by Kathy Brasby | Mar 25, 2013 | Hope
Because I am currently in first place in my group’s March Madness bracketing, I’ll reveal my system. It seems to be working as well as my granddaughter who, last year, got a long way in her brackets by picking the winners based on their mascots. Cutest won, I think.
I wish my system was as sweet.
March Madness Experience logo (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Mine is simple and fast: pick the games based on ranking and, when rankings get close toward the center of the bracket, go with defense. We’ll see how that works out in the final rounds.
But my favorite March Madness story goes back many years, when I was a cub reporter on a tiny newspaper that didn’t even have typesetting capability. This was waaaay before the Internet.
So I traveled to another site a hour away once a week to get our newspaper typeset, arranged, and sent off to the print shop.
One of the employees at our sister site was big into office pools and he insisted that I put in my dollar for the March Madness brackets. Each round required a new dollar but I wouldn’t see him for a week. A dollar seemed a polite and easy way out of plunking down a dollar a day.
When I got back a week later, I discovered that I had won the first day’s pool. And Kent reinvested my winnings because he knew I’d want to do that. Uh-huh.
Well, I won a second time during that week. And Kent knew I’d want in every day.
By the time I got back to manage my winnings, there were none.
So that year I won twice in March Madness, had nothing to show for it, and it only cost me a dollar.
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by Kathy Brasby | Mar 18, 2013 | Hope
I didn’t think we were going to Cuba until two days before we boarded an airplane at Cancun and headed east. “Americans can’t go to Cuba,” I told our missionary host.
Fortunately, he ignored me and we went. Four days were spent in Havana before we drove across the island to the mountains at the east end.
English: (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
On our first night in Havana, we went to a fancy restaurant where waitresses wore black dresses, white aprons and white caps. Like old-fashioned maids. Glittering crystal adorned each table with heavy silverware resting on starched napkins at each place setting.
And a pianist filled the air with sweet music.
When he saw us, he recognized us as Americans. Americans are rich in Cuba. No matter what money we had.
So he immediately began playing tunes by Frank Sinatra. Cuba seems lodged in the 1950’s and the musician must have assumed that Sinatra melodies would net him a nice tip from the Americans.
Emboldened by his strong Sinatra performance, the pianist then approached our table. “I know many other American songs,” he said. “What would you like to hear?”
My husband leaned toward him. “Could you play Amazing Grace?”
The man frowned slightly as he searched his memory banks. He finally shook his head. “I do not know that one.”
We smiled at each other and then my husband surrendered. “How about some Sinatra?”
“Oh, yes, sir!” The pianist scurried back to the piano and played instead I Did It My Way.
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by Kathy Brasby | Mar 11, 2013 | Hope
A good story is like a nice collection of chocolates: it’s hard to have too many.
In my 20’s, before I had children, I hung out with my friends’ kids. Kids and stories are made for each other.
At age 4, Rene already loved a good story. And, lucky for me, she thought my stories were good.
Together, we crafted a story about Paintbrush the Smurf who lived in Smurfville and loved to paint. (You had to be there.) If we had much time together, we’d work our way through our stories.
But Rene enjoyed other storytellers as well. One evening I was invited to her house for dinner and I arrived before the meal was ready.
“I’ll read you some books,” I told her, “if you want.”
She spun and disappeared into her bedroom. And didn’t come out.
Well, I thought, she must not have wanted stories read after all. I waited a while and then started for the kitchen to chat with her mother.
At that moment, Rene burst from her bedroom, her arms stretched out, holding what looked like every book she owned. I’m not sure how she squeezed all those volumes between her hands.
Of course we sat down and read. Who cares about dinner when you can read about Corduroy and a runaway bunny?
Her brother was less enthralled with my stories but that was OK because he had a way of supplying me with fresh material.
One day he visited my house and planted himself before my computer. There, Ken played a dartboard game for a long time.
Then he raced out of the room and flung himself at me, energy exploding from his face. “You know that Darts? Two people can play it so I decided to play against myself. I played and played. And guess what?” He was nearly breathless. “I won!”
Their younger brother came along a little later. By that time, I had a son who was just a year older than Curt. On my son’s birthday, he was at kindergarten and I was babysitting Curt who wanted to help make the birthday cake.
So we pulled up a step-ladder so Curt could reach the counter and began putting ingredients in a bowl. I stepped away to grab the flour, turning back in time to see Curt slam two eggs against the edge of the bowl and drop the glob -shells included – on top of the butter and sugar.
