Author: Brenda Stratton

Writer. Storyteller. Lover of soft truths and old farm tales.

The Calf in the Kitchen

Brenda Stratton

A calf was born one bitter winter night when I was four years old. Dad was in the barn feeding the livestock when the cow came wandering in. He was alarmed—she had been due to calve, but it was obvious she was no longer pregnant. Her calf wasn’t with her.

He knew he had to hurry. A newborn wouldn’t survive long on its own in that weather. The cold would take it fast. 

It was the kind of cold that made every breath sting and froze water in minutes. He followed the cow’s tracks through the snow and was horrified to find she had dropped the calf in the slough at the bottom of the pasture.

When he found it, the calf was barely alive. Only its nose was above the black water. Dad scooped it up—thirty or forty pounds of soaking wet calf—and hoisted it onto his shoulder. Its body was soaked and heavy, the slough water already stiffening in the cold. 

By the time he reached the barn, both of them were drenched and freezing. 

He knew he had to get the calf warm and the only way to do that was to take it in the house. He placed the calf in a metal bushel basket with handles to make it easier to carry.

I couldn’t figure out what he was doing when he came in the back door with that basket. I recognized it from the barn—the one he used to take corn to the livestock. I had never seen him bring it into the house before.

What I remember next may be something I truly saw, or it may be the way the story settled in my mind after years of hearing it told. Either way, this is how it lives in me now.

It wasn’t until he set the basket down that I could see what was inside—a tiny calf, cold and shivering, barely alive.

Mom hurried for towels and blankets. Dad lifted the calf out of the basket and laid it in front of the warm oil burner while they rubbed it gently, trying to dry it and bring some life back into its stiff little body.

Dad didn’t want to take it back to the barn that night. The cow was a first-time mother, and after what had happened, he wasn’t sure she could be trusted to care for it.

So they left the calf on the kitchen floor beside the stove, where it would stay warm through the night. If it rallied, they needed a way to keep it from wandering through the house—so they tied its feet together with a pair of Mom’s nylon stockings. 

They went to bed, hoping the calf would still be alive in the morning. 

Imagine Mom’s surprise the next morning when she found the little Houdini had slipped free of the stockings and was strolling around the kitchen like it lived there.

Fortunately, Dad was able to reunite the calf with its mother. He kept them together in a stall he prepared in the barn until the weather warmed and they were both stronger.

Looking back, I think that little calf taught me something before I was old enough to understand it. Sometimes life hangs on because someone refuses to give up.

The Pink Piano

Brenda Stratton
Pink upright piano with family photographs and pink roses displayed on top.


I will never forget the pink piano. 

Yes, you heard that right. 

A. Pink. Piano. Baby pink, to be exact.

I was five. Things like that make an impression when you are five.

It was an old upright piano, and it wasn’t pink when we first got it. 

That came later. 

I’ve told you before how much Mom loved pink. I don’t know for sure what led to the decision to paint it pink, or what whispered in Mom’s ear to convince her it was a good idea. 

I seem to remember the wood had been damaged, but I can’t say for certain. Whatever the reason, it remained the only pink piano she ever owned.

I’ve seen people paint them white. But that was the only one that was pink.

It sat in our living room for a long time, next to the television. 

You could see it from almost anywhere on the bottom floor of the farmhouse, except the kitchen. Unless you stood in the doorway. 

I remember people coming to the house. They almost always commented on the piano.

“It’s pink,” they said. 

“Yes,” Mom answered.

She never explained why she painted it pink. She let them draw their own conclusions. Maybe even she didn’t know why. 

Eventually, someone gave her an old pump organ.

That’s when she decided she didn’t want a pink piano anymore, and its fate was sealed. 

Dad pushed it out the front door onto the porch. 

After moving it outdoors, he hooked a chain around it and dragged it with the tractor down to the slough at the bottom of our pasture. 

I wasn’t allowed to go down there, so I never saw it again.  

Living on a Working Farm

Brenda Stratton

I lived on a small working farm until I was six years old. It is one of my most treasured memories. There were so many things to do and explore in my small world.

