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.
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by Kathy Brasby | Oct 1, 2020 | Country life, Family, Humor, Stories
The other day, I opened our upright freezer and watched the Abominable Snowman ski down the ice and into the bottom drawer.
Hmm, I thought, maybe it’s time to defrost.
Take pity on my family. Decry my lack of character. But I like defrosting a freezer as much I like trimming toenails on our dog. But, speaking of the dog, there was an idea.
Our dog is a friendly guy and he eats like a healthy teenage boy. I don’t need to just toss him a bone. I can toss him a sliced eggplant and he’d give it a try. Birthday cake, zucchini, sour cream – all snarfed up quickly.
He even drinks almond milk if it comes his way.
So Scout was intrigued by the carton of vanilla ice cream I managed to tug from the icy grip of the freezer.
To be honest, there was only about an inch of vanilla ice crystals in the bottom of the carton but Scout licked all the ice cream and then tore the carton to shreds.
So, for my project tally: one item out of the freezer and now lying like confetti in the backyard. Score. I think. The jury may still be out on that.
I found five ice cube trays filled with egg whites and yolks. One year, when I had too many eggs, I thought this would be a good way to save excess eggs. Maybe it was but it would have been better to take the egg cubes out of the trays after they froze.
I mean immediately because when I did take them out of the trays the other day, they were powdered eggs. Surprisingly, Scout didn’t care much for them.
I rescued some frozen cookies. They weren’t too bad and, besides, is there really a bad home-baked cookie? They got eaten – and not by Scout. I have young men around and they still remember the pleasure of teenage eating patterns.
I found a quarter of a bag of Brussel sprouts encased in ice. When did I buy those? I can’t think of one recipe I use that calls for Brussel sprouts and I don’t think anybody in the family will touch them.
You’re thinking that Scout might but I didn’t give them to Scout. I have chickens for things like that. This may explain how Scout sometimes gives them the evil eye when he wanders past their run. They got a treat he missed out on.
I also uncovered a bag of sausages. Or hot dogs. Or aged cucumbers. I was not really sure so I left them for further review. Later. And I stepped away slowly.
There were shelves of question-mark bags that will need review. They seem to fall into the category of “Why on earth did I save that?”
But, in watching Scout’s joy as he pulverizes a carton of frozen bone broth, maybe I have my answer.
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by Kathy Brasby | Sep 24, 2020 | Country life, Humor, Stories
Every fall, when the sweet scent of our goat ladies fills the air, Rocket the buck lifts his massive head and lets the perfume of females push any semblance of wisdom out of his brain. He is focused on romance and nothing else matters.
Like fences, for example. Fences don’t matter.
Rocket spent several months in his own private pasture – his bachelor pad complete with shed, water tank, and lots of green grass. All he needed was a popcorn machine and he’d be set.
Until fall came. Suddenly the fence between him and the girls was nothing more than a slight distraction. There was actually a small but empty pasture between him and the does but he somehow appeared in the buffer pasture.
The second fence line was no different than the first but two fences in a row were apparently too much to manage. So far. But we didn’t like our odds because if he could clear one fence, he could clear another.
So why didn’t he? Maybe we were assuming incorrectly about his fence ability. We hid behind the trash dumpster and watched.
Wouldn’t you hide behind a trash dumpster if you wanted to watch your male goat scale a fence? Yeah, well, the neighbors sure speeded up as soon as they saw the scene. Pedal to the metal, zoom, and they were out of sight. Like your kids when you announce it’s time to clean the house. Zip, zoom, gone.
We ignored the neighbors so we were watching when Rocket reared back, put two front hooves midway up the fence, and pulled it down. Our boy wasn’t a pole vaulter. In fact, he was barely a hurdler. Once he pulled the fence down, he was more of a hopper.
He made a beeline for the second fence and I raced into the pen to grab him before he used that hip-hop strategy again. I led him back into his own pasture and straightened up the woven wire. Maybe if I laced some 2x4s through the wire, he couldn’t push it down.
I turned my back to look for boards and he was at the second fence again. Like Star Trek transport. Fading out and then fading in at the fence line. This was handy stuff for our Rocket in love.
Back he went to his own pasture.
I then started for the second fence, to study any weaknesses there. He beat me to the second fence.
