by Kathy Brasby | Dec 9, 2020 | Christmas, Family, Humor, Stories
My mother’s love language included Christmas baking. From pfeffernusse to fudge, from peanut brittle to Christmas stollen, Mom always served up trays and trays of sweet goodies on Christmas eve.
So this story came about because I thought a mother’s love should include Christmas cookies. I keep telling myself that, anyway.
The cookie cutter set I found one November seemed to fit that goal. The box seduced me with photos of beautiful cookies in the shape of Mary and Joseph and baby Jesus in a manger. A little piping of frosting, a few sparkles in the right place, and my family would have a unique nativity set.
This was not ours. This was what I dreamed ours would look like.
And the best part was that we could do this project as a family with everyone helping.
I bought the set.
Yes, I knew we wouldn’t get the cookies quite as perfect as the photos. We had a two-year-old at the time. He would produce a cute but goofy little cookie.
It was OK. I could overlook the children’s immature attempts.
However, I forgot to factor in their mother.
I knew we were in trouble when I pulled the cookie sheet out of the oven. But there was no time to do another batch. The family was waiting.
Baby Jesus in the manger resembled a toasted marshmallow.
The sheep – and I’d made lots of them – all were blimps. Some had short fat legs but, since you couldn’t tell where the head was, the legs could have been prickles, too. Or maybe the head was.
Great. Christmas porcupines.
The camels’ longer legs had melded while baking.
“Is this a tree?” asked the six-year-old. Thanks, Dear.
The shepherds had morphed into tall planks of fencing. Or maybe a Volkswagen bug. It was hard to say.
Kneeling Joseph was now a giant S.
The kids were game, anyway. They slathered on frosting that was so thin that the blues and oranges for the wise men’s gowns flowed together, making a muddy brown.
Well, I thought those cookies were the wise men because of the lumps at the top, which I identified as crowns. Maybe they were cows with horns, in which case the muddy brown frosting made more sense.
There was a stable printed on the back of the box that could be assembled as the backdrop. I tossed that idea after our older son frosted an angel as though it were a donkey. I couldn’t see displaying these peculiar little figures.
When we were done, with sticky frosting on our fingers and sparkles drifting to the floor, I studied the blobs of icing and cookie.
“Well, this didn’t work out quite as I had hoped,” I told the family.
My husband surveyed the table, surrounded by sets of eager young eyes, and picked up a cookie. “Then we’d better destroy the evidence.”
Like this:
Like Loading...
by Kathy Brasby | Nov 21, 2020 | Family, Humor, Leadership, Stories
I didn’t really bungle this mission, although the word “oops” came up more than once.
A woman at our church had asked me to provide a meal for a family having medical and job issues. There are four adults and four kids in the family, so I knew I needed to cook up a lot of food. I made up a big pot of chili, a pan of cornbread, some home-baked cookies, and some carrot sticks. Lots of them.
I went to deliver the meal in the evening. The family lives on Elm Street, which could use some kind of city initiative to buy street lights because a camping tent at midnight had as much light. I pulled up in front of a house, saw a dimly-lit 205 by the door, and hauled my box of food to the front door.
An elderly woman answered. When I told her who I was, and what I had for her, she said, “How did you know?” I carried in the box of food and we unloaded it on her table. Her husband was watching TV and I didn’t see the other six people. Something started to wiggle in my brain at that point but I pressed on.
“We just got back from the doctor and I didn’t know what to do about supper,” she told me. “Thank you so much.”
So I must be in right place after all and the rest of the family was in the basement or looking at stars in the backyard.
Instead, I glanced at the husband, who had an oxygen tube threading across the floor to his nose and was just getting home from the doctor’s office. He must be the one having medical issues. Could I pray for him? Oh, yes. He rose, both of them took my hands, and I prayed for his health.
Then I walked out of the house and looked again at the number. 207. Oops! I had just delivered a meal for eight people to the wrong house. This couple was set for meals for a while.
I did a bit of prowling on the street and located 205 at the corner house. In the dark. I was lucky I didn’t trip on the black curb but that would have been just another oops in the evening.
