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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by Kathy Brasby | Feb 11, 2013 | Hope
To understand this story, you need to know about July heat in northeast Colorado, when the temperatures would melt dashboards and western skies flexed purple and green while threatening hail.
I worked at a farm implement dealership that year, in the middle of thousands of acres of pickups, apple pie, and shimmering wheat. In July, the wheat ripened to a golden color that rippled like ocean waves in the heat. When the wheat was ripe, the frenzy began.
Farmers had waited since August of the previous year for the seeds to sprout, grow and ripen. But July thunderstorms were common, meaning that a single evening of wind and hail could wipe out the year’s crop. The wheat had to be harvested now.
Against that backdrop, the fellow employees where I worked knew that harvest meant long hours for us, too. We had to be at the shop if a combine or truck broke down. The farmers depended on our inventory of parts and our experienced mechanics.
But sometimes nothing broke down. We sat in the hot evenings like a teenage girl hoping for an invitation to the dance. Waiting opened the door to shenanigans involving water fights, high-powered squirt guns and factions.
The problem with answering machines began with my primary responsibility: ordering parts. One of my suppliers used an answering machine to receive orders in those days. I would call and listen to a long description of how to place the order followed by a beep. After the beep, the answering machine recorded my order.
I had the information memorized so I had time to daydream before I placed an order. On such a day, I stood beside my desk, phone in hand, ignoring the instructions.
Then I saw one of my fellow employees creep out of the back shop, knees bent, head swiveling from side to side like a deer hunter on the prowl. No big deal in the July heat except for one problem: the plastic squirt gun he gripped in his hand was mine.
“Hey!” I shouted at him. “You give me back my gun!” And then I realized that the answering machine had beeped.
I didn’t place an order that day.
And the next time I called, I asked for a salesman instead. Well, yeah, I changed my voice, too. Just in case.
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by Kathy Brasby | Sep 19, 2012 | Hope
My father was a sugar beet farmer in Colorado, a fact which sculpts my thinking more now than it did when I was hoeing weeds in eternally-long fields as a teenager.
Where once a farm was 80 or 160 acres, now they need to be well over 1000 acres or the farmer will go broke. That logically means there a lot less farmers – and even less family farms.
What are we losing as the family farm becomes a blip of historical nostalgia?
- Fewer people know where milk or eggs come from. The correct answer is not Safeway or Walmart.
- Not so many get to see the magnificent thunderclouds, roiling in purples and blacks, marching toward the tender crops. Although there’s fear that a hailstorm could devastate this year’s crop – and income – we participate in the circle of life as those storms approach.
- We’ve lost the appreciation for smells. We demand sweet scents or nothing at all. But I’ve experienced the fresh scent of rain and the sharp slap of animal remains. Why do we shrink from authentic sensory experiences?
- The rhythms of life – which include death – are more readily seen on the farm. I have experienced loss – of a favorite dog, a 4-H cow, a baby lamb. The sting of loss never gets easier but I’m glad that I’m not numb to it.
- I’ve heard corn grow, the pops of expansion as the leaves stretch out toward the sky.
- I’ve seen the stages of soil, from slimy mud to sun-parched jigsaw pieces. I know the rain will come. Someday. And I know the snows are followed by seeds punched into the ground, soon to emerge in a green fringe across the landscape.
I could go on but my understanding – and the way I write – has been molded by the seasons and the rawness of senses. I am born of the land, walking a unique path. And I love it.
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