Category: Family

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.

The Lawn Chair Incident

Brenda Stratton

In the summer and on Saturdays, my brother and I usually went with Mom when she ran the milk route for Dad.

It wasn’t unusual for them to stop for a little while to chat with the people they had become friends with, although they couldn’t stay long because the milk trucks in those days were not refrigerated.

One afternoon, Mom stopped to visit with a farmer and his wife. She went inside the house, but Monty and I stayed outdoors.

It was a beautiful day—warm, with blue skies and plenty of sunshine. We decided to sit in the folding lawn chairs under a shade tree.

I don’t remember what we were talking about, but Monty sat in his chair with his long legs touching the ground. My legs were much shorter, so I sat on the edge of the chair, swinging my feet.

That’s when disaster struck.

My position on the chair and the motion of swinging my feet caused it to fold up—catching my ring finger on my right hand between two pieces of metal. My weight pressed down hard on my smashed finger.

I started screaming at the top of my lungs.

Monty ran to get Mom, but he didn’t make it as far as the house before all three adults came tearing out and rushed to my side.

The farmer tried to unfold the chair, but he couldn’t. He grabbed some tools to take it apart, but he became frantic—probably because I was still screaming.

He partially took the chair apart… and partially ripped it apart.

I heard Mom say something about not ruining his chair, and he said he didn’t care. There were some curse words in there too, but I don’t remember what they were.

The only choice was to take me to the hospital.

Since Mom’s only transportation was the milk truck, the farmer bundled us into his car after his wife gave Mom a white cotton dish towel to wrap around my finger.

The only access to the highway to Hammond-Henry Hospital in Kewanee was a narrow gravel road with long, steep hills.

The farmer was in a hurry, so he drove as fast as he safely could.

I had stopped screaming once my finger was released from the chair, but now I was sobbing.

I sobbed all the way up the first hill…

…and laughed all the way down it.

The sudden drop always made me laugh.

As soon as we started up the next hill, I cried again—then laughed all the way down.

I think there were three hills in all, and it happened every time.

When we finally ran out of hills, I cried all the way to the hospital.

Fortunately, my finger wasn’t broken. The doctor bandaged it and sent me home.

After taking us back, Mom finished the milk route, although I don’t remember the rest of it.

It didn’t take long for me to realize that if I let my arm drop to my side, my finger started to throb—so I held it close to my chest for the rest of the afternoon.

When we got home, Mom made a sling for me out of a dish towel.

I was pretty proud of that sling.

To this day, that same finger is still slightly smaller than the ring finger on my left hand. It’s less noticeable now, and I doubt anyone else would see it…

…but I do.

Because I know what caused it.

Doctors Make House Calls

Brenda Stratton

Or, at least they did in the 1950s.

I woke up one morning with a fever. Mom made me stay in bed and said I couldn’t go to school. She brought me some of my Little Golden Books and my favorite doll to entertain me. She called the doctor and made arrangements for him to make a house call later that afternoon.

I was fine with the books and my doll for a while, but I got bored. I had seen the books so many times. I don’t remember if I could read the words yet or just look at the pictures.

Before long, though, Mom brought me a new stack of books. Pearl Mohnen, the mother of the twin boys I played with across the street, had sent over some of theirs. I hadn’t seen them before, and I enjoyed them—but I noticed some had gum stuck to the covers. Boys! None of my books looked like that.

My bedroom was a stair-landing room. There was only enough space for my bed, with room to walk around it on one side. The other side was against the north outside wall. Around the staircase was a railing so no one could accidentally step off the ledge into the open stairway.

That afternoon, the doctor came. He stood on the right side of my bed, and Mom stood at the foot. He took his stethoscope out of his black doctor’s bag and placed it on my chest. I jumped—it was cold! I remember the quiet and the soft daylight in the room.

After talking with Mom, he pulled a pad of paper from his bag and wrote a prescription. Soon, he was gone again.

Mom knew she had to get to the drugstore before it closed, but we were home alone. It was cold and rainy outside, so she didn’t want to take me out—but there was no one to leave me with.