So I had delivered a home-cooked meal for eight to a family of two and now I had nothing for the family in need. I ran to a grocery store a few blocks away. Although their deli section was pretty picked over, I spotted eight pieces of fried chicken that still looked plump.
Instead of chili, I delivered deli fried chicken, a canister of grocery-store potato salad, a bag of salad, and some cupcakes. I apologized when I delivered the meal and thought about inviting them to join their neighbors.
The family was gracious and appreciative of having any meal.
I’m still not sure how I goofed on the house numbers but God took my “oops” and turned it into meals for two different families. That works for me.
Like this:
Like Loading...
by Kathy Brasby | Nov 12, 2020 | Family, Humor, Stories
I had just finished rinsing the shampoo out of my hair in the shower when my cell phone rang. I generally don’t take my cell phone into the bathroom, which allows me to ignore any calls during soap-and-scrub time.
But I could hear it and guilt rushed over me. Maybe this was important. I grabbed a towel and stepped out of the shower to see who was calling.
It was my sister.
With dripping fingers, I carefully lifted the phone and punched the green button. Water ran down my just-showered body, drenching the rug. I usually toweled off before getting out. You didn’t want to know that anyway.
“Cover your eyes,” I said, draping myself with the towel.
She hung up.
Should I call her back? Should I dry myself off first? Caught in indecision, I stood and dripped.
The phone rang again. It was my sister again. I assumed she’d accidentally hung up. She does that sometimes. Or mutes me inadvertently. Or so she says. But I’m digressing again.
As I pushed the accept button, I noticed that she had used FaceTime this time.
Facetime is a video phone call and there I stood draped in a soggy towel with soaked hair.
Well, it was my sister and she only had to see my dripping hair as long I aimed the camera on my phone correctly. I carefully lifted the phone until it was capturing only my wet nose.
“Why are you FaceTiming me?”
“I wanted you to see my new tooth,” she said.
I remembered then. She’d gotten an implant the day before at the dentist. She stretched her mouth to reveal the bright new tooth, up close on my phone screen. I could see her new teeth and I hoped she only saw my wet nose.
She started giggling. “Where are you?”
But did she then say, “Call me back when you’re dry”? No, she did not. She pressed on.
“The dentist screwed this implant on and it matches really well, huh?” Then she snorted. Assuming teeth implants aren’t really humorous, I guessed she was laughing at my dripping hair.
“And I have to pick up my grandson today and take him to the park,” she said and then began giggling. What? Trips to the park produce giggles? All I knew was that I wasn’t re-adjusting my phone view.
“And later I’m going to run downtown for a manicure.” More snickering.
Good grief, girl. Implants, park visits, and manicures while I was drip-drying outside the shower. I was so pleased to be her morning entertainment.
When the techies worked on the chips and circuits that would allow us to combine phone calls with video, I think they had images of salesmen using charts to illustrate quarterly earnings. Or giggling babies reaching out to touch their grandmother who lived across the country. Or a soldier connecting with his wife and kids from a foreign country.
And I’ll bet all those things happen.
But I wonder if their vision ever included stretched gums, new teeth, and dripping hair.
Like this:
Like Loading...
by Kathy Brasby | Nov 5, 2020 | Country life, Humor, Stories
When I was 13, I noticed that my parents got a lot of mail while I, meanwhile, got exactly none. What fun was it to pick up the mail for them when there was nothing for me, day after day after day?
Leaping into action
Not being one to sit idly and complain, I leaped into action. I had a 4-H brochure that showed places where I could send off for free resources. So I manufactured my own mail.
Before long, I received a colorful cardboard chart showing 12 different ways to tie a knot. Soon, a brochure comparing Angus and Hereford breeds of cattle arrived in the mail – addressed to me. You can see where this going.
I started getting mail.
Somewhere in that time frame, I also received a chain letter from a friend. In those days, chain letters were the rage.
A chain letter
A chain letter would appear in your mailbox with the promise and the plea. Most of them held out the lure of money “Send a dollar to the first person on the list” and in a week or so, you’ll get dollars from all the people on the list.
Sure. Junior High school Ponzi schemes.
