by Kathy Brasby | Oct 28, 2019 | Country life, Family, Humor, Stories
I don’t like to go fishing. I respect those that do and am sure that I am missing out on a ton of fun. I am saying this so none of my love-to-fish friends mail me a catfish in a padded envelope.
Several years ago, some of our kids were invited to a special party at the local fishing pond. They couldn’t drive yet, so guess who had to go? 
I thought I could set up a seat at the water’s edge, get out a book and a cold drink, and enjoy the late summer afternoon while all the children flung hook and bobber into the murky depths. That didn’t sound so bad.
I settled into a comfy lawn chair and had read a couple of chapters when I heard my daughter shout. She stood on the dock, pole held high in the air, fish squirming at the end of the line.
Great. She’d caught a fish. Notice: no exclamation mark in these comments.
She wanted me to bring the tackle box. I jammed the bookmark in place and marched through the thick grass to the dock.
“Look at my fish! We gotta get the hook out before it gets hurt.”
What could get hurt? The fish? The hook? My reading time?
I set the tackle box on the rough wood of the dock and gazed into the tangle of hooks, bobbers, weights. How did one get a hook out of a fish?
She sensed my confusion. Or just got impatient. I’m never sure which. “Grab those pliers, Mom.”
OK, I knew pliers. I lifted the metal tool and held it out to her.
“I can’t do that,” she said with a voice that sounded like the whine of a jet engine starting up.
Like I could? “I don’t fish,” I said. Clearly, a boundary was in order here.
“I’ll hold the fish, and you get the hook out,” she said, gripping the squirmy fish in her nine-year-old hands.
Um, I don’t get hooks out. I stared at the fish, which gaped back. This was no time for a “who blinks first” contest. Do fish blink?
I drew a deep breath. Parenting involves more courage than you’d think. Extricating a hook from a fish’s mouth ranks pretty high on my “don’t want to do this” list, but it had to be done. I stepped closer.
My daughter squeezed the fish’s mouth open, and I raised the pliers, trying to find the right grip. Stalling.
And I got hit in the face with a blast of green pond water.
I looked up to see my five-year-old son standing a few feet away from me, holding a stained and wrinkled paper cup.
He gazed at the fish while I glared at him.
Then he saw me staring, and he shifted his weight. “I grabbed the cup from the edge of the pond,” he said. “And I scooped up some water.”
Why?
“I didn’t want the fish to die before you got the hook out, and I thought it might take a while,” he said.
“So, you scooped up the water and threw it in my face?”
He shrugged and tossed the cup down. “I missed.”
I still don’t like fishing. Don’t mail me catfish.
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by Kathy Brasby | Oct 21, 2019 | Family, Humor, Stories
I had just finished rinsing the shampoo out of my hair in the shower when my cell phone rang.
This was before all those scam calls that we all ignore. I actually thought I should answer the phone.
Photo by Tyler Lastovich on Unsplash
So I grabbed a towel and picked up the phone with a dripping hand. Who was calling?
My sister.
“Cover your eyes,” I said, draping myself with the towel. Water ran down my face and my hair hung in my eyes.
She hung up.
What was up with that? She knew I sometimes joke around.
Should I call her back? Should I dry myself off first?
The phone rang again. My sister’s face lit up the phone screen. So she’d accidentally hung up. She has a unique way with phones, and hanging up inadvertently is one of those ways.
As I pushed the accept button, I noticed that she had used FaceTime this time.
Um, Facetime is a video phone call, and I was standing sopping wet in front of the shower dressed only in a damp towel. I’d have hung up if I’d noticed all that in time.
Well, it was my sister, and she only had to see my dripping hair. I aimed the phone camera carefully.
“Why are you FaceTiming me?” I have a knack for insightful questions.
“I wanted you to see my new tooth.” She’d just gotten an implant at the dentist’s office, and so she stretched her mouth to reveal the tooth.
Sure enough. My screen filled with the inside of her mouth, including a sparkling new tooth.
“Cool,” I said. I was trying to remember how to switch the phone out of Facetime before she looked.
And then she started giggling. “Where are you?” She’d looked.
“Guess.”
“Yeah, whatever.” She tried to be polite. “I just got this new implant…..haha….and….snort….I wanted…haha….to show somebody.” She couldn’t hold it in. The laughter rose up from her toenails and gushed out.
Something about shower water running down my nose was funny to her.
So here we were, me getting water all over the bathroom floor and her filling my phone screen with her new tooth.
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 grandmothers 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 two sisters calling to share new teeth and dripping hair.
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by Kathy Brasby | Oct 7, 2019 | Family, Humor, Stories
This all started because I wanted to find a simple parking spot before the baseball game.
My son had invited me to attend a Colorado Rockies game.
Panorama by Timothy Brasby
With the baseball field in downtown Denver, parking can be a challenge. So I got online and found a deal so that we weren’t hassled by parking drama. He’d found great seats so surely I could find great parking.
We wound our way through the narrow streets in the downtown area and, finally, thanks to Apple Maps, found the spot. We parked in a relatively empty parking garage. That was a clue.