That was pretty fast hip-hop. “Scotty, beam me up” fast. “Look at me, Mom” while riding a bicycle down a steep hill kind of fast. Rocket on jet skies.
His big fluttering eyes and flashing white teeth impressed me much less than the does and I took him back to his pasture. Maybe I was a little grumpy this time. I’m not admitting to anything.
I blinked and he was at the second fence again.
We had words.”Rocket, you will get your time with the girls. Just not yet. You gotta wait a little while.”
He went over the fence again.
We finally ran a single strand of electric fence along the top of the woven wire. The next time Rocket had Scotty slide the levers for transport, he got a little jolt of electricity on the nose. He was pretty shocked at this development but circled around like a kid zoning in on the cookie jar.
It only took lovestruck Rocket two buzzes on the nose until he stayed in his own pen.
He might not have had much wisdom in that lovestruck brain but apparently an electric fence spoke his language.
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by Kathy Brasby | Mar 23, 2020 | Stories
I’ve enjoyed sharing some stories with you on this website but now I’m going to take a break for a while. I have several big projects looming and I want to get a handle on them. I hope to take the stories I’ve shared and compile them into a small book. You’ll hear about that when I get that goal done (another of my big projects.) Thanks for your encouragement. I’ll be sharing things from time to time so I hope you stay tuned.
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by Kathy Brasby | Mar 16, 2020 | Cats, Country life, Humor, Stories
A friend recently asked me for advice about bringing a cat into her home. This alone put me on alert since my knowledge of cats is limited to our barn cats plus the kitten we rescued a few months ago.
Since our rescued kitten turned into a friendly but ferocious tiger (read that adventure here), my friend thought she ought to get input on the perfect kitten.
I offered to do the online search for her.
Typing in “How to find the perfect breed of cat” seemed like an appropriate search.
Sure enough, there are scads of cat breed selectors online. Okie-Dokie, I jumped right in.
The first question asked, “How energetic would your ideal cat be?” After our rescued kitten adventure, I opted for a relaxed vibe.
Next up was how vocal would this ideal cat be? I could visualize a cat howling on the backyard fence, so I choose rarely makes a peep.
So far, so good. On to personality traits. Hmmm, I thought my friend would enjoy calm and affectionate.
I also thought her ideal cat would like a mix of social time and alone time, so I checked that box.
My friend didn’t want a long-haired cat with all the loose hairs and she wasn’t interested in grooming much. I chose rarely or never on the grooming thing.
With anticipation, I clicked the button to reveal the perfect breed.
Sorry, no match was found.
So there’s no short-haired cat who is quiet, calm, affectionate, and can hang out alone or with somebody. I should have known.
I had to tell my friend that there is no perfect breed for her.
She didn’t fall for it. She’s not taking our little tiger anyway.
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by Kathy Brasby | Mar 9, 2020 | Humor, Stories, Travel
“What do you think this says?” my husband studied a small box he’d lifted from the shelf at the grocery store. “Do you know any of these words?”
We were in a grocery store in Nogales, Mexico many years before Google Translate was available on our phones.
Translation was apparently my responsibility on this shopping excursion, so I browsed the ingredient list.
Browsed in the sense that I tried to put letters together to make words. I knew the letters, but I didn’t know the words.
“Well, this picture could have something to do with an antibiotic,” I said.
His frowned. “That picture could be a pumpkin for all I can tell.”
He was right. The printing was not clear.
We should have brought a translator, but the available ones weren’t available. They were tending to our son’s wounded knee.
Our family had come to Nogales for a week to repair a church building. Somehow, in the construction, our son’s knee had connected with something rough and hard. We had been sent in search of antibiotic cream while they cleaned the gash.
We went, confident that we were reasonably intelligent adults. A bit too optimistic since we were in a Spanish-speaking country where we didn’t know the word for antibiotic. We didn’t even know the word for first aid or bandage.
Finally, we settled on a slender box that appeared to have an image of a wound along with the brand name printed on the front plate. It could have been a logo of a whirlwind, too. We weren’t sure, but there was a tube in the box. Close enough for the clueless.
We took our find back to the church and handed the box over to the nurse. She pulled out the tube.
Sometimes you wish you had a translator and you don’t. Sometimes you have a translator and wished you didn’t.
She translated for us then. In between giggles.
Instead of buying antibiotic cream for our son’s knee, we’d picked up a tube of Preparation H.
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