Mom taught me my ABCs, my colors, and how to count long before I entered school. She applied for a library card in my name when I was four. I couldn’t read yet, but the picture books introduced me to ideas beyond the farm. By the time I started school, my education had already begun.

She also encouraged me with art projects. I remember fondly watching her mix flour and water together to make paste, something she had watched her own mother do for herself and her eight siblings.

I spent my days exploring the parts of the farm where I was allowed to roam. One of my favorite places was the barn. I can still smell the bales of fresh-cut hay. Dad turned the cows out into the pasture in the daytime, so I didn’t need to worry about getting stepped on by a cow. 

Sometimes, Dad let me watch him milk the cows. We had several, so there was always a lot of milk. Dad brought some into the house for us, some went to the barn cats, and some went to the calves. He had a metal bucket with a nipple on it that he hung from the gate in the barn lot. The calves always emptied it. None of it went to waste. 

I loved playing with the barn cats, too, especially the ones that let me tame them as kittens. I almost always had one that I’d named Nosey, but it wasn’t always the same cat. 

The tame ones used to come up to the house. I carried them around and dressed them up in my doll clothes. There was always the problem of what to do with their tails. I solved that the same way I did in A Basket Full of Puppies. I put their tails through a leg hole along with one of their legs if the doll outfit had a pair of panties. They never objected and let me wrap them in doll blankets and push them around in my doll buggy. Occasionally one would jump out and I had to chase after it to get my doll clothes back.

Since our chickens were free-range, they often laid their eggs in the barn. Sometimes Mom sent me out with the little green basket she gave me to gather any eggs I could find. When I brought them into the house, Mom held them up to a lightbulb over the kitchen sink to make sure they were fresh. Dad had a stack of hay bales on the barn floor, and that’s where I usually found them. 

There were so many sounds that I remember well. The cows mooing, pigs oinking, chickens clucking, an occasional woodpecker drilling for insects in one of the tall trees, and the call of the bobwhites. 

Visiting the rabbits was always fun. They were so cute and fluffy. I especially adored the babies. I stood in front of their cages and watched them for long stretches of time. I could have watched them all afternoon.

I remember the blue morning glories Mom used to plant along the fence between the house and the empty chicken yard. They were so pretty. Mom and I both enjoyed them. I remember trying to smell them and the way the blooms wrapped around my nose, but they didn’t have much scent. 

Pale pink wild roses blooming among green leaves.


Wild roses grew in the ditch on the far side of the road that went past our house. I wasn’t supposed to cross it, but I did once to smell them. They were beautiful and smelled so good. But I learned the hard way that the stems had scores of tiny prickles growing all along them. I wasn’t tempted to cross the road to pick them after that. 

Looking back, I realize the farm was my first classroom. Long before I ever sat behind a school desk, it had already begun teaching me about animals, nature, hard work, kindness, and paying attention to the world around me. I suppose I’ve been learning ever since.

Mrs. Brayton and Anne of Green Gables

Brenda Stratton

I can still hear the inflection in her voice when she’d say, “Oh, Anne…”

I don’t remember any more what the characters’ conversation was about, but I know who was speaking. It was Marilla Cuthbert, Anne’s guardian.

Before she began reading, Mrs. Brayton passed out brown paper towels—the rough kind that came on a roll and had to be cranked out manually. She gave one to each of us. Then she poured a careful measure of raisins onto the paper towels—our cook, Mrs. Archer, had graciously contributed them. We sat there, quietly eating one raisin at a time, while Mrs. Brayton brought Prince Edward Island to life.

Those afternoons were like magic in my ten-year-old mind. It was the best part of the day. Everyone was so quiet we didn’t miss a word of the story. I could see the scenes unfolding in my imagination as clearly as if I had been there myself.

All eyes were on her—at least mine were—as I watched her slowly turn the pages and speak in her expressive voice. The raisins were just sticky enough to leave a faint sweetness on my fingers, though they didn’t cling too stubbornly to the paper towels.

I believe she read to us during the winter months, probably instead of recess. Whatever the reason, those afternoons stretched over many days, giving us time to journey through Anne’s world together.

