by Kathy Brasby | Oct 14, 2019 | Cats, Country life, Family, Humor
We have adopted a tiger.
By tiger, I mean a 3-week-old abandoned barn kitten, of course. We’re not big cat people, but we couldn’t let the little thing starve to death. So we took her in.
Aw, isn’t she cute? Calm? But get ready…..
I scooted to the pet store for a small animal bottle. When the clerk said, ‘uh, oh,” I should have realized that was an early alert.
She took to the bottle right away. The kitten, not the clerk. Hang with me here.
We named her Panda because she was black and white. And it sounded like a cute, calm name.
The first week, after rescuing the kitten from starvation and the elements, I fed her several times a day, and she’d purr as I held her. Well, she’d purr as she stared deeply into my eyes before biting the end of my nose. So cute.
I’m trying to learn kitten psychology and have since discovered that kittens are really micro-lions. They hunt. They attack anything that moves. They have teeth like needles. Cute.
But I have questions. Panda is now 9 weeks old, meaning she’s big enough to run up my leg, over my shoulder, and on to the top of my head where she sits down and bites my skull. I guess I look like prey.
Panda lurks behind a half-closed door, body pressed low to the ground, and leaps onto my ankle, which probably looks like a giraffe leg to her, sinking her teeth deep into my bone. Brave little hunter.
Apparently, an empty toilet paper roll resembles a T-bone steak based on how she prowls around it. I’m not sure what that says about my ankle.
And there was that dangerous shallow box on the floor by the trash can. She leaped into the box, and it moved, so she kept batting it and biting the edge. Better that box than my head, I thought, so I settled in to watch. After the batting and biting stopped, she laid down in the box and started purring. Is that box prey or a bed? I’m trying to learn.
Panda can spring onto our bed with a single bound, which must be necessary for a professional hunter. I want to understand why hunters need to hurdle onto a bed, but, for now, I’m staying with the mountain-climber explanation: because it is there.
From calm to this… in an instant. Look out, earlobes! There may be tooth marks there soon.
She kinda miscalculated one of her bed leaps, though, running into the side of the mattress and ricocheting back to the floor. She got up and looked as nonchalant as I did that time I nearly fell on the ice. Nobody was looking, right?
I’ve made the mistake of wearing shorts in my own home, which means my legs now have micro-slashes thanks to our tiger who knows the best way to the top of my head is up my leg, whether I’m wearing jeans or not.
Friends want to stroke her head. “Ah, isn’t she sweet?” they coo.
Well, not always. They’ve left our house with apologies and a fingertip missing. It’s tough to pet a hunter.
We named her Panda but, watching her in action the last few weeks, I’m wondering if she’d be better off named Panther.
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by Kathy Brasby | Oct 7, 2019 | Family, Humor, Stories
This all started because I wanted to find a simple parking spot before the baseball game.
My son had invited me to attend a Colorado Rockies game.
Panorama by Timothy Brasby
With the baseball field in downtown Denver, parking can be a challenge. So I got online and found a deal so that we weren’t hassled by parking drama. He’d found great seats so surely I could find great parking.
We wound our way through the narrow streets in the downtown area and, finally, thanks to Apple Maps, found the spot. We parked in a relatively empty parking garage. That was a clue.
“Is this a residential area?” my son asked. Well, yeah, maybe so. Where was Coors Field anyway? Neither of us knew.
The online site had offered a 9-minute walk to the stadium for only $4. Since track and field has conquered the 4-minute mile, obviously a parking spot a mile away would take only 9 minutes to travel.
The online ad claimed a short .3 mile stroll. Apple Maps insisted it was a mile. Apple Maps knew.
My son was a good sport. We had strong legs, and the weather was beautiful. Away we went.
We crossed the street near a bar blasting music that would incite riots or serial killings. Yep, residential neighborhood for sure.
And then we saw a banner across an alley, warning “No Alchohol Past This Point.” Why would you keep alcohol out of the alley?
We found out shortly. First, we noticed that a Budweiser semi and a Busch semi were parked head to head on the street. The Busch truck had an open stage at the back end with some guys in delivery uniforms hammering on electric guitars and head-banging the lyrics. The Busch band?
Then a gaggle of guys wearing lederhosen and toting tankard filled the street before us. Being a polite baseball fan, I came to a complete halt before I ran into the groups heading for a booth.
There was a line of booths. I did not know there were so many kinds of beer. Booths for the well-knowns and booths for craft beers. And, of course, stalls for Wienerschnitzel and pretzels.
We had stumbled onto Oktoberfest in downtown Denver.
The Rockies’ mascot, Digger, came by.
Baseball memories were being made in the stadium and we were not there.
I wondered if Apple Maps had miscalculated. Maybe she sent us to Austria.
We had kept a 12-minute-mile pace before, but now we were sidestepping whole packs of people. We could see Coors Field in the distance now, like a mountain peak rising out of the mist.
This wasn’t the first time I was glad my son was 6’1” and lifted weights. Not to protect me but to plow a path through the crowd. People weren’t rowdy, but there were a lot of them. An ocean of people milled between Coors Field and us.