“Is this a residential area?” my son asked. Well, yeah, maybe so. Where was Coors Field anyway? Neither of us knew.
The online site had offered a 9-minute walk to the stadium for only $4. Since track and field has conquered the 4-minute mile, obviously a parking spot a mile away would take only 9 minutes to travel.
The online ad claimed a short .3 mile stroll. Apple Maps insisted it was a mile. Apple Maps knew.
My son was a good sport. We had strong legs, and the weather was beautiful. Away we went.
We crossed the street near a bar blasting music that would incite riots or serial killings. Yep, residential neighborhood for sure.
And then we saw a banner across an alley, warning “No Alchohol Past This Point.” Why would you keep alcohol out of the alley?
We found out shortly. First, we noticed that a Budweiser semi and a Busch semi were parked head to head on the street. The Busch truck had an open stage at the back end with some guys in delivery uniforms hammering on electric guitars and head-banging the lyrics. The Busch band?
Then a gaggle of guys wearing lederhosen and toting tankard filled the street before us. Being a polite baseball fan, I came to a complete halt before I ran into the groups heading for a booth.
There was a line of booths. I did not know there were so many kinds of beer. Booths for the well-knowns and booths for craft beers. And, of course, stalls for Wienerschnitzel and pretzels.
We had stumbled onto Oktoberfest in downtown Denver.
The Rockies’ mascot, Digger, came by.
Baseball memories were being made in the stadium and we were not there.
I wondered if Apple Maps had miscalculated. Maybe she sent us to Austria.
We had kept a 12-minute-mile pace before, but now we were sidestepping whole packs of people. We could see Coors Field in the distance now, like a mountain peak rising out of the mist.
This wasn’t the first time I was glad my son was 6’1” and lifted weights. Not to protect me but to plow a path through the crowd. People weren’t rowdy, but there were a lot of them. An ocean of people milled between Coors Field and us.
Three blocks later, we broke free, hustling into the open street where Coors Field rose majestically before us. It was almost as good as topping a 14,000-footer in the Rocky Mountains. Well, better since it’s really, really hard to conquer a 14-er, and we had accomplished this.
We could hear cheering. We were a little late, but we had made it. We stretched out our walk toward the main gate, ready to cheer on our baseball team.
“Did you notice?” my son said as we left the Oktoberfest crowd behind.
I glanced back at the Wiener schnitzel swarm. “What?”
“The Rockies are playing the Brewers tonight.”
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by Kathy Brasby | Sep 30, 2019 | Humor, Stories
I’m not really a hoarder but what do you do with that stuff you’ve been saving for a long time in a box you just discovered at the back of the closet?
Aha, you relate.
Theory A says that, if you haven’t seen the contents for a long time, just throw the box away and be done with it.
I’m way too curious for that.
It’s like Christmas inside such a box, only with things that are dusty and grimy. Other than the dirt, new treasures.
Photo by Hendri Sabri on Unsplash
who knew I had saved a keychain from Union Station in Kansas City?
What does one do with keys that you can’t identify? Throw them away? What if they are needed for a lock someday and I threw away the key?
On closer examination, I’m pretty sure one of the keys is to the office door where I worked before I was married. Maybe it could go.
I found two keys that looked like they opened a safe deposit box. Since we don’t have one, I suspect we had to pay a big fine to get the box opened a long time ago since I couldn’t find the keys. And I’m going to throw them away and waste that fine?
Then there are the paper clips. The bottom of the box was layered with paper clips. It feels wasteful to throw all those away.
Oh, boy, more keys melding with the paper clips. Do they multiply into clip keys?
There’s a single white Lego brick with a blue cone stuck on the top. Ah, memories of the little boy who built mansions with Legos. He’s out of college now, so maybe the brick could go.
Why on earth are there so many pen refills? I love a good pen but, since keyboards have invaded my life, I apparently don’t use pen ink much.
I already know to throw away the membership card to some club I forgot I ever belonged to. And the participation ribbon to some event that I neglected to record on the backside.
Business cards? To keep or to pitch? Most went in the trash, but I found one from a friend who is now deceased. Stays. And another from my brother. Stays.
I have a big box of brass plated fasteners, those brads that push through punched holes and then you bent the ends to hold papers together. I use a stapler these days, but I apparently am a collector of vintage supplies, so there’s that.
Oh, I just found two needles for inflating balls. In the office supplies. That could explain some things about our flat basketballs.
I also uncovered the combination to the padlock I used for four years of college. I still remember the combination. Well, after looking at the paper. No, I don’t know where the padlock is but think of the memories.
It gets worse: erasers, especially the ones that fit on the end of pencils. I don’t use pencils. A guitar pick. A marble. More keys. Another key ring.
Fortunately, I am not a hoarder. But if you ever need a pen refill, I’m your girl.
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by Kathy Brasby | Sep 16, 2019 | Family, Humor, Stories
In those carefree BK (Before Kids) days, I imagined baking cute birthday cakes for future kids. My mom used to make little train cakes with gumdrop windows. The train cars perched on licorice rails with a green coconut base. So cute. I knew it was in my blood.