Looking back, I realize those afternoons did more than fill the winter hours. I was already an avid reader—my mother had seen to that—but being read to was something different. It wasn’t just about the story. It was about cadence. Tone. Inflection. The way a voice could make words come alive.

Maybe that’s part of why I love audiobooks.

And maybe—though I hadn’t thought about it until now—it was also the beginning of something else. I remember being in fourth grade and wanting to write stories of my own. I tried a few times. But when I didn’t know what the next step was, I stopped.

Perhaps I was still listening. Still learning how stories were supposed to sound.

The Old Red Pump

Brenda Stratton

I remember it like it was yesterday, a moment caught in time. I was nine years old.

It was a cool, sunny day in spring. Dad was standing beside the old well, the sun at his back, creating a halo effect around him. 

He was shirtless, wearing only a pair of muddy jeans and work shoes, holding an old bucket with a rope attached to it. 

We had just moved to the Millersburg property, which was my mother’s childhood home. The only available water source was the old shallow well. We lived too far out in the country, so city water wasn’t available. 

The well hadn’t been used in nearly twenty years, since my grandmother moved into the city. 

Dad knew he had to clean the well and purify the water to make it safe before we had any usable fresh water at all. 

The well was hand-dug and approximately thirty-five feet deep. The sides and bottom were dirt, so the bottom of it was muddy. 

Dad repeatedly climbed down the ladder he had placed in the well, and brought up the mud bucket by bucket. 

He brought up other things, too: an old bucket and a wrench that had been lost down there many years before. 

After Dad cleaned the well, he began lining it with reclaimed bricks.

I know the weather was still cool because Mom had been cleaning the bricks with a wire brush and water they brought up beforehand. I remember her mentioning how cold her hands were, and I also remember how red they were. 

Once the brick lining was finished, Dad treated the water to make sure it was safe to drink. He said he put lime down the well to purify it, which is how they did it back then.

When that was all done, the last step was to restore the hand pump, which he had pulled out of the well before he started cleaning it. 

After cleaning it, he replaced the leathers, applied a fresh coat of red paint, and reinstalled it when the paint was dry. 

For several years afterward, before Dad built the new house, we had to go out to the well, pump the water we needed, and carry it into the house.

At age nine, I wasn’t strong enough to carry a full bucket of water, so the job mostly fell to Mom and Monty. Sometimes Mom was busy and Monty was off carrying his paper route, so Mom would ask me to bring in a half bucket. Once in a while, if she needed more, I had to make two trips. 

I remember hanging the bucket on the pump spout, having to pump it three or four times to prime it, the squeak the pump made, and the clatter of metal on metal as I brought the handle down and it hit the pump body. 

Later, when Dad built the new house, he installed a jet pump in the basement and connected it to the well. After that, we did not use the hand pump nearly as often.

Even so, Dad—and later Carl—kept the hand pump in good working order.

Dad’s reasoning was simple:

A family’s source of water should not depend entirely upon electricity if another choice exists.

Cloud Creatures

Brenda Stratton

The early afternoon sun was high overhead. The deep blue sky was the perfect backdrop to the puffy white clouds.

It was a perfect summer day—warm, but not hot—and the humidity of high summer had not yet arrived.

I was standing in the front yard when the beauty overhead caught my attention. I paused to watch—to see what the clouds wanted to become.

Even then, I was a watcher.

Shorts. No shoes. Grass underfoot, as usual. I lay down in the shade of Dad’s pink rosebush, the blades tickling the backs of my legs.

Above me, the clouds shifted and gathered themselves into shapes—a horse, a dog—then something else entirely.

They looked like fluffy white cotton. Or maybe cotton candy. I couldn’t decide which.

I was always a watcher. Sometimes it even got me into trouble—but not that day. 

I wasn’t trying to make the clouds into anything. I was just watching to see what they would become.

I didn’t know then that I would spend much of my life doing the same thing with people.

Looking back, I think people are a little like clouds. They have a way of revealing themselves if we’re patient enough to watch.

