by Kathy Brasby | May 26, 2015 | Stories
I knew things were going to get a little sticky when I uncovered an ink refill for a printer that I don’t remember owning.
I had cracked open my archive box to search for a CD (I’ve already dated this story, huh? My latest computer doesn’t even have a CD drive).
But archive box sounds fancy, doesn’t it? Downright organized.
Mine is a plastic box with lid that contains CDs from programs I’ve installed. What a great idea, I thought when I got it. All my programs were safely stored in one place and protected from dust and stuff.
I don’t know why the ink refill was in the box. The printer must not have lasted long enough to even earn a refill.
Opening that box was like a trip down memory lane but without the warm fuzzy emotions. Unless confusion is considered warm and fuzzy.
Diving in was kind of like an archeological dig.
I uncovered a CD with a big black question mark scrawled on the label. What in the world? Who labels their CD with a question mark?
Me, obviously.
Although nobody accuses me of being well-organized (well, someone did once but that was before they saw my desk), I took some pride in my box as a shred of planning. Every program CD went into that box after installation.
I am proud to say that there were no 5 ½ inch floppies in there. Using my system, that’s a miracle.
I found programs that won’t run on anything newer than Windows 98 and I’m on an Apple platform now. I found programs for pre-schoolers. (Our youngest is 19.) I found a CD from our classical music days.
I’d like to blame this on the kids but they never open the box. They just run the programs and don’t mess with the details.
Wonder where they learned that?
I’m sure there’s a major life lesson in all this. But those lessons tend to roll off me like tumbleweeds crossing the prairie.
So here’s what I learned: I’m cleaning out the box.
That leaves more room for archiving.
by Kathy Brasby | May 19, 2015 | Stories
Grandma would watch the toddlers and our husbands wanted to watch the cars at the race track. So my sister and I decided on one of those free-spirit moments we’re good at.
In our little town, that meant a trip to Walmart.
As we wandered past the fragrance aisle, Sis decided we ought to try out some new scents.
Sample bottles littered the shelves but the fragrance doesn’t smell the same on the spray tip as it does on one’s skin. So we began, spraying a scent on a wrist. Then trying a different fragrance on the other wrist.
When there are over 30 bottles available to try, you run out of body places after awhile.
We had scent on the inside of each arm, with new spots of fragrance from wrist to shoulder. We spritzed the tip of each finger and thought about trying ankles and knees.
Even for us, that was too weird.
So, not finding a scent that really wowed us, we moved on.
Far from the fragrance aisle, I picked up a scent that I liked.
“Smell this one.” I thrust my forearm under her nose and she took a deep draw.
“I do, too,” she said. “I guess it took time to blossom. Let’s go get it.”
We headed back.
Sample bottles of fragrance do not smell the same in the bottle as on the skin.
We sniffed spray tips and spritzed fragrances in the air. But sample bottles of fragrance don’t smell the same in the bottle as on the skin. We couldn’t find our special scent.
We left the fragrance aisle smelling like the flower truck had collided with a fruit stand.
Smart women would have kept a chart of fragrance and location on the arm so it would have been simple to connect the sample fragrance with the label.
I called us free spirits. I never said we were smart.
by Kathy Brasby | May 12, 2015 | Stories
Pushing the beaters into my mixer was guaranteed to bring at least one small person into the kitchen. A little like how the cat responded to the electric can opener.
No, exactly like the cat’s response.
So my four-year-old son appeared at my elbow right after I clicked in the beaters.
“Let’s make shape cookies,” he said, pushing a chair to the counter.
Impressive. The process to make sugar cookies cut into shapes with cookie cutters took longer. But I would teach him.
We mixed our cookie dough. “Now, we start with a ball, like this.” I scooped a handful of dough from the bowl and rolled it in my palms.
He watched intently, his nose drawing closer and closer to my hands. Yes, he was being a good student.
“Then I put the ball on the counter.” I set it lightly on the flour I had sprinkled out. “And then we use a rolling pin to flatten the dough.”
His eyes were glued to the dough. I rolled out the mixture into a smooth thin pancake and let him press the cookie cutters into it.
He selected a star. “That one looks like an explosion.”
What a creative idea for a cute little guy.
“I’ll do it this time,” he told me after the first batch was transferred to cookie sheets.
Maybe I was training a future chef. He took initiative and had obviously absorbed my careful directions.
He grabbed a handful of dough from the bowl and squeezed it hard.
“Well, you might not—“
Too late. He slapped the crushed dough onto the counter and began pounding it with the side of his fist until the mixture surrendered into an uneven flat lump.
For me, baking cookies is about the aroma and flavor.
For my would-be little chef, apparently it was more about hand-to-hand combat.
by Kathy Brasby | May 5, 2015 | Stories
I got fresh insight yesterday into why God gives us sons after the snake convention.
Training to compete in 5K runs is totally misusing the word “compete” but there I was yesterday, getting in another two-mile run in preparation for my next 5K run. I compete only in the sense that I can outrun the walkers. For the most part.
But yesterday I decided to take one of my favorite running routes. I jogged on the road beside an irrigation canal, where I can watch the calming waters flow past me while the long green grass framing the road reaches out to touch my legs.
It was a peaceful run until something moved beside me as I ran. Something big. Something worth stopping and turning around to look.
A 30-foot long snake as thick as a car tire was coiled up, its tail shaking in fierce anger while its tongue darted in and out. At least that was my first impression.
And I ran within a foot of this furious monster.
I finally went on after my heart rate settled a bit, returned cautiously, and then came across a second snake sprawled across my path. At least it didn’t curl into a hissing coil as I sprinted by.
I had to tell someone this story so, when I got home, I marched into the computer room where both sons happened to be discussing some video game.
I told them what had happened.
Had our daughters heard this first, they would have gasped with fear or concern.
“Are you all right?” they probably would have said. “Were you scared? Did you get light-headed?” Stuff like that.
But I got to tell the sons first.
After I finished my tale about running with snakes, the older leaned forward with something sparkling in his eyes and said, “I’ll bet that really helped your pace today.”
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.