprisingly, Scout didn’t care much for them.
I rescued some frozen cookies. They weren’t too bad and, besides, is there really a bad home-baked cookie? They got eaten – and not by Scout. I have young men around and they still remember the pleasure of teenage eating patterns.
I found a quarter of a bag of Brussel sprouts encased in ice. When did I buy those? I can’t think of one recipe I use that calls for Brussel sprouts and I don’t think anybody in the family will touch them.
You’re thinking that Scout might but I didn’t give them to Scout. I have chickens for things like that. This may explain how Scout sometimes gives them the evil eye when he wanders past their run. They got a treat he missed out on.
I also uncovered a bag of sausages. Or hot dogs. Or aged cucumbers. I was not really sure so I left them for further review. Later. And I stepped away slowly.
There were shelves of question-mark bags that will need review. They seem to fall into the category of “Why on earth did I save that?”
But, in watching Scout’s joy as he pulverizes a carton of frozen bone broth, maybe I have my answer.
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by Kathy Brasby | Sep 24, 2020 | Country life, Humor, Stories
Every fall, when the sweet scent of our goat ladies fills the air, Rocket the buck lifts his massive head and lets the perfume of females push any semblance of wisdom out of his brain. He is focused on romance and nothing else matters.
Like fences, for example. Fences don’t matter.
Rocket spent several months in his own private pasture – his bachelor pad complete with shed, water tank, and lots of green grass. All he needed was a popcorn machine and he’d be set.
Until fall came. Suddenly the fence between him and the girls was nothing more than a slight distraction. There was actually a small but empty pasture between him and the does but he somehow appeared in the buffer pasture.
The second fence line was no different than the first but two fences in a row were apparently too much to manage. So far. But we didn’t like our odds because if he could clear one fence, he could clear another.
So why didn’t he? Maybe we were assuming incorrectly about his fence ability. We hid behind the trash dumpster and watched.
Wouldn’t you hide behind a trash dumpster if you wanted to watch your male goat scale a fence? Yeah, well, the neighbors sure speeded up as soon as they saw the scene. Pedal to the metal, zoom, and they were out of sight. Like your kids when you announce it’s time to clean the house. Zip, zoom, gone.
We ignored the neighbors so we were watching when Rocket reared back, put two front hooves midway up the fence, and pulled it down. Our boy wasn’t a pole vaulter. In fact, he was barely a hurdler. Once he pulled the fence down, he was more of a hopper.
He made a beeline for the second fence and I raced into the pen to grab him before he used that hip-hop strategy again. I led him back into his own pasture and straightened up the woven wire. Maybe if I laced some 2x4s through the wire, he couldn’t push it down.
I turned my back to look for boards and he was at the second fence again. Like Star Trek transport. Fading out and then fading in at the fence line. This was handy stuff for our Rocket in love.
Back he went to his own pasture.
I then started for the second fence, to study any weaknesses there. He beat me to the second fence.
That was pretty fast hip-hop. “Scotty, beam me up” fast. “Look at me, Mom” while riding a bicycle down a steep hill kind of fast. Rocket on jet skies.
His big fluttering eyes and flashing white teeth impressed me much less than the does and I took him back to his pasture. Maybe I was a little grumpy this time. I’m not admitting to anything.
I blinked and he was at the second fence again.
We had words.”Rocket, you will get your time with the girls. Just not yet. You gotta wait a little while.”
He went over the fence again.
We finally ran a single strand of electric fence along the top of the woven wire. The next time Rocket had Scotty slide the levers for transport, he got a little jolt of electricity on the nose. He was pretty shocked at this development but circled around like a kid zoning in on the cookie jar.
It only took lovestruck Rocket two buzzes on the nose until he stayed in his own pen.
He might not have had much wisdom in that lovestruck brain but apparently an electric fence spoke his language.
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by Kathy Brasby | Sep 17, 2020 | Country life, Family, Humor
In the spring, when the world ran out of toilet paper and gallons of milk were rationed, I naturally decided this was the year to plant a garden.
I’ve planted gardens before but I avoid them because of a character defect: I hate to pull the weeds in the garden.
But this year, I vowed, would be different. That is my usual garden spring vow but let’s not go there. It had been years since I planted a garden and I figured I had matured a bit.
My dear husband had a better idea. Why didn’t I use raised garden plots so I didn’t have to get down on my knees to weed? And he happened to have some plastic 55-gallon barrels that we could cut in half, drill holes in the bottom for drainage, and have the garden we’d always dreamt of.
You know, low maintenance and high produce.
We put in compost and fertilizer and top soil and then planted. Tomatoes. Peppers. Acorn squash. Pumpkin.Onions. Zucchini.
The plants started to grow with great gusto. I watered, I weeded, they grew. Reasonable partnership, I thought.
And then I noticed the tomato plant leaves were starting to curl. What in the world? I checked. The ground was moist. There were NO WEEDS in the pot.
Soon the other tomato plants began to wither. The green pepper plants lost their leaves and the pumpkin greenery sprawled on the ground like a sloth.
The zucchini vine threw out a single squash and then breathed its last. One tomato plant produced three tomatoes but had no leaves left. Once the tomatoes were plucked from its twiggy trunk, it went into hibernation. That’s commitment to your offspring, I’d say.
The jalapeño plant looked great, however, and there hung several fiery-red peppers about an inch long. I could almost hear them snarl when I removed them from the plant. If bugs were the issue, as I was starting to suspect, they apparently had no taste for feisty jalapeños.
So, from my grand garden plans, I harvested 3 pink tomatoes, one zucchini squash, and 12 microscopic but muscular jalapeño peppers.
At this point, my garden resembles a bomb site with green sticks standing askew in the barrels.
There’s good news and bad news to this story. The good news is that I don’t have to can or freeze or dry any produce. The bad news….
Well, as my daughter said, “Mother, you managed to kill a zucchini?”
But there were no weeds in its pot, so I guess it’s all good news.
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by Kathy Brasby | Mar 16, 2020 | Cats, Country life, Humor, Stories
A friend recently asked me for advice about bringing a cat into her home. This alone put me on alert since my knowledge of cats is limited to our barn cats plus the kitten we rescued a few months ago.
Since our rescued kitten turned into a friendly but ferocious tiger (read that adventure here), my friend thought she ought to get input on the perfect kitten.
I offered to do the online search for her.
Typing in “How to find the perfect breed of cat” seemed like an appropriate search.
Sure enough, there are scads of cat breed selectors online. Okie-Dokie, I jumped right in.
The first question asked, “How energetic would your ideal cat be?” After our rescued kitten adventure, I opted for a relaxed vibe.
Next up was how vocal would this ideal cat be? I could visualize a cat howling on the backyard fence, so I choose rarely makes a peep.
So far, so good. On to personality traits. Hmmm, I thought my friend would enjoy calm and affectionate.
I also thought her ideal cat would like a mix of social time and alone time, so I checked that box.
My friend didn’t want a long-haired cat with all the loose hairs and she wasn’t interested in grooming much. I chose rarely or never on the grooming thing.
With anticipation, I clicked the button to reveal the perfect breed.
Sorry, no match was found.
So there’s no short-haired cat who is quiet, calm, affectionate, and can hang out alone or with somebody. I should have known.
I had to tell my friend that there is no perfect breed for her.
She didn’t fall for it. She’s not taking our little tiger anyway.
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