Author: Brenda Stratton

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

Echoes of The Past

Brenda Stratton

I have written much about being a little girl and growing up on the farm in the early part of my life. There are so many memories that are still very vivid for me.

One of the things that stands out so clearly is the sound of Dad’s tractor. He owned a Massey-Harris tractor, which was a common sight in those days. They were solid, simple machines that looked very different from the modern tractors sold today.


The engine of those tractors made a steady, rhythmic sound that couldn’t be mistaken for anything else.

I remember playing in the yard and listening to it. Knowing that Mom was in the kitchen, and being able to hear Dad working in the fields made me feel safe.

I liked hearing it, but after moving from the farm I never heard it again. As the years passed, I assumed I never would.

Until… One day, about thirty-five years later. I was standing in my kitchen with the windows open. I was home alone, and it was spring planting time.

Suddenly, I heard the distinctive put-put-put of that engine once again, and I was suddenly six years old again listening for my Dad working in the fields.

But this time it wasn’t Dad’s tractor. It was one that a neighbor had acquired.

For several years afterward, I welcomed the sound of that tractor every spring. For a few minutes I was transported back to a time of innocence long ago.

Ironically, Carl purchased another Massey-Harris tractor sometime in the 1980s to use for cutting and hauling firewood, but the engine was bad. He replaced it with the engine he took out of his 1969 Pontiac Firebird when he sent it to the scrap yard, but that is a story for another day.

Listening to the Little Kids Read

Brenda Stratton

When I was in second grade, Mrs. Clawson asked me to help the younger children learn to read.

She gave me a copy of the reader they were using and told me which story they were working on. Since it was the same reader I had used the year before, I already knew the stories.

The desks were lined up in neat rows, all facing the blackboard.

I would pull a little chair up beside a student’s desk and listen while they read out loud. When a child came to a word they didn’t know, I encouraged them to sound it out. If that didn’t help, I would tell them the word.

There was something satisfying, even at the age of seven, about being able to help.

I really enjoyed it — and I was proud that Mrs. Clawson trusted me to do it.

Of course, I had my own work to do, but if I finished early and she needed someone to listen to the first graders read, she would ask if I would like to help. I always did.

The next year, when I started third grade, I moved to a different classroom. Even then, there were times when Mrs. Clawson asked my new teacher, Miss Nesbitt, if I could come back and listen to her students read.

I didn’t know it at the time, but I suppose that was my first experience as a tutor.

Mom vs the School Superintendent

Brenda Stratton

The superintendent said, “No.”

Mom said, “Want to bet?”

In the 1950s, our school district, like so many others, had a strict dress code. Girls were required to wear dresses to school. No exceptions.

I liked wearing dresses, so that was fine — at least until winter came.

The school bus would not drive down our long driveway, so Monty and I had to walk out to the highway and wait for it to pick us up.

We had to make sure we got there first. If we missed the bus, we missed a day of school. We had only one car, and Dad took it to work.

Sometimes the wait stretched to fifteen or twenty minutes if the roads were icy or snowy and the bus was delayed.

In the worst part of winter, there was often severe cold and deep snow. One time, the wind was so fierce that Monty and I ducked into a snow cave that had formed along the drift just to get out of the wind.

Another time, the snow completely filled our driveway to the tops of the fence posts. Then a thick crust formed on top, and we had to walk across it to reach the highway.

I had several pairs of corduroy slacks, so Mom started putting them on me under my dress, with instructions to take them off and leave them with my coat and boots when I got to school.

The first day I wore them, Mrs. Clawson quietly and gently told me it was against the rules and that I shouldn’t do it again.

I told Mom when I got home that afternoon.

She didn’t say much to me about it, but she called the district superintendent. She explained that I would continue wearing slacks to school, but that I would remove them once I arrived in order to comply with school rules.

He didn’t like that at all.

He told her that once I stepped onto the school bus, school rules applied — and that I had to follow them.

Mom didn’t think so.

She explained about our walk to the highway, the long waits in the cold, and the winter weather. Then she told him that I would continue wearing slacks to school — whether he liked it or not.

I’m sure he didn’t like it.