I bought a puppy cake mold before I had kids. My first cake using that mold was a pile of crumbs that I shaped like the foothills of Colorado. Drizzling icing on top was supposed to mimic snow. I hoped nobody would notice because I didn’t have time to bake another cake.
One first-birthday cake was supposed to be a bright soccer ball but looked more like an egg that had fallen from the second floor.
Before Pinterest Fails were a thing, my cakes were trailblazing the way.
As some of the kids got older, they didn’t ask me for cake decorating advice. They invested time in 4-H cake decorating units. Kids can be wise sometimes.
One daughter learned how to decorate a one-layer cake for her first project.
She baked her show cake the afternoon before it had to be entered at the county fair. When the edge of the cake wouldn’t release from the pan, she solved the problem by cutting away the perimeter.
Most of the entered cakes were 8” round, but hers was more of a 5” lumpy. She slathered on icing, but it was like trying to hide Mount Everest under an ice cream cone. No champion ribbon that year.
Another daughter was the creative sort who felt stifled by the rules for the unit. When she was required to form a mat of frosting stars, she didn’t understand why the cake couldn’t show through. It would be like hiding the tuba in the marching band.
No blue ribbon that year, either.
Our son, at age 10, signed up to learn cake decorating and even went to a workshop where he and 25 girls learned the fine art of placing dots of frosting on waxed paper. This, of course, made no sense to him until he licked clean the frosting after the workshop.
We found out later that he signed up so that he could be in charge of the family birthday cakes. He figured if he’d finished cake decorating, I’d let him make the cakes.
Maybe to up his game with the frosting. Many family birthday cakes had a finger lick on the side before we got to the candles.
I never caught him in the act, but I suspect this had been a goal for his life since he was four.
His show cake came together on a hot summer day with frosting that needed a lot more sugar than he put in the bowl. Imagine a lava flow sliding across his design.
The lava-icing flow continued until he got the cake to the fairgrounds. His frosting border was supposed to be a circle but resembled the outline of Texas.
No blue ribbon that time either.
But his father bought back the cake, took it home, and served it to our family. Oh, yeah, everybody ate a piece.
We haven’t had any cute train cakes in our house, but one good thing has come from all this cake-decorating training: along as there is plenty of frosting, our family is content with a pile of cake crumbs.
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by Kathy Brasby | Aug 27, 2019 | House rehab, Humor, Stories
I am beginning to embrace the unique vibes of retro nerds. Retro isn’t necessarily my jam but you gotta try new things, right?
Besides, those sweet people are passionate about their favorite retro item, and I might be able to use them. Er, learn from them, of course.
I’m talking about CRT TV nerds. For the rest of this post, TV equals CRT TV so don’t be thinking of today’s refined thin TVs.
My sister, Ann, and I do some property management, so occasionally we get to empty out a house that was abandoned by a tenant. This doesn’t happen much, but we have cleaned out a lot of junk over the years.
Junk including those TVs. It almost seems required to leave old TVs behind.
When tenants move out under less than great circumstances, they leave behind TVs like crumbs or mouse droppings.
One house had four TVs left behind, ranging in size from 16” to 60”. Do you know that a 60” TV can weigh over 250 pounds? How on earth do tenants get those into basements? The narrower the stairs, the more TVs in the basement.
I assume they bought beer for the entire fraternity.
We lugged all four TVs out of the basement with help from two high school boys who overestimated their muscles. They needed a fraternity, too.
Perched on my pickup bed, the TVs looked kinda like Papa Bear, Mama Bear, and Baby Bear on my pickup bed.
I am told that there are nerds who love old TVs. Playing games like Super Mario All-Stars is fantastic on a old TV. Watching VHS is also a rush, too, I guess.
Woohoo.
We didn’t know any retro nerds, though. We considered leaving the TVs on my pickup bed until someone stole them, but that was only one of we. The other considers our town’s people way too honest for that. Or too smart.
So we went to Plan B. We could haul them to the county landfill.
Off we went with the TVs and a few other choice items: a table with a broken leg, a floor lamp that didn’t work, half a couch.
The attendant at the landfill gate directed us to the area for broken furniture and then to the building for electronics. Um, who was there to help us? Nobody.
So we had a 250-pound VW Bug TV and just my sister and me to unload it. One of us wanted to use leverage to push it off the pickup bed. Nope. The other we said we had to unload it gently or we’d have broken glass everywhere.
So we broke out all our load straps and wrapped them around the TV. Then Ann found a plastic stand and pushed it into place behind the pickup bed. We planned to lower the TV onto the stand and then onto the floor.
She was in charge of guiding the TV onto the stand. My job was to release the straps bit by bit. Quit laughing. This is a serious story.
We managed to get the TV to the plastic stand. The TV settled on the stand, which immediately collapsed.
The TV crashed to the floor. Huh. No broken glass.
No wonder those retro nerds loved these TVs. They’re indestructible.
“Are we going to leave it there?” Ann said, studying the crashed TV.
“Unless you know a CRT nerd, we’re out of here,” said the other we. I won that time.
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