I am a skeptic. I have always ignored chain letters. My mailbox is where they came to die of lack of love and sunlight. My Facebook Messenger, too, but that’s another story.
This chain letter intrigued me. There was no money involved. Instead, you sent a postcard to the person at the top of the list and forwarded the letter to three of your friends. In a couple of weeks, you would get postcards from hundreds of people. Somehow exponential growth came into play.
What if these actually work?
Maybe I shouldn’t be presumptuous. Had I ever tested my skepticism? Why not see if any of those chain letter schemes actually worked? Maybe I had been missing out on some great rewards.
And, I had a free postcard.
Among my manufactured mail was an advertising postcard. Imprinted in bold, glossy colors was the head of a goat with floppy ears and a massive ear tag. The company that sent me the postcard sold ear tags.
That’d work.
Yes, I did: I addressed that postcard to the girl whose name was at the top of the list. I think she lived in Washington state. Somewhere far away, fortunately.
I gave it a try
I sent the three letters on to my friends. This seemed like such an easy chain letter that maybe it would work and I would get some postcards.
It didn’t work. I got nothing out of the deal.
But to this day, I think of that poor girl in Washington who sat by her front door dreaming of mail! Of colorful postcards with striking mountain scenes or lovely flowers or peaceful ocean waves. Postcards are usually like that.
Instead, she got a postcard of a goat and its ear tag.
Let that soak in for a minute.
But there is a moral to this story: don’t send me a chain letter unless you like ear tags.
Like this:
Like Loading...
by Kathy Brasby | Oct 29, 2020 | Humor, Stories, Winter
When an arctic blast of winter air hits Colorado, I’m reminded of the year I learned the value of keeping one’s thinking well-thawed.
Many years ago, our group of 20-somethings been told that the best time to ski the Colorado Rockies was on New Year’s Day because there were no crowds. We weren’t party people anyway so the idea of no lines sounded too good to pass up.
We arrived early at the ski slope, hauled equipment to the lodge, and began putting on our gear for the day. The snow squealed as we walked and my hands wanted more heat before we even got the day started.
We Didn’t Check the Temperature Immediately
“It’s cold,” I told a friend. “I think I’ll stay inside by the fire and drink hot chocolate.”
She nodded. “I might join you.”
Just then, one of the guys in the group burst through our fair-weather group with lift tickets in his hand. “I got enough for all of us. I figured there’d be lines later, but there weren’t any now.” And he began handing out the tickets. The expensive, no-refund lift tickets.
I studied mine. Could I re-sell it? I studied the lodge. Some skiers had their tickets already. Prepared like us. Some were settling into comfy chair near the fire, feet clad in thick wool socks already exposed to the fire. Not likely I could re-sell to them.
So no takers looked likely.
So I Buckled Up
I snapped the stiff, cold buckles on my ski boots and hobbled outside, where the frigid air slapped both cheeks and froze the gloss on my lips. Oh, good. What a great start to the day: my lips already frozen.
I popped my rigid boots into the ski bindings and skated to the lift. Nothing seemed to bend. Not the boots or the bindings. Or my knees, for that matter.
Well, surprise. There was no line at all for the lift. Usually I had to wait ten to thirty minutes for the privilege of plopping my cold bottom onto a lift bench and riding through the icy air to the top of the mountain. That day, the white expanse of snow was unmarred. No skiers on it yet.
Those who told us there’d be no lines had been right. New Years Day didn’t have a crowd.
Although I quickly discovered another reason for the lack of a crowd. As I settled onto a lift bench, I got a quick glance at a blackboard nailed to the outside of the warming hut. Written in shaky white letters was the news of the day: it was -38 degrees.
What Was I Doing?
I was outside at 38 degrees below zero? I pulled my stocking cap a little lower on my head. My hair crackled stiffly.
“Follow me.” This was the same guy who had bought the lift tickets. The whole group followed anyway. We were cold sheep, obviously. We let the lift push us through slashing cold air to the top of the lift and then glided toward another ski lift.
“Where are we going?”
“To the top of the mountain. The skiing is great up there.” This from my enthusiastic ticket friend. Although I was questioning the term friend.
