by Kathy Brasby | Apr 28, 2015 | Stories
We can be a little frugal (I avoided other terms like penny-pincher and scrooge-like) in our family.
That’s why our daughter decided to spend a day crafting her own wire rabbit cage. Cheaper that way. I mean, frugal, of course.
She discovered some extra wire panels behind the garage and set to work with her materials in front of the tool shed.
She had to bend corners, crimp the back and front panels onto the main framework, design her own doorway into the cage.
She spent most of the time on her knees twisting and binding wire.
And then it was done.
She took a step back to admire the cage. It fairly glowed in the afternoon sun.
Her back ached, her hands were sore, and she decided she needed a little recreation after the big project.
We had 40 acres of open pasture and so a run on the four-wheeler looked invigorating.
Off she went. At 14, she hadn’t started training for her driver’s license but she handled the four-wheeler with experience.
She zipped across trails, feeling the wind blow through her hair. She made a loop around the house, leaning into the turn.
The cool early-evening air sliced past her as she drove on and on.
And then she swung around the chicken house with a little more speed than she intended and the four-wheeler refused to turn tightly.
She didn’t want to roll her vehicle so she eased out of the sharp turn.
Just in time to see what was ahead of her on the path.
She spent most of the day building her own rabbit cage but it only took about three seconds to flatten it with those big four-wheel tires.
by Kathy Brasby | Apr 21, 2015 | Stories
You know that some people show dogs and some show horses so it shouldn’t shock you that some people show rabbits, too.
At these shows, rabbits are required to have a tattoo in their left ear. A rabbit missing a tattoo is disqualified from a class.
Josie had three rabbits to show in one class and she had crutches after knee surgery. So friends offered to carry her entries to the show table.
“Check the tattoos,” she called out, “to be sure you have the right rabbit.”
Nicole peeked in the ear. “Um, Josie, there’s no tattoo.”
“None? Oh, dear.” Josie looked around. She was surrounded by other rabbit breeders and she lifted her voice. “Who has a tattoo pen with them?”
Somebody always had a tattoo pen.
“I’ll do it.” Terry held up her tattoo pen. “What is the tattoo in the ear?”
Josie checked her paperwork. “SPCOCOA.”
“Really.” Terry studied her for a moment. “In that ear you want me to put all that?”
Nicole fidgeted. A muffled voice blasted from the speakers above. “They’re calling for entries. We need to hurry.”
Josie threw her hands up. “Oh, it doesn’t matter. Get whatever you can and we can substitute at the table.”
So that’s how a little brown rabbit named Cocoa ended up, for life, with the number one in her ear.
by Kathy Brasby | Apr 14, 2015 | Stories
My husband, sometimes known as the salvage king because he can spot diamonds in the rough from the far side of a yard sale, found a satellite dish for the taking a few years ago. You know the kind: 9 feet tall and once proof that the homeowner was a techie pioneer but now are older than your grandmother’s television.
He dumped the dish in our pasture until he could make a run to the recycler. “I put it face down so the kids wouldn’t get caught under it,” he assured me. Good plan because at that time our kids were pretty good at exploring in places where they didn’t belong.
He dumped – er, tenderly laid – the dish in the far corner of our 35-acre pasture. Shortly after, as the lovely prairie grass began to wave in the wind, we turned our sheep and goats loose to fend for themselves. It was much easier than tossing hay to them.
A few weeks later, I was doing my daily check of the herd and I could not find three baby goats. When you have 35 acres of rolling pasture, three little goats can find a lot of places to hide. I marched all 35 acres.
I was more concerned than their mothers, who munched the endless supply of prairie grass with no worries.
As I was completing my pasture sweep, our daughter said, “Be sure to check under the dish.”
“Oh, right. The dish that is lying face down on the ground so that you couldn’t get under it.”
She shrugged. “It wouldn’t hurt to look.”
So we looked. Three baby goats staggered out from under their dark cave.
I don’t know how they got under there. I don’t know why their mothers didn’t stand guard. I don’t know why it occurred to our daughter to suggest we search there.
But I do know those baby goats survived. And, boy, were they thirsty.
by Kathy Brasby | Mar 24, 2015 | Stories
I didn’t think we were going to Cuba until two days before we boarded an airplane at Cancun and headed east. “Americans can’t go to Cuba,” I told our missionary host.
Fortunately, he ignored me and we went.
Four days were spent in Havana and the trip also included a van trip across the island to the mountains at the east end.
Our first night in Havana, we went to a fancy restaurant where waitresses wore black dresses, white aprons and white caps. Like old-fashioned maids. Glittering crystal adorned each table with heavy silverware resting on starched napkins at each place setting.
