by Kathy Brasby | May 14, 2025 | Humor, Newsletter, Stories
Having lived in the Great American Desert all my life, I get excited when I see water.
Here on the plains of northeastern Colorado, we use an eyedropper for our water breaks. Tumbleweeds carry canteens. Fish have to adjust to breathing sand part of the year.
That’s why, on my vacation to North Carolina, I was busy making googly eyes at the enormous Tar River (it looked like the ocean to me) and all the boats at the docks.
I nearly missed the day’s highlight.
My friend didn’t miss our highlight. She lives in North Carolina and so was more jaded about water and fishing boats. (She and her husband celebrated our tumbleweeds when they came to Colorado, though. Just sayin’.)
We were on a boardwalk on the water’s edge when a man stepped out of a sailboat tied at the dock and called to us.
I Almost Missed Our Highlight
My friend stopped. I was shooting photos of boats and water and I almost missed the big moment.
This man had a crushed white shirt and equally rumpled khaki shorts. He pointed to a furry ridge on the eastern horizon. “See that island? It’s Goat Island. Privately owned.”
“Woo hoo!” I figured we were going to get some great insider information.
He studied the island for a moment. “You can’t go out there anymore. But I have a documentary about it coming out on Netflix next month. The guy who bought the island is a friend of mine.”
This was getting more interesting. A surprising gold mine for my curious tourist brain.
I Was Fascinated
“There used to be a tunnel out to it, but that collapsed.” He looked back at us.
“Oh, who built the tunnel?” my friend said.
“Blackbeard. We had to use submersibles to get to the island.”
Wow, the ancient history of the East Coast is fascinating. Blackbeard. A movie on Goat Island. This was better than the names painted on the fishing boats.
Then the man leaned out a bit and pointed at me. “You have an amazing glowing spirit around you. It’s so strong that I can see things about her.” He nodded at my friend. “She’s Pocahontas, you know. And she has a very important life decision to make today.” He stared at her. “Be sure to take that seriously. It’s life-changing, what you need to decide today. Very important.”
Then he waved his hands in the air. “Well, after all that, I need to go smoke some more grass. Maybe two.” He turned and disappeared into the cabin.
Big Decision Time
We both gawked at the boat for a moment. “So what’s your big decision going to be?” I said to my friend.
“Hmmm. Big decision.” She twisted her mouth to the side.
We never found out about the Netflix documentary on Goat Island or the collapsed tunnel built by Blackbeard. But my friend’s big decision found us a place that served tasty fish for lunch.
Water adventures are amazing!
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by Kathy Brasby | Jun 15, 2024 | Family, Humor, Stories
I have never been a smoker except for one puff when I was six years old, but that one puff has produced some weird stories.
Several years ago, back in the day when we still answered the phone without knowing who was on the other end, I got snagged by a survey taker.
The questions had to do with tobacco use. Had I ever used tobacco?
I am entirely too honest. That puff at age six leaped into my consciousness and I told her I had once. I regretted that transparency shortly.
No Obsession Like a Survey Taker
She jumped on my admission like a starving wolf. “What did you use?”
“Um, well, I was six years old, and I took one puff.”
“Was it menthol or filtered?”
“I was six years old. And it was one puff.”
“What brand of cigarette was it?”
Really? You’d Ask Again?
“I was six years old, and it was one puff.”
“Did you continue the habit?”
“I was six years old, and I never wanted another puff.”
She kept asking, and I only had one answer.
What I’m going to share with you didn’t fit into her survey questions. But we’re friends and I am entirely too honest.
Here’s The Story
At age 6, I approached my dad after supper one evening. He sat at the dining room table with a cigarette poised between two fingers, white smoke drifting like a lazy river toward the ceiling, and a glimmering glass ashtray beside him.
I guess I was staring with eager eyes. I thought he looked sophisticated, although I’m certain I didn’t know that word yet.
“Would you like a puff?” He beckoned to me.
Yes, I would. I scooted up to him, eager to share this special moment. I lifted the white tube to my lips and took a long pull on the cigarette.
A loooong pull. One loooong draw.
White Heat
Dragon’s breath first roasted my tonsils before descending with white raging heat down my throat. My lungs were seared and my stomach rolled with burning coals.
The scalding smoke slammed into my eyes and my nose filled with the stench of dead mice and scorched banana peels. Angry flames blew out my ears and singed my eyebrows.
My throat cramped like a sore muscle. My toenails curled with the heat and hot tears ran down my cheeks.
Certain that my life was about to end, I spun and sprinted on my hot, toasted legs into the bathroom. I stuck my mouth under the faucet, slapped the cold water handle open, and tried to drown myself.
As rushing water sluiced across my tongue in the faint hope of dousing the fire, I had one thought, assuming I survived: Never again. A single swallow of the dragon’s breath was more than enough for me.
Done, Done, Done
I imagine that was Dad’s idea, and it worked.
Besides making me a lifelong nonsmoker, the experience also had another benefit. My experience roasted the caller’s survey results.