Three blocks later, we broke free, hustling into the open street where Coors Field rose majestically before us. It was almost as good as topping a 14,000-footer in the Rocky Mountains. Well, better since it’s really, really hard to conquer a 14-er, and we had accomplished this.
We could hear cheering. We were a little late, but we had made it. We stretched out our walk toward the main gate, ready to cheer on our baseball team.
“Did you notice?” my son said as we left the Oktoberfest crowd behind.
I glanced back at the Wiener schnitzel swarm. “What?”
“The Rockies are playing the Brewers tonight.”
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by Kathy Brasby | Sep 30, 2019 | Humor, Stories
I’m not really a hoarder but what do you do with that stuff you’ve been saving for a long time in a box you just discovered at the back of the closet?
Aha, you relate.
Theory A says that, if you haven’t seen the contents for a long time, just throw the box away and be done with it.
I’m way too curious for that.
It’s like Christmas inside such a box, only with things that are dusty and grimy. Other than the dirt, new treasures.
Photo by Hendri Sabri on Unsplash
who knew I had saved a keychain from Union Station in Kansas City?
What does one do with keys that you can’t identify? Throw them away? What if they are needed for a lock someday and I threw away the key?
On closer examination, I’m pretty sure one of the keys is to the office door where I worked before I was married. Maybe it could go.
I found two keys that looked like they opened a safe deposit box. Since we don’t have one, I suspect we had to pay a big fine to get the box opened a long time ago since I couldn’t find the keys. And I’m going to throw them away and waste that fine?
Then there are the paper clips. The bottom of the box was layered with paper clips. It feels wasteful to throw all those away.
Oh, boy, more keys melding with the paper clips. Do they multiply into clip keys?
There’s a single white Lego brick with a blue cone stuck on the top. Ah, memories of the little boy who built mansions with Legos. He’s out of college now, so maybe the brick could go.
Why on earth are there so many pen refills? I love a good pen but, since keyboards have invaded my life, I apparently don’t use pen ink much.
I already know to throw away the membership card to some club I forgot I ever belonged to. And the participation ribbon to some event that I neglected to record on the backside.
Business cards? To keep or to pitch? Most went in the trash, but I found one from a friend who is now deceased. Stays. And another from my brother. Stays.
I have a big box of brass plated fasteners, those brads that push through punched holes and then you bent the ends to hold papers together. I use a stapler these days, but I apparently am a collector of vintage supplies, so there’s that.
Oh, I just found two needles for inflating balls. In the office supplies. That could explain some things about our flat basketballs.
I also uncovered the combination to the padlock I used for four years of college. I still remember the combination. Well, after looking at the paper. No, I don’t know where the padlock is but think of the memories.
It gets worse: erasers, especially the ones that fit on the end of pencils. I don’t use pencils. A guitar pick. A marble. More keys. Another key ring.
Fortunately, I am not a hoarder. But if you ever need a pen refill, I’m your girl.
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by Kathy Brasby | Sep 23, 2019 | Family, Humor
I found our one and only pool table at a yard sale. Bargain time! Only $25 and I got the table, the balls, cue sticks, even chalk. The people at the yard sale were willing to deliver it. That should have alerted me.
My patient husband hauled the pool table home for me and didn’t make snide remarks. We had room in our basement, and I knew this would be fun for our family.
And we played pool for at least a month before everyone lost interest. 
An ignored the pool table morphs into other things. It became a perfect place to throw outgrown clothes and appliances that quit working. There were at least two fried toasters in the pile. And why would you toss used batteries and used cereal boxes there? Imagine how this once-proud pool table had become a flat trash can. We were cruel to its heritage.
One day I had enough. I listed the pool table for sale. Finding all the balls was a challenge, but we found the last two under a workbench by the cat hair.
I asked $35 for the pool table even though I paid $25 at a yard sale. It was a slate top pool table, and I hoped that would help get it sold.
A young man showed up with his buddy. He examined the table and did a fist pump. “Slate! I can sell this table anywhere for $200.”
I smiled. I just wanted it out of my basement and wouldn’t mind getting my $25 back.
“Would you take $30 for it?”
“Sure,” I said.
“Well, I need to come back with a pickup. Could you hold it for me?”
“If you pay today.”
He studied the table and his buddy. Perhaps the $200 dream loomed before him. “I wonder if we can get it home now.”
They bustled around like a hen with newly hatched chicks. Their eyes lit up when they counted all the cue balls, even the hairy ones.The little boxes of chalk were a special bonus, I could tell.
Then they grabbed an end of the table and began pushing. The air was blue with words I didn’t want the kids to hear and the guys sweating before they and the table emerged from the basement.
I almost felt guilty that I didn’t help.
Grunting and groaning like a mama pig in labor, they hoisted the pool table onto the top of their car. The table legs stuck in the air like a dead bug.
“We’re good now,” the new buyer assured me.
They tied the table onto the top of the car, running the ropes through the open windows, and then stood for a long moment admiring their work.
At least I thought they were admiring their work. I quickly realized that they had tied their doors closed. After some discussion, the guys decided to worm their way around the ropes and through the open window.