And a pianist filled the air with sweet music.
When he saw us, he recognized us as Americans. Americans are rich in Cuba. No matter what money we had.
So he immediately began playing tunes by Frank Sinatra. Cuba, in case you haven’t heard, is largely lodged in the 1950’s and the musician must have assumed that Sinatra melodies would net him some nice tips.
Emboldened by his strong Sinatra performance, the pianist then approached our table. “I know many American songs,” he said. “What would you like to hear?”
My husband leaned toward him. “Could you play Amazing Grace?”
The man frowned slightly as he searched his memory banks. He finally shook his head. “I do not know that one.”
We smiled at each other and then my husband surrendered. “How about some Sinatra?”
“Oh, yes, sir!” The pianist scurried back to the piano and ironically played instead I Did it My Way.
by Kathy Brasby | Mar 17, 2015 | Stories
When our younger son turned 13, he informed me that, although he needed a new bottle of shampoo, he did not want the cheap stuff he’d been using for years. “I want manly shampoo,” he announced.
I understood he might not want to use foofoo shampoo like lilac or rose, but what’s wrong with strawberry and coconut? If it’s good enough to be in dessert, it’s good enough to wash hair.
But I have not yet untangled the male mind. I thought, having two brothers, two sons and a husband, I could get some insight. Why not ask them?
When my brothers were boys, they had contests to see how much fruit they could cram in their mouths. One day my younger brother stuffed so much banana in his mouth that he couldn’t move his tongue until the banana dissolved.
So, after we were adults, I cornered him. “Remember the banana incident?”
“Yeah,” he said drawing his words out like cold molasses.
“So why did you do that?” This was a prime decoding opportunity.
He lifted his shoulders. “I don’t have a clue.”
Some help that was.
One day I watched our 12-year-old son and friend challenge his 6-year-old sister to foot races. Every time the boys crossed the finish line ahead of the 6-year-old, they did a victory dance only matched by my mother when I came home with an engagement ring.
I described the scene at dinner to my husband. “Why would those boys get any joy out of beating a little girl in a foot race? They were older, faster, bigger. What fun was that?” Surely my husband could shed light on the issue.
He lifted his shoulders. “Testosterone causes brain damage.”
Like that was helpful.
Those stories clanged around in my brain as I stood with my younger son at the shampoo aisle. Still trying to learn about a guy’s thinking, I turned him loose. He was my newest study.
We came home with manly shampoo. He rushed to the shower. In the middle of the afternoon.
This was the boy who showered like the cowboys in the westerns: after every cattle drive. And we didn’t have cattle.
Still damp, he rushed out of the bathroom and held his dripping hair under my nose. “Smells manly, huh?” he said.
“Oh, yeah,” I assured him. Then he thrust his forearm in my face.
“Smell that.” Apparently he had manly soap, too. I told him he was very manly and he was satisfied.
I might ask what banana-stuffing, footrace whupping and woodsy shampoo have in common.
Apparently they’re among the pieces in building a man.
by Kathy Brasby | Mar 10, 2015 | Stories
When our hobby farm was at full capacity, we milked several Nubian goats every day. One morning, when I started chores in our milking room, my 4-year-old daughter climbed onto a large wooden feed box at the back of the room and peered behind it.
“Mom, there’s a cat back there.”
Oh, great. There weren’t supposed to be any cats in that room. “Is it dead or alive?”
She studied the gap between the box and the wall. “Dead. Can I pick it up?”
“No!” Yeuck. What now? Why did my sweet husband go to work 40 miles away when it would have been nice to turn that dead cat over to him? I was home alone. Well, me and a curious preschooler.
“Leave it alone,” I added before she got any new ideas for exploration. She huffed and crossed her arms but stayed atop the box with her feet dangling on my side.
I drew in a long breath, avoiding any images of this dead cat smashed against the wall.
I had to deal with it on my own. Where there any empty feed bags around? How was I going to pick up this thing?
Maybe I milked a little slower that morning. Why did adults get to be the responsible ones?
Believing strongly in the principle that it’s better to face the horror than have it hanging over your head all day, I finished the barn chores and took a deep breath.
Hand sanitizer. Check. Thick trash bags. Check. Facemask. Check.
Back into the milking room I marched, my daughter close on my heels. She wouldn’t miss this for the world. Sigh.
I leaned slowly over the feed box and looked down the gap. There, tattered and soiled, lay a purple and white stuffed cat toy.
“You said it was dead,” I said to my daughter.
“Well, it’s not alive.”
A lesson on the nuances of words. Check.