But no one ever told me I couldn’t wear them again.

I continued wearing them until the weather warmed up, and I kept doing so as long as we lived there.

Mom didn’t brook any nonsense when it came to her kids. She didn’t start fights, but she always finished them.

I Gave My Dog Tonsillitis

Brenda Stratton

I was always susceptible to common childhood illnesses, such as strep throat, tonsillitis, and earaches. 

When I was twelve, I developed tonsillitis again. My doctor decided that it was finally time to take my tonsils out. He and Mom scheduled the surgery, but it was scheduled far enough ahead that I would have time to heal. He prescribed an antibiotic and we went home after Mom got the prescription filled.

I don’t remember exactly what time of year it was, but I think it was summer. I don’t remember having makeup school work. And since I was sick, Mom wouldn’t let me go outside. 

So, I was stuck in the house with only TV and my dog, Spunky, to keep me company. 

Spunky was a beautiful little blonde Pekingese dog with a sweet disposition and a strong preference for being wherever I happened to be.

Although he belonged to the whole family, Dad worked, Mom was busy taking care of us and the house, and my big brother was sixteen by then so he preferred to spend his time with his friends rather than his kid sister and the dog. 

But, that was okay. Spunky and I enjoyed each other’s company. 

A few days after I got sick, we began noticing that Spunky wasn’t acting like himself. He was lethargic and was barely eating. 

After a few days, Mom said he needed to go see Dr. Beer, our vet. I was well by then, so I went with her. 

After examining Spunky, Dr. Beer said he had tonsillitis. 

Mom and I looked at each other in surprise. 

That’s when Mom explained that I had just gotten over it. 

Dr. Beer said that he caught it from me—and that’s what I have believed all these years.

He rarely left my side. We were up in each other’s faces all the time. I used to kiss him on the mouth, and I’d been known to share occasional lollipops and Popsicles with him. And Mom had bought me some Popsicles while I was sick with tonsillitis…  

All these years later, I started wondering if it was really possible. I did some research and found that although it is rare, it can happen with bacterial tonsillitis. 

They specifically advised to avoid face kissing. 

Oops. 

I suspect it was probably frowned upon to share Popsicles and lollipops, too. 

At least Spunky didn’t have to have his tonsils out.

The Cat at the Door

Brenda Stratton

Our school scheduled a PTA meeting one cold and snowy winter night. My whole family would be attending, since Monty and I were now in the same school.

When we moved to Aledo, Monty and I began attending Frew School, a three-room country school not far from our house. In those days, before school districts consolidated and country schools disappeared, it was common to have several small country schools scattered throughout a district for farm families.

As an agricultural community, there were a lot of farm kids.

Mom helped us kids get ready while she and Dad were doing the same. They were both all dressed up — Dad in a sport coat and dress slacks, and Mom in a dress and high heels. Us kids wore clean school clothes.

Once Mom was satisfied that we were scrubbed, properly dressed, and didn’t have a hair out of place, it was time to leave.

There was about a foot of snow on the ground that night. Dad had scooped a path to the car earlier, since we didn’t have a garage.

He turned the outside light on as he went out ahead of us to warm up the car. Monty and I followed a few minutes later to give it time to warm.

The three of us were sitting in the car waiting for Mom to come out. When she did, she leaned over to pet the cat who was eating out of its bowl.

The “cat” looked up and hissed.

It wasn’t a cat. It was a possum.

It turned to look at her — and that’s when she realized two beady eyes were staring at her, attached to a face with a long pointed nose and rows of sharp teeth.

POSSUM! And the cat was nowhere to be found.

She went flying across the yard — in high heels — completely ignoring the path Dad had so thoughtfully dug, and made a new path of her own to the car.

By this time, Dad, Monty, and I were laughing, watching her mad rush to the car. Because the snow was deep and had a light crust on top, she had to lift her feet high with every step. It was a sight to see, for sure.

Breathless, she opened the car door and scrambled in, slamming it hard behind her.

We were still laughing. I’m not sure she appreciated it. She didn’t say much about it other than to tell us what happened. We could tell it really scared her.