Soon they drove away with their car windows tied open and the pool table jutting into the sky.
They had a plan for big bucks but, after watching their first steps, I think my $30 sale was safer than their $200 dream.
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by Kathy Brasby | Sep 16, 2019 | Family, Humor, Stories
In those carefree BK (Before Kids) days, I imagined baking cute birthday cakes for future kids. My mom used to make little train cakes with gumdrop windows. The train cars perched on licorice rails with a green coconut base. So cute. I knew it was in my blood.
I bought a puppy cake mold before I had kids. My first cake using that mold was a pile of crumbs that I shaped like the foothills of Colorado. Drizzling icing on top was supposed to mimic snow. I hoped nobody would notice because I didn’t have time to bake another cake.
One first-birthday cake was supposed to be a bright soccer ball but looked more like an egg that had fallen from the second floor.
Before Pinterest Fails were a thing, my cakes were trailblazing the way.
As some of the kids got older, they didn’t ask me for cake decorating advice. They invested time in 4-H cake decorating units. Kids can be wise sometimes.
One daughter learned how to decorate a one-layer cake for her first project.
She baked her show cake the afternoon before it had to be entered at the county fair. When the edge of the cake wouldn’t release from the pan, she solved the problem by cutting away the perimeter.
Most of the entered cakes were 8” round, but hers was more of a 5” lumpy. She slathered on icing, but it was like trying to hide Mount Everest under an ice cream cone. No champion ribbon that year.
Another daughter was the creative sort who felt stifled by the rules for the unit. When she was required to form a mat of frosting stars, she didn’t understand why the cake couldn’t show through. It would be like hiding the tuba in the marching band.
No blue ribbon that year, either.
Our son, at age 10, signed up to learn cake decorating and even went to a workshop where he and 25 girls learned the fine art of placing dots of frosting on waxed paper. This, of course, made no sense to him until he licked clean the frosting after the workshop.
We found out later that he signed up so that he could be in charge of the family birthday cakes. He figured if he’d finished cake decorating, I’d let him make the cakes.
Maybe to up his game with the frosting. Many family birthday cakes had a finger lick on the side before we got to the candles.
I never caught him in the act, but I suspect this had been a goal for his life since he was four.
His show cake came together on a hot summer day with frosting that needed a lot more sugar than he put in the bowl. Imagine a lava flow sliding across his design.
The lava-icing flow continued until he got the cake to the fairgrounds. His frosting border was supposed to be a circle but resembled the outline of Texas.
No blue ribbon that time either.
But his father bought back the cake, took it home, and served it to our family. Oh, yeah, everybody ate a piece.
We haven’t had any cute train cakes in our house, but one good thing has come from all this cake-decorating training: along as there is plenty of frosting, our family is content with a pile of cake crumbs.
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by Kathy Brasby | Sep 9, 2019 | Family, Humor, Travel
This story is true. I know this because the person who told it to me heard it from somebody who might have been part of the story. Or not. You know how that goes.
But it’s a good tale so it ought to be true. This is the influence of the internet on our lives, by the way.
This account took place in the early 1970s when polyester pantsuits were becoming the rage.
A pastoral conference was held on the border between Texas and Mexico. Three pastors from Iowa took their wives to the seminar. The men went to the day’s meetings, and their wives went shopping in the border town of Mexico.
In those days, beautiful leather goods and silver jewelry could be purchased even in a pastor’s salary. The women wandered from booth to booth on the downtown streets.
While shopping, the wives found themselves along with several other women swept up by police and thrown into the local jail.
It seems that prostitutes in the early 1970s in this little town had also embraced polyester pantsuits, which was, of course, what the Iowa wives were wearing. Looking stylish and all that.
So the pastors’ wives looked like the local prostitutes.
The police were doing a routine roundup. The prostitutes went through this often. They all had their license for their business and soon were all released with a small fine.
And there sat the Iowa women with no prostitute licenses. If you’ve ever bathed a cat, you have an idea what their mood was. Fangs could have been bared, but the police were playing cards in the other room.
No license, no release.
So the women cooled their heels in the Mexican jail all day.
When their husbands finally got out of the day’s conference, they had to do some searching to figure out where their wives were. But they eventually traveled into the little border town.
“Get us out of here!” their wives said, all nice like that cat with soap in its eyes.
So the pastors went to talk to the police chief. He was firm: no license, no release.
There was probably help through the US Embassy or some other US agency, but it was already night.
“We can’t stay in this jail all night,” the wives said. Their narrow eyes warned the husbands of dire future repercussions. The men needed no imagination to understand.
The husbands agreed. This jail was no place for their stylish wives. Offers of money to the police chief were spurned. He was a law-abiding police chief. No bribes allowed.
So the husbands huddled. Surely their conference had strengthened their problem-solving abilities. Three heads ought to be able to figure out a solution. They brainstormed frantically above the growls coming from the jail cell.
The men came to a solution and made a pact: no one could know, especially their wives.
And that’s how three pastors from Iowa bought Mexican prostitution licenses for their stylish pantsuit-wearing wives.
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