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by Kathy Brasby | Nov 7, 2022 | books, Hope, Mystery, Stories
I just made progress on My NaNoWriMo Book! So far I’m 25% complete on the Week 1 phase. 22 Days remain until the deadline.
[mybookprogress progress=”0.24994″ phase_name=”Week 1″ deadline=”1669766400″ book=”2″ book_title=”My NaNoWriMo Book” bar_color=”00cc74″]
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by Kathy Brasby | Aug 26, 2022 | Family, Humor, Stories
I didn’t notice the rug burn on my knee until I was ready for bed. Hmmm.
Couch potatoes don’t have these issues.
Couch Potatoes Don’t Have Those
I have old scars on my knees from that cruel and ancient practice of requiring girls to wear dresses to school. I may still be bitter about that rule.
This elementary girl couldn’t stop running and somehow my feet didn’t cooperate all the time. Crash. Another scraped knee. Another scar.
Couch potatoes don’t have those.
My high school hosted a girls’ football game to raise funds for something that I’ve forgotten. We played flag football. No tackling. Just powder puff style.
I remember running with the football tucked under my arm and getting hit so hard that my breath flew away as I hit the ground. I fumbled the ball too. So much for the flag.
I could barely walk at school the next day, what with the sore muscles and bruises.
Speaking of barely walking, I was tossed over the head of my horse one weekend when I was home from college. Gypsy was galloping, and I asked her to slow down. She stopped. Dime kind of stop.
And I went over her head. I was nineteen, but I walked around like a ninety-year-old for a few days.
As an adult, I mellowed into more gentle sports. Like softball. Cycling. Skiing.
Speaking of Softball
Speaking of softball, I once found my left foot trapped under the fence behind home plate. As the catcher, I had to retrieve any balls that got past me and went to the fence. I knew the opponent was steaming home from third base, so I hustled to the fence, planted my foot, and went under.
It took both coaches and an umpire to lift the stiff fence off my ankle. My team didn’t have another catcher, so I limped back to my position.
Couch potatoes don’t have to put up with that.
Memories of softball games came up recently over lunch with a friend. She perked up. She’d played softball, too.
“Do you still have your softball glove?”
“Of course. You?”
We planned to play catch just because we miss throwing a ball around. Feeling a little nostalgic and unfulfilled, maybe.
Couch potatoes don’t get those urges.
I was five months pregnant, downhill skis strapped to my feet and our four-year-old sitting on the chairlift seat beside me, when the lift died.
We had hoped for one more run down the slope. Instead, we hung for an hour before the crew started lowering people to the ground on ropes. I never told them I was pregnant. I didn’t have time for the panic.
Couch potatoes don’t have to swing on a chairlift with a little boy for an hour, keeping him calm and warm.
Why do I complicate my life so?
The Watch Panic
Recently I crawled inside an enclosed cage retrieving young roosters. I had to roll onto my side to turn around so I could crawl out. No problem. I dropped onto an elbow, scotched around, and headed for the cage door.
And I heard a wild beeping. Was someone calling me?
I glanced at my watch, affectionately called “Dick Tracy” by my sister. Well, maybe not affectionately, now that I think about it. My watch sometimes poaches calls from my phone, which she thinks is goofy.
This watch plays music, tracks my steps, and alerts me to texts and calls. It ought to cook meals too.
Back to my story. My watch was shrieking, gaining volume with the second. Almost the shaking in terror. I looked closer. It hovered over the 9-1-1 call, assuming I had fallen. I punched a button. No, I didn’t need 9-1-1.
My watch was stubborn. Was I sure I hadn’t fallen? Yeah, pretty sure.
Can you imagine explaining that to the deputies who would have had to respond? No, officer, really, I’m fine. I just planted my elbow in the rooster pen.
Yeah, rooster pen.
My watch panicked last winter when I had to knock the ice out of a rubber pan so I could put out more water for my ducks. I slammed the pan on the frozen ground and my watch immediately leaped to alert mode, ready to call the deputies again.
“I didn’t fall,” I told the Dick Tracy. “I didn’t even leave my feet.” So why I was talking to my watch? My sister hadn’t even called.
Couch potatoes don’t have these problems.
New Plan
I have a new plan for this year. I’m slowing down. It’s time.
But I have to run a 5K with my grandson. It’s his first and he’s only nine. How could I refuse?
I’m riding my bike five or six—OK, sometimes ten miles a day—because it’s a new bike and I have a new helmet. Can’t let those go to waste.
I’ve started lifting weights, too, to keep the kids happy. And those extra muscles handle the feed bags a lot better.
So you can see that I’ve slowed down. No more skinned knees or planted elbows.
My watch doesn’t hover in ready mode anymore. It probably thinks I’ve retired into couch potato mode.
Well, yeah, I did shut off its fall alarm.
Out of concern for the deputies.
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by Kathy Brasby | Aug 12, 2022 | books, Jesus, Stories
I was asked to write a blog, When the Storm Rages, for the upcoming R.E.A.L. womens conference, where I’ll be speaking on September 9, 2022. Tickets are still available.
My topic ties in well with my upcoming book, “Cutting Through Despair: Dare to Hope.”
I hope you’ll take a look.
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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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