by Kathy Brasby | Mar 3, 2015 | Stories
The hen had left the nest in the morning, leading her weaving thread of chicks behind her as she investigated the landscape that she hadn’t seen in a month.
Setting on a nest of eggs takes commitment and the willingness to stare at a wall for a month. The hen was ready to stretch her legs a bit.
When we happened onto the nest in our barn, eggs had been left behind.
“Why didn’t these hatch?” the four-year-old asked.
“Not all the eggs hatch. It’s just the way it is,” I said. Meaning, I didn’t know what had happened and didn’t really care.
But I might not have cared about these left-behind eggs but our son did. He leaned over the nest, with the lonesome trio of eggs.
“I hear something.”
“What?”
It does no good for your self-esteem to realize the 8-year-old can hear what you can’t anymore. Maybe those rock bands hadn’t been so good after all…
He bent over the nest. “I hear pecking.” He studied the eggs. “There.” He lifted an egg and pointed to a hole at one end. “I hear pecking in there.”
How to explain to a child that there’s no hope? I did it badly. “The hen left already. These aren’t going to hatch.”
He held the egg close to eye. If there was pecking going on, he ran the risk of taking a beak in his iris. “I see something.”
So he convinced me. We took the egg into the house and laid it on newspapers on the floor. I’m not sure why we did either thing, but he and his younger sister studied the motionless egg. Until it moved.
Yeah, it moved.
“I’m going to help it,” he said. He began breaking bits of the eggshell. “See? It’s moving?”
Conventional wisdom said to let the chick get itself out of there but I was beyond all that. Let the kids figure this out on their own.
The chick made it. Out of the shell and into life. Its mother had moved on with a whole stream of fuzzy babies. Our son decided to raise this one.
And he did until four months later when it pecked him on the cheek and he banished it to the barn with the other chickens.
What a journey for a persistent little chick and its persistent rescuer.
by Kathy Brasby | Jan 20, 2015 | Stories
The nest was empty. After almost four weeks of waiting – four weeks of fluffy yellow duckling dreams – all the nests were empty.
The ducks had done their part, filling four nests with beautiful eggs.
And now some varmint had raided the nests.
Raccoon. We were sure of it. We knew raccoons darted in and out of the nearby corn fields, waiting for the ears to start to ripen before they ripped them free with those crafty little hands and gorged themselves.
The same mask that makes a raccoon cute to most stuffed-animal connoisseurs signaled something different to us on our hobby farm. We saw them as little thieves.
And now one had dashed our hopes of a crop of ducklings.
“I’m going to get a humane trap,” my husband said, his arms folded over his flannel shirt.
We found one at the local farm supply store and set it up.
On night one, we failed to put any tempting food in the trap. Nothing happened.
On night two, we realized we had set the plate too tight after the critter ate our bait without springing the trap.
Night three caught our cat.
We tiptoed into the barn after night four. The trap had been dislodged from its spot and the dirt floor was plowed and furrowed. We couldn’t see the trap, now hidden behind some metal leaned against the wall.
Finally we had scored.
We rushed around the barrier to gloat over our raccoon.
“Whoa,” my husband was leading the pack and he stopped with the gang piling into his back.
“What?” The youngest couldn’t see past the mob and started to push her way forward.
The crowd could have stepped aside but we were all busy rushing away.
All because our raiding raccoon, that detested varmint, turned out to be a raiding skunk instead.
Next week: what to do when a skunk is angry and trapped in your barn.
by Kathy Brasby | Jan 13, 2015 | Stories
One summer I blended a bright idea about how to get more mail with a chain letter opportunity and sideswiped a poor teenage girl.
I was 14 at the time and wanted to bring mail into the house that was addressed to me. So when I ran across a 4-H list of places I could write for free stuff, I wrote.
I got a cardboard chart illustrating how to tie 10 different knots. I got a full-color brochure explaining why Angus were the better breed and another brochure touting Herefords over Angus. But the key piece to my story was the free postcard with a close-up shot of a goat with a big green ear tag.. Yeah, compliments of the ear tag company.
At about this same time, my mail included a chain letter. This one promised the chance to get fun postcards from all across the company.
All I had to do was send a postcard to the first name on the list, add my name to the bottom, and send the letter out to several friends. I did the calculations. By the time my name got to the top of the list, I had a chance of 18 postcards.
Why not give it a try once?
After all, I had a free postcard.
So I mailed the ear-tagged goat to the top name on the list, a girl who lived somewhere in Oregon.
