Category: Family

Meet Carl

Brenda Stratton
My husband, Carl, wearing the patient half-smile I came to know so well.

Christmas at our house was always so much fun. Our kitchen was the heart of our home, and our family naturally gathered around the kitchen table.

Our annual cookie baking marathon was a family affair. Carl stirred the huge batches of dough, while I measured ingredients. The kids helped by rolling dough into balls and washing dishes, jobs assigned according to age. Christmas lights twinkled merrily through the wide doorway into the living room. 

Excited chatter came mostly from the kids, along with plenty of sticky hands as they sampled cookies—and occasionally the cookie dough.

With a bitter north wind swirling drifts of snow around our home, we were snug and safe inside with a crackling fire to warm us. Carl always made sure to carry enough wood inside to keep the fire going late into the evening. 

The light scent of wood smoke mingled with the aroma of cookies rich with cinnamon and molasses. To me, those scents spelled home, and it was exactly where we wanted to be.

Carl was a fantastic helper in the kitchen, not just at holidays, but every day. 

He arrived home from work at 5:15 pm through the week. I tried to have supper ready by 5:30 pm so he didn’t have to wait long to eat.

I was usually standing at the kitchen stove when he arrived. After coming in the back door, he kicked off his shoes and slid in beside me to help finish cooking, often before he had time to say hello. 

One night when I was working as a crochet designer, I dropped a crochet hook into my printer as I was preparing a pattern to send to my editor the next day. I couldn’t get it out, and I was afraid I would damage the printer if I tried running it that way. 

So, I woke Carl up. He went to get the long forceps he used for working on TVs and was able to quickly retrieve the hook. The pattern went out to my editor the next day, and Carl was back in bed within minutes. 

Sometimes, I attended needlework conventions in Chicago to meet with my editors. It was a two hundred mile drive, and lasted for three days. He always drove me, and helped me find my way around the convention hall. Whenever I had materials to carry, he handled it for me then stood quietly by, waiting for me to finish talking with my editors. 

He was always up for a road trip, whether it was local or halfway across the country. 

He was the same with the kids when they grew old enough to go places without us. Since we lived in the country, and some of their friends lived in town, they would need a ride and Dad was always ready to take them. 

In the summer, he planted a garden to help provide fresh food for our family. When our family grew, he planted a second garden. 

While he tended the gardens, I was usually in charge of preserving the harvest.

If something was broken, he fixed it. He knew how to fix everything from household appliances and TVs to air conditioning and broken toys. If it could be fixed, he found a way to do it. 

If I could choose one way of describing Carl, it would simply be that he showed up, something that he did every day for the entire 52 years that we were married. 

He didn’t stop to ask if it was something that he wanted to do or might inconvenience him. He just did it. 

His quiet devotion and sense of humor meant everything to me. He was my  home. 

Your Pants Are On Fire!

Brenda Stratton

When we lived on the farm, there were only two bedrooms on the ground floor. Monty had one room and Mom and Dad had the other. 

I was only four or five years old, so they put me in a tiny room off Mom and Dad’s bedroom that I think must’ve been a dressing room. 

Because the room was so tiny, there was only a small white dresser and my single bed which was tucked under the north-facing window.

There was no overhead light, just a bare lightbulb screwed into a light socket on the wall with a pull chain to turn it on.

One evening, while Mom was busy in her bedroom, I wandered into mine. 

There was a pair of Mom’s black-and-white zebra striped pedal pushers hanging from the lightbulb.

I remember the light turning on, but I don’t recall who did it, although I’ve always suspected it was me. Mom would have known better.

I was fascinated when I saw the smoke starting to curl toward the ceiling.

All of a sudden, Mom was there. 

She moved me out of the way and grabbed the zebra striped pants, flinging open the front door and hurling them out onto the front porch.

If I was the one who turned on the light, I didn’t get into trouble.

But Mom never hung anything on the light again, and that was the last time I ever saw the zebra striped pants.

Thirty Years and a Lunch Bucket

Brenda Stratton

Dad walked into the East Moline Works of International Harvester one Monday morning carrying his black lunch bucket with the silver latches—the kind with the domed lid that held his Thermos of coffee in the top. 