“Do you do that at home?” I asked him.
His eyes wide, he looked up at me. “No. My mother won’t let me.”
A good story makes the day a little sweeter
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by Kathy Brasby | Mar 6, 2013 | Hope
Participating in social media means pictures. Photos. Readers are very visual and a post with a picture is better.
I ran across this cheat sheet for social media photos and thought I would share with you. I have a lot of work to do on my social media. Maybe you, too?
Check it out:
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by Kathy Brasby | Feb 25, 2013 | Hope
Very early in my writing career, I learned to dread Thursdays.
In those days, I worked as the editor of a small weekly newspaper in a rural community that knew not only everyone’s name, but how they were related to one another and who had dated in high school. Our entire circulation was under 1,000 subscribers and our office smaller than some living rooms. A secretary went through the mail and handled the financial side of things. The reporting staff consisted of me.
The newspaper hit most people’s mailboxes by Thursday morning each week. Shortly after lunch on a particular Thursday, a white-haired woman with a bright polyester dress and heavy jewelry pushed her way through the front door and leaned over the front counter. My desk sat furthest from the front but the secretary ducked her head, leaving me exposed to our readers.
“I want to talk to you,” Mrs. White-hair said. Tone of voice was everything in how quickly I moved from my desk. When she spoke, I bolted.
“How may I help you?” Maybe politeness would stem the flood.
“I just got my paper,” she said. “And our club news wasn’t in the social section. I am very disappointed.” How could the word very drip like icicles?
“We were short on room but it will be in next week.”
Her eyes narrowed and she leaned in. “You had room for the sports section. Who do you think wants to read about the football game? You had two pictures of that game. Two big pictures. We are very disappointed. This is a sorry state for our newspaper.”
And she shook her shoulders, gathered her bulging purse, and stomped out the door.
An hour later, the door opened to welcome a man in a polo shirt and sweat pants who leaned over the front counter. “I have a complaint,” he said.
My feet were like lead as I walked to the front of our office. “How may I help you?”
“I just got my paper,” he said. “And there are no pictures of the junior high football game. No pictures. How are these boys supposed to feel like we support them if you can’t even cover their games?”
“We were short on room–”
“You have room for all that club news. Who cares about the clubs? Nobody. We need better stories of our sports. Got that?”
Yep. On that Thursday, I got it.
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by Kathy Brasby | Feb 18, 2013 | Hope
Summer softball games in the cool of the evening provided the best gathering place for a small town with limited entertainment choices. You could watch TV summer reruns, hang out at the local bar or take in the games.
So we gathered in the wooden bleachers to watch the neighbors play ball.
This was serious stuff. Once, a young farmer broke his ankle sliding into second and a new mom nearly had surgery on her hand after she absorbed a swinging bat on her catcher’s glove.
This might be a small town ball but competitiveness doesn’t run small. Players came to win and the fans came to watch them win. This was serious fun.
So one evening we sat in the stands for a tightly-contested battle with spectacular plays. The shortstop fired a hotshot to first that beat the runner by milliseconds. Or at least that’s the way the umpire saw that one. A batter put the ball over the center fielder’s head for a big base-clearing hit.
The score teetered back and forth. The crowd hung on every pitch.
There usually wasn’t an abundance of ballplayers so right field was often reserved for that ninth player who needed a little more seasoning.
My team had a right fielder of the needed-seasoning variety. He was shaped like a fire hydrant but he crouched with his glove in place like he was ready for any hit. We all knew that he appeared prepared but he was as quick as a fire hydrant, too.
The gal sitting next to me leaned over. “He looks just like a butterball.”
“Shush,” I said. “His wife is sitting right down there.” I nodded toward a blonde sitting a row below us and to the right.
“Oops.” Jill lowered her voice. “She’s interviewing me tomorrow.” We both knew in a small town that we were all known including our voices. No hiding behind anonymity.
Then the tight game took my attention away. We were in the ninth. Bases were loaded and tension high. The pitcher leaned in and then swung his arm in an arc, delivering a sizzling strike that the batter turned on too late. The bat cracked as the ball skied into right field.
Jill didn’t hesitate. Leaping into the air, she put her hands around her mouth like a megaphone and shouted out to our right fielder: “Go get that hit, Butterball!”
We didn’t get the win that night. And Jill didn’t get the job, either.
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