And I sent off my chain letters.
I never got a postcard. Nada. None.
I never did another chain letter. And I’ll bet the poor girl who got the smiling ear-tagged goat didn’t either.
by Kathy Brasby | Dec 30, 2014 | Stories
Late on Christmas day several years ago, we bundled our family into the car and headed for a ski trip in the Colorado mountains.
The gift-giving had been trimmed back so that we could enjoy this ski outing but my husband wanted to do something special for the family on our travel that evening.
“Let’s stop at that nice steak house on the interstate,” he said.
So we did. They were closed. It was, after all, Christmas day.
Hmmm. We hadn’t thought of that so we continued to the next town and pulled in, thinking the Chinese restaurant there might work well.
Closed.
We were starting to get a clue, finally. But we had five kids in the car and the Christmas cookies were wearing off. They were restless.
“Let’s try a fast-food place.” My husband had set his heart on a special mealtime family gathering but his stomach was growling, too.
Closed.
Grocery stores were closed. Walmart was closed.
We were about to take stock of the energy bars that might have been left in coat pockets when my husband spotted a 7-Eleven convenience store open.
We turned the kids loose. “Find something to eat.”
Because there’s virtually nothing healthy in a snack place like that, the kids were not bound to a balanced meal. They grabbed chips and popcorn and gallons of fountain drinks.
Their parents have felt guilty for years for not having enough foresight to avoid such a disappointment. We wanted to give them a nice steak dinner but instead offered candy bars and peanuts.
But I have been assured by our older son not to worry.
“I got a fistful of dill pickles,” he said. “Best Christmas dinner ever!”
by Kathy Brasby | Dec 16, 2014 | Stories
Our pool table resided in the basement, piled high with boxes of outgrown clothes and books to be donated.
I listed the pool table for sale. That way the boxes could go away.
A young man showed up with his buddy.
I had asked $35 for the pool table because I had bought it for $25 at a yard sale. But it was a slate top pool table and connoisseurs liked that idea.
So this young man examined the slate and did a verbal fist pump. “Slate! I can sell this table anywhere for $200.”
I smiled. I just wanted it out of my basement and wouldn’t mind getting my $25 back.
“Would you take $30 for it?”
“Sure,” I said.
“Well, I need to come back with a pickup. Could you hold it for me?”
“Sure, if you pay today.”
He studied the table and his buddy. Perhaps the $200 sale loomed before him. “I wonder if we can get it home now.”
So they jumped into the project. My help was finding all the pool balls, which I carried to their vehicle, a dented and rusty old station wagon.
They sweated and struggled and leaned against the stairway walls several times. Finally they and the table emerged from the house.
With more grunting and groaning, they hoisted the pool table onto the top of car.
“We’re good now,” the new buyer assured me.
Later, I watched them pull out of our driveway in a cloud of white dust. They had tied the table onto the top of the car, running the ropes through the windows. I didn’t get to see them shimmy through the windows to drive away.
And I thought my $30 sale was a whole lot more secure than his planned $200 sale.
by Kathy Brasby | Dec 2, 2014 | Stories
I’ve had two black eyes in my life. They both came in events so innocent that I can share the stories later.
That’s pretty amazing in itself.
I blame the first one on needing to pick up an elective class in my last semester of college. I chose an auto mechanics class for women.
The class unraveled the mysteries of internal combustion and banished all ideas of needing to replace lug nut valves on my car. Amazing class.
One of our projects was learning how to change the oil on our cars. It’s not that hard to do. Really.
Something that helps is having the right tools, which I didn’t have and didn’t want to spring big bucks for. So I made do.
Making do is a key element in too many of my stories, I’ve noticed.
But I digress.
I had a pipe wrench to loosen the oil pan drain plug. I clamped the wrench on the drain plug and then hammered the handle with whatever I could find. A hammer. A lead pipe. A big rock.
The wrench was beginning to move as the drain plug loosened. And then something happened.
“Something happened” could be my motto, now that I think about it…
But the wrench popped loose and bounced off my cheek. I could feel something warm below my eye and assumed I had knocked loose a contact lens.
So I made my way into the house to retrieve the lens.
Um, no, the lens was fine. But I had a one-inch gash from the errant wrench.
And the next day I had a Nike-swoosh-quality black eye.
I’d love to tell you that I learned not to make do. Or not use the wrong tool.
But my absolute best solution to this problem was when I married a top-quality mechanic who never let me change the oil again.