So she wrapped me in a blanket and sat me on a kitchen chair with my Little Golden Books and something with bright colored pieces—maybe her plastic clothespins, though after all these years I can’t quite be sure.

She told me she had to go get my medicine and that she would be right back. I knew where the drugstore was—it was only a couple of blocks away.

She told me not to get off the chair while she was gone.

I didn’t.

Mom knew she could trust me to do what she said—and I knew I could trust her when she said she would be right back. I wasn’t scared, but it did feel a little odd to be in the house alone.

She came right back, just as she said she would.

Mom, Meet Butch!

Brenda Stratton

One afternoon when I was five, my mother put me down for an afternoon nap and decided to join me.

We were both sleeping soundly when we heard those words:

“Mom, meet Butch!”

We didn’t know anyone named Butch.

Mom opened her eyes.

She was face to face with an owl.

Butch the screech owl. And my brother was holding him.

Mom wasn’t amused.

It was well-known in our family that she didn’t like birds — at least not in her face. Or in her house. Or anywhere near her. Or near us kids.

She didn’t mind them from a distance, but she said they were dirty and carried mites. I wasn’t sure what mites were, but I got the idea they were some kind of crawly bug. Turns out I was right.

I don’t remember actually seeing the bird myself. I always took my glasses off when I was sleeping so I wouldn’t break them.

My brother wasn’t in the room much longer than it took to say those few words before Mom sent him scrambling back to the barn to put the owl back where he found it — cautioning him never to do that again.

Loudly.

Butch must have been a juvenile or Monty likely couldn’t have caught him. It never occurred to me to ask.

I do know Monty never brought a bird in the house again — or any other stray animal.

Sometimes I wonder if his ears were still ringing when he got back to the barn.

A Little Dab Will Do

Brenda Stratton

In the 1950s, Brylcreem was as common in Midwestern households as toothpaste.

One morning while Mom was getting Monty ready for school, she was combing his hair and absent-mindedly reached for the Brylcreem. She started distributing it through his hair and realized something was different — it was thick and white and did not blend into his hair. 

Glancing at the tube she held in her hand, she discovered she had rubbed toothpaste through his hair.

What to do? The bus would be there any minute. 

I was watching them from across the kitchen. She looked at me, shrugged, and quickly washed his hair. 

In those days, we didn’t have running water. We also didn’t have hot water. What we did have was an old hand pump at the kitchen sink that only brought in cold water. Cold well water. 

Monty went to school with wet hair that morning. I expect that was the only time in his life he had his hair washed with shampoo and cold water. Brrr. 

Brylcreem, a little dab’ll do ya — that is what the television commercials said. That morning, a little dab definitely did not do. 

Halt! Who Goes There?

Brenda Stratton

A Dad Story

As a Private First Class during World War II, my Dad wore many hats — machine gunner, chauffeur, guard — pretty much whatever his commanding officer told him to do. 

After the Allies secured many of the artifacts that had been spirited away by The Third Reich, this one particular day found Dad and a fellow soldier in a salt mine guarding a large number of priceless paintings. 

They heard people entering the mine. It became obvious to them at once who it was, but Dad whispered to the other guard, “Watch this!”

On alert and without another word, he shouldered his rifle and pointed it at the person leading the procession. 

“Halt! Who goes there?” Dad called out as was their protocol. “Identify yourself.”

The leader of the procession stopped — and so did the people following him. 

He saluted the two soldiers and said, “Allied Commander General Dwight D. Eisenhower. At ease.” 

They immediately complied. General Eisenhower walked up to Dad and shook his hand. “Well done, soldier,” he said.

Dad told that story many times over the years, always laughing and adding a shake of his head at the end — remembering the time he pulled his rifle and pointed it at General Dwight D. Eisenhower — later the 34th President of the United States.  

Where’s Brenda?

Brenda Stratton

Every family has that one child who tends to do a disappearing act sometimes. In our family, that was me. It wasn’t intentional, but that’s how it turned out, anyway.

I was playing outside by myself one summer day. When Mom went to check on me, I was nowhere to be found — or so she thought.

I was dragging a small doll blanket around with me. I had been playing with my doll — and probably the cats and dog, too.