The weather doesn’t get warmer as you go up the mountain. Instead, the snow squealed with each turn of the ski. We were cautious. Nobody wanted to fall onto the crunchy slope.
The Lodge Looked Like My Friend
At the top, I made a fast run to the midway lodge with the air slicing through my eyelashes like ice spikes. I couldn’t feel my nose. My ski bindings squealed and my fingers were ten slender ice cubes.
Our group ducked inside the lodge for hot chocolate and a fireplace. The guys with mustaches sported icicles from their upper lips which began to drip in the warmth of the lodge.
Any exposed skin was either bright red or white.
This was fun, right? We paid for this, right? I threw an icy look at my ticket-buying ex-friend but he was deep into coffee and didn’t notice.
An employee wandered by. “We’re watching for frostbite. If we see anything suspicious, we’ll send you back to the lodge.”
Understood.
Out We Went For Round Two
Still working hard to get our money’s worth from those tickets, we finished off the hot chocolate and went out again. We were all inspected before we could ride a lift and one of the women who had sat in the lodge the longest flunked.
“You have to go in now,” the lift attendant told her.
“I have been inside for an hour,” she said.
He shrugged. Her cheeks were white as ice, and she went back in to thaw out more.
The rest of us made another fast run back to the midway lodge and stopped for more hot chocolate. The hot drink vendor was making a killing.
Are We Skiing All Day?
When we were all seated around a table, hats and gloves thawing as we drained hot drinks, I asked, “Are we going to ski all day?”
“Why not?” said the ex-friend. “The snow is fantastic.”
An employee came up to the table before I could toss a thawed-out retort. “You all OK?”
“Yeah, but minus 38 degrees is pretty challenging,” I said.
“Oh, it’s not minus 38,” he said. “Up here, it’s minus 50 with wind chill.”
Turns out we’d been told correctly: there were no lines on that New Year’s Day. Not everyone had frozen brains.
Like this:
Like Loading...
by Kathy Brasby | Oct 15, 2020 | Family, Humor, Stories
When it comes to communication, I am a pathetic representative of my generation. I’d rather send an email than stick a letter in the mail. I’d rather text than call.
I quit giving cards with gifts to the family because they opened the card long enough to read who the gift was from and then moved on to the gift.
If they want to know who gave the gift, I can do that easy enough. I use a Sharpie to write my name on the outside of the wrapper. 
But I keep a few cards in a box for emergencies. I have a few generic birthday cards and some thank you notes. I am not totally without class.
Today I pulled out a nice “I miss you and glad you wrote to update me” card. It was decorated with soft blues and linen surrounding a gentle photo of an orange and yellow flower arrangement. I was impressed with the beauty of this card and knew that it was perfect for my friend, who prefers letters to email and cards to texting.
Technically, she requires letters because she doesn’t have an email address. It’s amazing we’re still friends based on my communication skills.
I jotted a few lines to my friend, wrote her address on the card, and then finished up the project by sliding the card into the envelope.
I had a new problem. The card and envelope didn’t match. The card was too big. What in the world? The envelope was even the same creamy linen color as the card. They had to match. But, nope.
Now I had a card with a handwritten note. I hardly wrote anything by hand after I learned to type. Cursive is over-rated when you can grab a keyboard. I wasn’t willing to re-write that note.
I went searching for another envelope in my box. I found a graduation card for my niece who has now been teaching middle schoolers for 9 years. A high school graduation card.
I found a birthday card to my brother, signed, sealed, and never mailed. Oops.
The last time I went to a funeral with my sister, she brought a sympathy card for me. She knew. My card inventory is like a six-inch rain in the desert: a drop every six inches.
So I went back to my perfect card and tried again, hoping somehow that the envelope would stretch. Maybe over time, it had mellowed into a larger size. Nope. Wishful thinking is sometimes synonymous with foolish thinking.
Then I spotted my paper cutter. I slid the top of the card under the knife. Zip. Voila! Now it fit.
I hope I didn’t cut off my signature, but what are return addresses for, anyway?
So that card is now in an envelope and ready to go to the mailbox.
With my track record for mailing cards, I hope I can remember how to do that.
Like this:
Like Loading...