He didn’t work there. His last job had ended, and he was looking for a new one. He  told Mom he would be back when he found one.

International Harvester was a big employer in our area. Getting a job there could easily become the start of a career. 

Dad walked into the plant manager’s office. When it was his turn to be called inside, the plant manager offered him a seat and asked him why he was there. 

“I’m looking for a job,” Dad said. “I’ll do any job, no matter what it is. I’ll sweep floors if that is all you have.”

The manager listened, then shook his head and said, “I’m sorry, but I don’t have anything for you. We aren’t hiring.” 

Dad stood and thanked him, then left the office—but he didn’t leave the plant. He took a seat in a chair just outside the manager’s office. 

When the day shift ended at 3:30 pm, Dad left to find something to eat. At night, he slept in the car. He returned at 7 am the next morning when the day shift began, lunch bucket in hand.

He continued this routine for most of the week.

Dad said the plant manager began giving him odd looks as he went in and out of his office. Later that week, he stopped and asked Dad, “You’re still here?”

“Yes, and I’m going to be here until you give me a job.”

Dad said the manager shook his head and walked away. 

The next day, the manager approached him with a broom in his hand. 

He handed it to Dad and simply said, “Start sweeping.”

Before the day was over, Dad had his ID badge and was an official employee. 

Dad swept floors for a few days but was soon promoted to machinist, a job he held for over twenty years. He fed sheets of metal into a machine, making parts for combines and other equipment. 

As he neared retirement age, Dad developed some health issues, so they gave him a job as a fork truck driver. 

Eventually, Mom and Dad relocated to East Moline so Dad wouldn’t have the nearly 75 mile round trip to and from work every day. They were fortunate to locate a home just outside the entrance to the plant. 

When I was in my late thirties, International Harvester hosted an open house, inviting the families of their employees to attend. 

Dad said they cleaned for days to get the plant ready.

Our whole family attended. Dad showed us around and explained what his job was. It was amazing how many processes those sheets of steel went through before they became finished pieces of farm machinery.

It made Dad’s stories about the different jobs he performed in the space of a day easier to understand. 

I was impressed. The machinery Dad was helping to build was so much bigger and more complex than the simple machinery he had back on the farm. 

The open house answered questions I had wondered about for years. 

“What was it like where Dad worked?” 

“What did he do there?”

Of course, he had shared what it was like, but that isn’t the same as seeing it for myself.

The next day, I wrote a letter to the plant manager thanking him for allowing me to see what I had always wondered about as a child.

He didn’t answer me, but I didn’t expect him to. 

However, I was surprised the next time I saw Dad. He grinned, and handed me a copy of the company newsletter. 

They had printed my letter verbatim thanking them for the open house and telling them about the questions it had put to rest for me! 

I was so surprised! And it was obvious that Dad was proud something I wrote was chosen for the company newsletter.

Dad retired at age sixty-six, after a career that spanned thirty years. 

The lunch bucket was retired, too. 

A short time later, he stopped by to visit with his foreman. They shared a good laugh when his foreman told him they had given his job to two younger men—because one couldn’t keep up.

I can picture him laughing with a twinkle in his eye when his foreman told him that, because it happened every time he told the story afterward. 

That was my Dad. He was an exceptionally hard worker, always focused on the job at hand, and doing it to the very best of his ability. 

When I was growing up, I didn’t think too much about why he worked, other than the fact that it was just something that fathers did. 

Now I realize he did it all for us—to give our family a nice home, plenty to eat, and the kind of loving home life we enjoyed growing up.

I know it couldn’t have been easy, but he did it anyway. For us. For thirty years. 

Because that is just who he was. 

The Accidental Casserole

Brenda Stratton

A Note From The Porch

It was a typical busy late afternoon. Carl and Scott were home from work, and I was in the process of starting dinner. 

I gathered the ingredients together, which included a forage into the garage where our overflow pantry and freezers are located. 

I came back to the kitchen and started assembling dinner. 

Mom always made sure there were at least three different things for dinner, followed up by a dessert of some kind. 

Since she is the one who taught me to cook, I did the same. It worked equally well when there were six of us for dinner as well as just for the three of us after our other three children moved out and established their own homes. 