Over the years, we brought this memory up occasionally. Time softened her sense of humor, and she could relate the story with a twinkle in her eye. She forgave us for laughing at her.

Funny thing is — we didn’t even own a cat. It belonged to the farm.

Frew School

Brenda Stratton

I remember the day Mom registered me for school clearly.

I stood behind her while she talked with my teacher, Mrs. Clawson. After Mom left, Mrs. Clawson showed me into the classroom and gave me an empty desk.

The school had three classrooms and six grades, so there were two grades in each one. Mrs. Clawson taught first and second grade. Miss Nesbitt taught third and fourth grades. Mrs. Dahl taught fifth and sixth grades. Each classroom had its own area for us to hang our coats and store our boots.

The classrooms were all lined up in a row on the east side of the building. My classroom was the first one inside the front door, then the middle grades, and finally the upper grades.

The other side of the building housed the bathrooms, the lunchroom, and the kitchen.

Sometimes the tables and chairs would be folded up, giving us an open space for activities. I especially remember the times when the record player came out. Mrs. Johnston visited once a week to teach music, and I think that may have been when we learned the bunny hop. I can still picture us hopping around the room in a circle with our hands on each other’s shoulders as the music played.

I settled quickly into the new school. I liked my teacher and the other kids. There were swings on the playground, and I especially liked playing hopscotch on the cement entrance to the school with the other girls during recess.

Dad found a new job right away. He said he was a Fuller Brush Man. I didn’t know what he did at first. He said he went door-to-door selling things. He showed me the case he carried with him and all the things inside it. Some of them were pretty interesting.

We lived down a long driveway. Across the highway was another long driveway with a farm at the end. That is where my friend JoAnn lived.

We stayed there longer than we had in Galva, and before long it felt like home.

Moving Again: From Galva to Aledo

Brenda Stratton

We stayed in Galva through Christmas of 1958. I remember the colored lights, and Mom letting me help put tinsel on the tree for the first time.

I turned seven a month later. Soon after that, it was time to move again.

I liked living in Galva a lot. It was different from the farm in a lot of ways.

City streets instead of gravel roads.

Walking to school. I loved school — especially learning to read. 

I had school friends to play with. Some lived close enough that I could walk to their houses after school.

Dad sold his milk trucks, and soon we were on our way. 

 We moved west again, this time just east of Aledo along Illinois Route 17. 

Our new home sat halfway between our old farm near Viola and where Mom had grown up, northwest of Aledo in Millersburg.

It is the same general area I had always lived in, except for the nine months or so we lived in Galva.

As much as I liked living in town, I was also glad to be back on the farm, even if it wasn’t the same farm. This time, Dad wasn’t farming. We moved into a tenant house next door to Nellie Briggs, the lady who owned the farm. Someone else farmed the land for her. 

Our little tenant house was much smaller than the stately white main house, but it was cute and very well kept. It had only two bedrooms, but we made it work with our bunk beds.

There was one thing about this house that worried me, though. The heat came from pipes in the walls, which I wasn’t used to. I thought the heat meant it could catch on fire, but Mom assured me it was safe. She said the house was heated by a system of water pipes in the walls. It was warmed by the coal furnace in the basement.

Just in case, though, I always had a backup plan — in case we ever did have a fire. I would smash the window next to my bed with Jocko, my teddy bear.

Fortunately, that plan was never needed. 

Not long after we moved into the tenant house near Aledo, Mom took me to register at Frew School.

Mom’s Four Day Make Ahead Cake

Brenda Stratton

Mom was born at home on June 3, 1928—though Mercer County recorded it as June 2. Grandma always said the county was wrong. The reason, as I was told years ago and had almost forgotten, is that Grandma went into labor on June 2 but didn’t deliver until after midnight. So the county may have written down when it started… but we go by when she actually arrived. June 3 it is.

In honor of my mom’s birthday, I am sharing her favorite cake recipe, told exactly in her own words. 

She brought this cake to all of our family picnics, and there was never a single piece left over. Many have asked for her recipe over the years. 

Family members were always quick to ask if she had brought their favorite cake. She never disappointed. I think she would like knowing others can now enjoy it, too.

I’ve kept her wording exactly as she wrote it, including her name attached to the recipe. 

