by Kathy Brasby | Dec 20, 2013 | Seasons
After three wrenches, a hammer and a torch, my husband freed the faded nameplate from the mailbox, 40 years after my father had bolted the bracket into place.
Flash back 40 years to a time when my siblings and I had somehow saved some money from selling rabbits. When we spotted the little ad in a farm magazine for a nameplate that bolted onto the mailbox, we knew this was the perfect anniversary gift for our parents.
The basic nameplate was $5.95 but we had enough to spring for a metal scroll above the name so we put $6.95 in an envelope with our order form and mailed it off. We wanted classy, after all.
When the package appeared in the mail, addressed to me, my mother snatched it up.
“What is this?” Her eyes narrowed and she held the flat cardboard in both hands.
This was problem because it was a gift for her, too. I gulped, knowing my younger siblings had scattered like bugs when you turn on the light.
“Well, it’s a present,” I said. She thrust the package into my hands.
“Show me.”
So I did. What else do you do at 14?
She studied the contents for about three seconds. Today, I know she was a little embarrassed at her distrust. “I guess that’s all right,” she said.
Only then did we get to see the dark green background, the silvery glitter on the name, the silvery scroll. It was all we had hoped.
So we gave the sign to our parents for their anniversary and Dad was surprised, anyway. Mom smiled, though.
The nameplate withstood blizzards, wind, rain, hot summer sun for many years. The green background faded until there was little contrast between background and letter. But it stood solidly on the mailbox.
When we sold the family farm, I wanted to keep the nameplate.
Not just a reminder of my parents’ years on that farm, but also a legacy. Because that sign signaled the day when my mother learned she really could trust this wild band of children.
We ordered the gift awkwardly but, as it turned out, we really did it all right.
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by Kathy Brasby | Dec 6, 2013 | Seasons
The day that my father went searching for his pajamas in the attic, I thought it was time to have a talk about forgetfulness.
He cocked his head to the side like he had done a million times in my life and I knew he was digging in for the long fight. “I’m not forgetful.”
“Well, sometimes you are.”
“Prove it.” He hadn’t moved his head yet but his chin was pointed toward me now. When I was younger, this was when I took cover.
But not this time.
“Remember the time you couldn’t find your back brush? And it was hanging in the shower where it was supposed to be.”
His eyes glazed for a moment and then sharpened. “Everyone forgets things sometimes. You forget things, too.”
I didn’t want to do this. “Not like that.”
“Give me a test.”
“All right. Do you think you can count backwards from a hundred by threes?” I’d read that test in an article somewhere and figured it was worth a try.
“Of course I can. One hundred. Ninety, uh, —“He drew in a long breath. “I don’t want to do it right now. But that doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong. You can’t do it either.”
So I did, counting from 100 to 90 before stopping. “Please, Dad. I just want to see if there’s something to help you. That’s all.”
“You think I have Alzheimer’s, don’t you?”
“I really don’t know. That’s why I’d like a diagnosis.”
“Well,” he tossed his head back now. “I don’t. I decided a long time ago that I wasn’t going to get that. So I don’t.”
I gave up.
He lived two more years and never visited a doctor about his forgetfulness.
We didn’t learn how severe the dementia was but I do know that, without a doctor’s assistance, my dad remembered his family members until the moment he passed on.
And maybe that was enough.
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by Kathy Brasby | Nov 29, 2013 | Seasons
My dad once rescued an angry mama cow by luring her into a runway where she thought she could mash him flat as a Gumby toy. He let her stay close to his heels until he reached the door into the barn.
Then he grabbed a fencepost and vaulted onto the top railing while the cow’s momentum carried her into the stall. Not easy but effective.
My brothers slammed the gate behind her and she was penned in a safe place.
That memory of a lithe and strong man of resource has held firm in my mind as I watched his abilities wither along with his body.
The family woke up to Dad’s challenges when he set his pickup engine on fire. Dad was a master mechanic and, even in his 80s, he wasn’t afraid to crawl under the hood and adjust a carburetor.
Something went wrong. Something that wouldn’t have gone wrong 10 years before.
The fire scorched the pickup engine and underside of the hood.
Dad was nearly in tears for his clumsy mistake.
We were nearly in tears at the thought of a fire stealing him away from us.
We could have grounded him, taking away his vehicles and finding ways to keep him tethered to a recliner and television.
We didn’t.
We became very interested in his projects. We hung out with him as often as we could, turning a wrench when he started a repair. We listened when he discussed maintenance.
Just like Dad had rescued that angry cow even though she didn’t know it, we had to do the same for Dad.
He’d taught us to solve problems creatively. If he could vault the fence to save a cow, we searched for ways to save him from himself. Not easy but effective.
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by Kathy Brasby | Nov 22, 2013 | Seasons, Stories
Today begins a new series on my blog, one that will share stories and poignant moments about that special time of life: when our parents reach elderly.
I will continue my short stories on Tuesdays but plan to publish a “Seasons” story each Friday.
Names will be changed and, in some cases, stories may be blended to protect identities.
Don’t expect the aches and pains reports but stories of victory, stories of endurance, stories of humor.
Check back next Friday for the first Seasons story.
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