by Kathy Brasby | Sep 30, 2014 | Stories
The Internet has proven to be such a valuable resource for amazing topics. For example, our 18-year-old looked up from his computer the other day.
“According to research,” he said, “there is a right way to hang toilet paper.”
“Did somebody pay money for this research?” I asked.
“They studied the angle of the sheet and how efficiently you can unroll the paper.”
“Really. They studied this?” I guess there’s a little of the cynic hiding in me somewhere.
“Oh, yeah. I read a whole article on it. I could google it if you want to read it.”
“No, thanks.” He took time to discover this information?
“So they found out that the best way is to let the paper fall over the top of the roll.”
“Uh-huh.” Unlike some households, this has never been a point of dissension for us. I thought none of us cared. So I had to ask. “Is that the way you hang toilet paper?”
He’d already turned back to his computer but his head popped up.
“I never hang toilet paper,” he said. “I put it on the counter top.”
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by Kathy Brasby | Sep 23, 2014 | Stories
I knew I was dead.
I was eight years old and neatly tucked into bed, sheet under my chin after my pillow fluffed. Kiss on my cheek and the light dowsed.
I was listening to my heartbeat as I drifted off to sleep.
My heart slowed. Boom. Boom.
And then it stopped.
Children at age 8 have no experience of what to do when your heart stops. So my choices were: 1) allow that heart to stay stopped or 2) to panic.
I panicked.
I leaped out of bed, terrified that I was only a half step from the pearly gates.
What would an 8 year old do with a stopped heart and a panicked brain?
Well, this one raced through the kitchen, into the bathroom and took a drink of water.
A long drink.
Fortunately, my cure worked.
I checked my heart and it was pounding.
Hard and fast. Boom Boom Boom.
I had dodged the bullet. Escaped the final destination. Side-stepped the end.
I crawled back into bed with relief that I could continue for another day.
Remember this the next time your 8 year old finds monsters under the bed.
Their heart could have stopped, you know.
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by Kathy Brasby | Sep 16, 2014 | Stories
The day I met my namesake out in the pigpen was the day I decided I wasn’t using people names for our livestock anymore.
Our neighbor’s daughter liked to name their pigs after friends. Seeing a hog rooting in the mud and learning that her name was Kathy – well, that was the turning point.
No more Abraham or Elinore or Danielle.
But the animals needed names. If you can’t use the neighbors’ names and you can’t use the baby book names, what can you use for ideas?
A dictionary, of course.
Which explains why we’ve had livestock carrying such names as Tripod, Rugby and Torch. We’ve had Breeze, Warrior and Colossal.
Such names as Scimitar and Saber have been attached to some of our animals over the years. We’ve used Cola and Domino and Tinsel.
Not long ago, a friend send a rabbit our way. “She’s not named,” said our friend. “Although I think I should have called her Frying Pan, just to fit in with your barn.”
I don’t know why she laughed. That name would have worked for us.
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by Kathy Brasby | Sep 9, 2014 | Stories
Unstained reputations still matter to some folks in small towns and they don’t like shadows of shame when undeserved.
So that’s why Charlie got in such a huff.
I don’t think he minded that his name appeared on the police blotter.
But the problem came when a new reporter and a police officer with scrawling handwriting crossed Charlie’s path.
The new reporter was going over the police reports, searching for news leads or at least a report on the tickets issued last week.
He thought he’d found an interesting lead. This Charlie dude had been ticketed for weed.
So the reporter wrote a piece about Charlie’s ticket for marijuana possession. Coming from a college town, it made sense to him.
The problem was that the police officer hadn’t made a nice strong S at the end of weed.
Charlie had been ticketed for the weeds growing too tall in his alley. Charlie needed to mow, not hide his stash.
And that’s why Charlie got in such a huff.
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by Kathy Brasby | Aug 26, 2014 | Stories
The cowboys, with their sleek horses, found lassoes and saddles fall flat when dealing with sheep.
We were at the county fair where the sheep had done their duty for the mutton busting contest, which featured the preschoolers riding sheep with helmets and determination.
The rides were timed and the kids stuck like a burr until the buzzer sounded.
Soon all the sheep were milling in the arena. It was time to get them back to the corral.
The cowboys with their uniforms of Stetson hats and starched shirts headed their horses toward the flock.
The horses pressed against the edges of the flock but sheep aren’t easily herded.
They scattered, leaving the cowboys with nothing to herd.
After several minutes of scattering, the cowboys reined their horses and mulled.
What to do with these sheep?
The sheep gathered to the far end of the arena, ready for round 2. They could scatter all day. Those horses were no match for mutton bustin’ sheep.
But then George came to the rescue.
George knew sheep. He pulled a white 5-gallon bucket from the bed of his pickup and headed for the arena.
He stood at the gate and raised the bucket, pounding his hand against it.
At the thumping, the sheep lifted their heads, their ears rotating.
Then they honed in on the sound. And together they surged forward to George and his bucket.
With George thumping the bucket, the sheep followed him into the corral and got ready for round 2 of mutton busting’.
Cowboys had no chance against tradition.
Those sheep knew a feed bucket when they saw one.
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by Kathy Brasby | Aug 19, 2014 | Stories
Sometimes a mom needs to re-examine the smart remarks when the kids get older.
Here’s what I mean: Few things torque a tall teenage boy more than having to slide his long legs into a cramped front seat of a car.
Or so it seemed when my son, all 6’1” of him, stuffed himself into the driver’s seat of my car.
“This is crazy. Who can get into this?” he asked as he shoved the seat to its far limit.
Moms need smart remarks in these instances. When the kid towers over you, outweighs you, and knows more cool technical terms than you do, snappy remarks are important in the arsenal.
So I fired a smart remark back. “Well, it is not my fault you have such long legs.”
I settled into the passenger seat feeling certain that he’d settle into his seat with his hands on the wheel and his mouth shut.
Then we stared at each other.
My husband is two inches taller than I am, but my legs are two inches longer than his. I stand 5’9” – fairly tall for a mom.
“Um, maybe it is your fault,” my son said.
Yeah, maybe it is.
Looks like I need a snappier comeback.
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