It feels right to share this today, as it would have been her 98th birthday.

I hope you love it as much as we always did. 

Four-Day Make Ahead Cake. (Elaine Stegall)

This is a wonderful cake that is so easy to make and one of my favorites. You can make the cake on Wednesday and take it on a picnic or anywhere else on Sunday! I like the convenience of being able to make it days ahead of time! If I have had some left over it has even lasted a week and is still delicious. This is a cake that MUST be kept refrigerated. 

CAKE:

1-18 oz. pkg. Devil’s food cake mix

1 cup water

1/3 cup oil

3 eggs

FILLING AND TOPPING:

2 cups or 16 oz. carton of dairy sour cream

1 cup sugar

3 cups of coconut

8 oz. container frozen Cool Whip…thawed or 3½  cups

Heat oven to 350 degrees F. Grease and flour two 8″ round cake pans. In a large bowl, blend all cake ingredients at low speed until moistened. Beat for 2 minutes at highest speed and pour into prepared pans. Bake for 30 to 35 minutes until cake is done in the middle. Cool cake in pans for 15 minutes … then turn out on to cooling racks or onto waxed paper until completely cool. Then split each layer in half with a piece of thread or dental floss and set aside. Separate layers onto four waxed papers or the cooling racks.

In a large bowl, combine sour cream and sugar. Gently FOLD in coconut and whipped topping. Fill and frost layers just as you would any cake. Garnish as desired. Store in a cake safe in the refrigerator. Enjoy!

Tweety Bird

Brenda Stratton

My paternal great-grandmother raised parakeets.

Tweety Bird…Not the original, but they look alike.

Whenever we went to her house, I would stand beside the bird cage and watch them. They fascinated me. It was the only time I ever got to observe birds up close.

One day, Grandma ‘Rene — her name was Irene, but everyone in the family called her Grandma ‘Rene — asked Monty and me if we would like to take one home.

Of course we said yes! We were so excited.

Given Mom’s slight aversion to birds, she was less enthused, but she allowed it.

Grandma gave us a cage, and we took him home.

Monty and I named him Tweety Bird after the cartoon character.

Cleaning the cage fell to Mom. She was an excellent housekeeper, so she cleaned it often. When the weather was nice, she took the cage outside and cleaned it on the sidewalk.

The last time she cleaned it… was the last time she cleaned it.

She had set the cage down on the sidewalk and slid the removable bottom out so she could clean it properly.

Unfortunately, she forgot to slide it back in before she picked up the cage.

Before she could react, Tweety Bird saw his opportunity — and he was a caged bird no more.

Mom said he flew up into the tree by the back door, but there was no way she could catch him.

He soon flew away, never to be seen again.

I think she felt bad when she had to tell us what happened when we came home from school.

We knew it was an accident, and she really did feel bad — but we couldn’t resist teasing her that we thought she did it on purpose because we knew she wasn’t fond of birds.

The Turtle in the Truck

Brenda Stratton

My parents grew up during the Great Depression. Dad grew up on a farm where it was common to eat what you could raise or hunt.

Mom, having grown up in the same era, understood this in a way we might find a little more difficult today. I know Dad brought her rabbit, squirrel, and occasionally had her cook him a mess of frog legs.

One day, when Mom was running the Kewanee milk route alone, she got quite a surprise when one of Dad’s “acquisitions” crawled out from under the seat of the milk truck.

The acquisition?

A soft-shelled turtle—that Dad had intended to make into turtle soup.

Since I wasn’t there and only heard the story later, I can only imagine the look on my mother’s face.

If I’ve given you the impression that she didn’t like animals, that’s not strictly true. She did—but mostly puppies and kittens. She didn’t like unwelcome surprises, and this one definitely qualified.

I don’t know whether she was driving when it happened or if she had already stopped at the next farm.

I only know that she got out of the truck and refused to get back in until the turtle was gone.

The farmer at the stop had to remove it for her. Mom wasn’t about to touch that turtle, and she made it very clear she wasn’t getting back into the truck until it was gone.

The farmer ended up with the turtle.

Dad missed having turtle soup—

…and so did the turtle.