One of the dishes we were having that night was a corn casserole, a recipe Mom had given me many years before.

After I assembled the casserole and put it in the oven, I put together the rest of the meal and began tidying up the kitchen. 

The corn casserole calls for a box of Jiffy Corn Muffin mix. I picked up the empty box to throw it away and froze. 

Emblazoned across the front of the box it clearly said Jiffy Yellow Cake mix. 

I froze, horrified by the discovery. I had just ruined dinner!

Trying to decide what I was going to feed the guys, I decided the best thing to do was to make a new corn casserole, this time with Jiffy Corn Muffin mix. It would only delay dinner by a few minutes, since it was very quick to put together. I had enough ingredients on hand. 

Less than 15 minutes later, I slid a new casserole into the oven satisfied that I had saved dinner. 

I had every intention of throwing the accidental casserole out. I couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to eat a cake with creamed corn, cheddar cheese and green chiles in it. 

Except… Carl and Scott both said they wanted to taste it. 

I thought they were teasing me at first but quickly found out they were serious. 

So I gave them each a serving, fully expecting them to take one bite and push it away.

They didn’t.

They liked it.

So, now I was curious and tasted it, too. 

I was shocked to find out it was actually good. 

We have always liked a little bit of sugar in our cornbread, so I suppose it wasn’t such a stretch to think they might like the sweetness of the cake in it. 

Fifteen minutes later, when the actual corn casserole came out of the oven, they weren’t interested in it. They had polished off the accidental casserole, so I saved the right one for dinner the next night. 

We have talked about the incident at different times over the years. The horror of what I had done soon wore off, and now I find it funny, too. 

But I never made another one with a cake mix. 

I learned several things from the incident. 

  • Mistakes are not always failures.
  • Sometimes the “ruined” thing becomes the memorable thing.
  • Family stories often come from ordinary kitchen accidents.
  • Perfection is overrated when people are laughing and eating.
  • Always read the label. Jiffy Cake Mix and Jiffy Corn Muffin Mix look remarkably alike, and you may end up with an accidental casserole of your own.

In case you are curious, I have listed the original recipe below. And if you decide to substitute a cake mix for the corn muffin mix? I won’t tell anyone. 

Corn Casserole

Prep Time: 10 minutes  | Cook Time: 45-60 minutes  | Total Time: 55-70 minutes  | Servings: 4-6 

Ingredients:

  • 3 eggs
  • ¼ cup oil
  • 2 cans creamed corn
  • 4 oz. can of chopped green chiles
  • 8 oz Jiffy corn bread mix
  • ¾ – 1 cup shredded cheddar cheese (for topping)

Instructions:

  • Preheat oven to 350℉.
  • Combine all ingredients, except cheddar cheese, in bowl, beating eggs before adding the rest. 
  • Pour into a casserole dish. Top with cheddar cheese. 
  • Bake for 45-60 minutes or until the center is set. 

NOTE: If you like a little spice, add a few jarred jalapeno pepper slices and a tablespoon or two of the liquid.

Dancing With Dad

Brenda Stratton

Mom and Dad met at a dance in the late 1940s, after World War II.

They loved dancing. On Saturday nights, they sometimes went out with friends. Their favorite place was the Coliseum in Davenport, Iowa—later renamed the Col Ballroom.

They especially loved waltzes and had a number of records they played at home.

We were lucky to have older cousins who could babysit Monty and me.

Eventually, they stopped going to the Col when the music shifted from Big Band to pop.

But their love of dancing never changed.

Some evenings, they would put on records and dance right there in the living room. Waltzes were always their favorite.

One evening, they set the record player on a table in the little dinette area tucked into one corner of the room.

I can still see it—the black sectional couch with silver threads running through it, the arched doorways of our mid-century modern home, the kitchen at the far end.

I wanted to dance too, but I didn’t know how.

Then, to my delight, Dad asked me to dance.

He told me to step up onto his feet—we were both in our socks. Mom put The Blue Danube on the record player, and suddenly we were waltzing around the room.

I don’t know how he made it look so effortless—especially with me standing on his feet—but he did.

The next dance was for Mom.

I sat quietly on the couch, watching them, listening to the music, taking it all in.

It’s an evening I’ve never forgotten.

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.

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.