The Changing Seasons

Brenda Stratton

The air is cooler now, and many of the leaves have begun to fall here in the Midwest.

Autumn is truly underway.

The garden is finished. All of the produce is safely tucked away, and my garden beds are quiet.

Stacked firewood in warm autumn light with trees softly blurred in the background.


I have said before that autumn is my favorite time of year. It holds so many memories.

When I was a young girl, I lived just a few blocks from my best friend. I was 14, and Lisa was 16.

In the evenings, after homework was done and the supper dishes were dried, we used to go for long walks circling our quiet little village until it was time to go home. 

We had to be home by 10 p.m. whether it was a school night or not, so I always made sure to wear my watch.

Our village was small, about seven blocks long and three blocks wide. We usually walked the perimeter, making only left turns. I have NO idea why. 

I suppose it might seem odd, two girls walking alone at night, but our little village was somewhat isolated. There was a streetlight on every corner, and a mom and dad we knew on every block. We felt very safe. 

It was also a different time, the mid-1960s.

We always had so much to talk about. I doubt very much if there was ever a lapse in the conversation. 

We often talked about our horses and going riding together. Her horse was Apache, and mine was Billy. 

We talked about mutual friends, boys, school, and so much more. Because our community was small, we mostly hung out with the same kids. 

I remember vividly the sound of Thornton’s corn dryer. Mr. Thornton and his family farmed on the edge of our village, and every fall, we could hear his corn dryer all over town. 

We didn’t mind, though. It was just part of October and another sign that fall was here, along with cool weather, wood smoke from various chimneys, the rustling leaves underfoot, and the promise of the holidays soon to come.

At the time, we weren’t thinking beyond our walks together and the things that were happening in our lives. We were just two best friends enjoying time together. 

Meanwhile, our lives were quietly changing in ways we couldn’t see. 

Changing seasons, indeed. 

Carrying Love Forward

Brenda Stratton

I remember the first time I realized that letting go could open up a whole new world to me.

It was more than three years after my husband, Carl, died. 

I had spent those years trying to preserve a life that no longer existed. It wasn’t working. Nothing about my life was the same and never would be again. 

After I came out of the fog of profound loss, I realized that I had to make changes. I couldn’t spend the rest of my life like this. Carl wouldn’t want that for me. 

But how was I to move on? That was the question, and it didn’t come to me all at once. 

I was afraid of making big decisions because I didn’t want to have regrets later. So I took baby steps.

Always a writer at heart, I began writing down my family stories to leave behind for my children and grandchildren. Those first attempts have grown into this blog and a couple of other projects I am still working on. 

I began downsizing my home. A lot of things accumulate during fifty-two years of marriage, even if you periodically clear out the excess. This proved to be cathartic for me. I realized it wasn’t about leaving the past behind. It was about making room for the future. 

I reconnected with old friends and began to enjoy life again. 

There were pleasant evenings on my screened porch again. I enjoyed watching the sun set and listening to the birds as they quieted for the night, with a distant train whistle and bullfrogs from a nearby river filling the quiet the birds left behind.

My community was alive. I had missed that. Carl and I used to sit on the porch together, and for almost four years after he passed, I just couldn’t. Until the day I decided to live again.  

Moving forward felt like betrayal, at first—until I realized that I wasn’t leaving Carl behind. I was learning to carry his love forward. He would always be part of my life, even though he was no longer here physically. 

But betrayal? No. Just no. Building a new life isn’t a betrayal. 

It is a tribute to our love and the life we built together. To a man I loved beyond measure. To fifty-two years of marriage that gave me everything in life that I could have ever asked for. Nothing could ever erase that—or our love for each other.

At first, I thought this post was going to be about letting go. But I soon discovered it isn’t. Not at all. I am not leaving Carl or our love behind. I have just learned how to carry it forward.

Trying to Explain Death to AT&T

Brenda Stratton

Or: Bookkeeping 101

File this under “things that make no sense.” It was irritating in the beginning and most of the way through it, but I finally saw the humor in it.

You see, I was my brother, Monty’s, medical power of attorney until his passing in May of 2020. When he passed, the POA was no longer in effect. I had no further power to discharge any of his business.