The bridal wreath bushes around our front porch were in bloom. As a little girl, I loved flowers, and I had been admiring the bridal wreath. I loved them so much. 

I laid down on the porch with my doll and doll blanket. I was looking up through the branches — and fell asleep. Mom had apparently been calling me, but I didn’t hear her. Because of the bushes, she couldn’t see me until she came outside and stood in front of the porch — and there I was. 

The Asian flu pandemic of 1957 swept through our little town that winter. Mom and I were both sick at the same time, which is why she was in bed the day I disappeared the second time.

We were taking a nap together in her big bed. I woke up before she did. I wasn’t used to her being in bed in the daytime, and I wandered around the house a little. Then I got sleepy, and decided to go back to bed, but I didn’t want to wake her. 

The bed was high off the floor, and the pretty pink nubbly carpet under it felt soft and safe, so I crawled under it and went to sleep. 

When I woke up, Mom was leaning over looking under the bed at me. She said I scared her. I never meant to. I just liked quiet places.

You’ve Got Mail!

Brenda Stratton

When I was a little girl, my paternal grandmother used to send me things in the mail.

Sometimes, she tucked a piece of chewing gum into a letter that she wrote to my mom.

Several times, she sent me handkerchiefs that she crocheted pretty edgings on. I still have all eight of them.

It was always something flat that would fit neatly into an envelope so it would go through the mail for the standard price of a three-cent postage stamp. (I can still remember the displeasure my mother voiced when the price went up to four cents!)

It doesn’t seem like much by today’s standards to get a piece of gum in the mail. But at five years old, receiving an unexpected treat in the mailbox meant my Grandma was thinking of me.

Now, as an adult — and someone who made a career out of being a fiber artist — I can fully appreciate the time and care it took to crochet the edgings on those handkerchiefs and to knit the many pairs of slippers she made for me one Christmas long ago.

The Penny Jar

Brenda Stratton

One summer, a teenage cousin came to stay with us for a short time to help Dad at haying time and earn a little money in the process. Let’s call him Jack. 

Since our family was using all of the bedrooms on the ground floor, Mom gave Jack one of the rooms upstairs to use while he was with us. 

Monty and I usually didn’t go upstairs, but we must have followed Mom up there when she made the bed and tidied up. That’s when we discovered the penny jar on his dresser. 

It was my brother who began teasing him that we were going to take the pennies in his penny jar when he was out helping Dad — and of course I chimed in. 

Jack didn’t seem to have much of a sense of humor when it came to his money, which made it all the more tempting to tease him. 

So, Jack told Mom that we said we were going to take his precious pennies. We weren’t of course, and Mom told him so. 

I don’t think he took much comfort in that, though. He didn’t stay very long. 

Jack is still alive, though I haven’t seen him in more than fifty years.

I sometimes wonder if he’s still guarding a penny jar somewhere — and if he’s still mad at two farm kids who never actually took a single penny.

Barn Cat Hijinks

Brenda Stratton

We had a lot of cats when we lived on the farm. Most were wild, though two or three were tame enough for me to play with. The wild ones generally stayed around the barn and didn’t come near the house except when Mom fed them.

Chaos erupted one day when one of the wild ones slipped into the house as someone opened the back door. He had never been inside before. Terrified wild-cat behavior ensued.

I remember him streaking through the house like his tail was on fire. Mom sent me into another room, but I watched from the doorway as the cat tried to escape through a closed window.

Wild-eyed, he began climbing Mom’s new sheer white curtains, shredding them as he went. She was not happy — to put it mildly.

There was no way to catch him bare-handed without inviting great bodily harm.

Careful to keep herself between me and the cat, Mom opened the door and tried shooing him onto the enclosed porch. He was having none of it.

Seeing no other solution, she grabbed a throw rug from the floor, wrapped up the cat — still clinging to the curtain — and hurled the whole furious bundle out the back door into the yard.

The curtains were ruined. It wasn’t long before we had new ones.

After his traumatic eviction, the cat was never brave enough to try the house again. In fact, I don’t remember seeing him near it after that — though Mom said he walked funny for a while.