So, I had no legal standing over his estate. All I could do was notify his telephone company about his passing and ask them to close his account.

The representative I talked to at the telephone company seemed to understand, thanked me for notifying them, and said they would take care of it.   

I didn’t hear anything more from them for a while, so I assumed it was settled.

A month or so later, I got a letter from them addressed to me at my home and along with a check for $79—made out to my brother stating that it was a refund on the balance of the account.

I was confused. I had clearly told them he was deceased. Not knowing what else to do, I wrote a letter to them explaining the situation again, referring to the date of our original phone call. I enclosed the check and sent it back, explaining why I couldn’t cash it… because fraud.

I considered the matter closed. 

I was wrong.

A few months later, I received another letter with another check addressed to my brother.

Once again, I wrote to them to explain the situation and referenced both of the previous communications, thinking surely the third time would be the charm.

Again, I was wrong.

For several months, everything was quiet, and I was lulled into a false sense of security.

Many months later, it started again. By this time I was getting pretty tired of the back-and-forth game with them. In all, they contacted me about a half dozen times.

The last time they contacted me was the one that sent me over the edge.

They sent me a bill and told me that my brother owed them $25. After everything that I had been through with them, I had no intention of paying it, also knowing that I was not legally liable for it.

By then, the situation had moved beyond irritation and straight into absurdity. I mean, how does someone run up a bill nearly a year after they pass away? And what happened with the $79 credit?

If I know anything at all about bookkeeping, the math doesn’t work.

Finally, I decided one last letter was worth a try. If this didn’t explain it, nothing would.

Following is a letter that I sent to them.

“Dear AT&T, 

I’m writing to you in regard to my brother’s telephone account. My brother, Monty, passed away in May 2020, which I advised you of at the time.

Since his passing your company has continued to send refund checks to him at my address. I am his next of kin. He wasn’t married, had no children, our parents have passed away, and I am his only sibling. Any authority I had over his business ended with his passing.

Your company has continued to send refund checks to him at my address. I am not legally capable of cashing those checks since I would be committing fraud. I am not going there.

Meanwhile, I received a bill on his behalf telling me that he owes you $25, a matter that boggles my mind as I do not see how he could possibly be responsible for this since he died over a year ago.  Something here is not making sense.

Please close this account and remove my brother’s name from your company’s billing system. The phone was supposed to be disconnected over a year ago and if it wasn’t someone else is floating on your dime. 

If you wish to discharge the amount you owe him to me, fine, but you would have to put it in my name. (I am not holding my breath.) As for charges against his account made after he died, that’s just nuts.

Please take care of this right away. It’s been a long time coming.

Brenda”

Then, crickets. They did not send me a check for a refund on his account, but I never thought they would. However, it seems they finally got the message. 

I never heard from them again.

A short time later, I closed my account with them as well.

I am reminded of the saying, “You can’t get blood from a turnip.”

You also can’t give money to, or request it from, someone who is deceased.

Where They Are Still Alive

Brenda Stratton

So many of my childhood memories are anchored to the farm where we lived until I was six. I have already written many of the stories that happened there, but there are so many more to come. 

I find myself coming back to them often. I think it is at least partly due to the fact that my parents were still young, and so was my big brother. My brother and I hadn’t grown up yet and found our ways in the world. We were all still  together. I can go back there in my memories, where they are all still alive.

The farm is where I began to learn about the world. It was the setting for so many firsts—first adventures, first friendships, first discoveries.

A few years ago, my daughter, Liz, drove me by the farm. It is all gone now—the buildings, everything. It has all been turned into pasture. But to me, it lives on in my mind, just the way it was in the 1950s. 

I can still point out where the barn was, the garage, Dad’s fuel tank, and the chicken yard. I still know exactly where the house was, and I can see the interior as if I was standing in it right now. I know the furniture placement, and I remember how Mom had it decorated. 

It has been sixty-eight years since we drove out of that driveway for the last time.

The buildings are gone.

The people I loved are gone.

But in my memory, the farm is still there—just like my family.