Category: Family

In the Kitchen with Captain Kangaroo

Brenda Stratton

Most mornings of my early childhood began in the kitchen, sitting in my little upholstered rocking chair, watching Captain Kangaroo.

The kitchen was the warmest room in the house in winter, and it was where my mother spent most of her day. While I watched television, she cooked, baked, and moved quietly around me. The air always smelled of something good. I felt safe there. Cozy. Loved.

I don’t remember the house being cold — but I suppose it must have been, especially the floors. Instead of slippers, Mom bought me a pair of ankle-high fur-lined snow boots to wear in place of slippers. She had a pair just like them in her own size. We matched. I liked that. 

Captain Kangaroo, Mr. Green Jeans, Bunny Rabbit, Grandfather Clock, and Dancing Bear felt like members of our household. They were part of my mornings, part of my growing up.

Our farmhouse had no central heating, like many rural homes in the 1950s. Two oil stoves heated the main floor — one near the bedrooms, one in the kitchen — and none upstairs, which we used mostly for storage. Winters were cold in the Midwest, and that was especially evident in our living room, caught between the two stoves. So my parents brought a television into the kitchen instead. A portable set with rabbit ears. And a child-sized upholstered rocking chair just for me.

There was a long counter along the west wall with no cabinets underneath. That became my little house. I played there for hours. Close enough that Mom could see me, far enough that neither of us would trip over the other. I didn’t know it then, but it was the perfect arrangement.

Where my mother was, I was.

And where that little rocking chair sat — that was home.

Bloomers

Brenda Stratton


Dad used to buy livestock feed in colorful linen bags, which he saved and brought home to Mom. She loved to sew, and she turned them into pretty and useful things for us and for the house.

I remember once she made some bloomers for me. That’s what she called them, but they didn’t look like the old-fashioned type that girls and women wore under dresses in earlier eras. I would compare them to the little matching panties that are sold with toddler dresses today.

They were pretty and ruffly, and I loved them. I was pretty proud of them.

One morning, I followed my brother to the bus because I wanted to show the kids my pretty new bloomers. I think that was all I was wearing.

I don’t remember ever walking to the bus with him after that.

I suspect I embarrassed him and he asked Mom to keep me in the house.

Big brothers have their limits.

The China He Carried Home

Brenda Stratton


A Young Soldier, a Promise, and a Truckload of Coal

Dad served in the European theater in World War II.

For a time, he was stationed in the Black Forest in Germany.

One day, while off duty, he discovered a small china shop. Inside, an elderly proprietor made and sold delicate white dishes, complete with tea and coffee services. Dad admired them. More than that — he already knew exactly who they were for.

He asked what it would cost for two full sets. One for his mother. One for the woman he hoped to marry someday.

The old man shook his head sadly. He had no coal to fire his kiln. Wartime shortages made it impossible.

Dad asked a simple question.

“If I bring you the coal, will you make them?”

The old man agreed. A deal was struck.

Along with his other duties, Dad sometimes drove officers from place to place. That meant he had access to the motor pool. He put his plan into motion.

Later, with a grin, Dad told me he had “borrowed an Army truck and liberated a truckload of Army coal.”

Then he laughed — because he always did at that part.

Not long afterward, two beautiful sets of white china with silver trim were finished.

One went to his mother.

Two years later, when he married mine, he placed the second set in her hands.

Today, that china sits in my care.

A quiet reminder of love, war, and a young soldier who knew exactly what mattered.

Dad Measured My Backside

Brenda Stratton

Our farmhouse sat on top of a hill. The yard and driveway sloped gently down to the gravel road that passed our house and connected the community. That hill, and everything on it, shaped my early childhood. 

In the front yard were two trees. One was a tall pear tree, but I only know that because I heard my parents say so. I’m not sure what the other one was. It was broader and had a long limb that someo🤣ne had hung a porch swing from — the kind that several people could sit in. I liked it and sat in it from time to time, but I couldn’t really swing — my legs were too short. 

Mom and Dad decided I needed a swing of my own, one that was just the right height for my short little legs to reach the ground. 

One sunny afternoon, they announced that today was the day I would get my new swing. I was so excited!

Dad gathered the materials — a rope, a board, a hand saw, and a drill. When he had everything together, he called us outside. I watched as he tossed the ends of the rope over the limb of the pear tree, then secured them in place. 

Next, he told me to turn around and bend over. I didn’t question it — grownups always knew what they were doing — so I did.

“I have to measure you to make sure I cut the board wide enough,” he said. He didn’t use a measuring tape. He just held the board up behind me. 

Mom told me many years later that what I didn’t see was the grin on his face and the wink he gave her when he said it. 

I loved that swing. Since the yard sloped, I felt like I was swinging a lot higher than I actually was because of it. 

The Day Dad Took a Chicken to Lunch

Brenda Stratton

In the 1950s, Dad had another business besides farming. He ran three milk routes. Back then, farmers filled large metal cans with milk, and Dad hauled them to the creamery where the milk was turned into cheese.

Because there were multiple routes, he employed hired hands. Dad drove one route, the hired men drove the others, and when they were short a driver, Mom filled in — on top of working at the hospital and cooking lunch when she could.

In this particular instance, it was summer and Dad and the men were putting up hay. Mom had to work, so Dad decided to take the hands into town for lunch. When they headed toward Dad’s pickup, they found one of our free-range hens settled comfortably on the muddy running board.


I never knew her real name. In my mind, she will always be Henrietta.

Dad tried to shoo her away. She objected loudly and refused to move.

He laughed, shrugged, and figured she’d hop down once the truck started rolling.

She didn’t.

To his surprise, that hen rode the entire four miles into town, feathers wind-tossed, claws gripping the mud-caked metal like a seasoned traveler who had purchased a non-refundable ticket.

Dad assumed she’d wander off while they ate.

She did not.

When he finally pulled back into our driveway after lunch, there she still sat — dignified, windblown, and entirely unbothered by the journey.

The men laughed. Dad shook his head. Life went on.

And here’s how the story ends:

Dad said that hen refused to climb down until she was good and ready. And when she finally did, he discovered she’d laid an egg right there on her perch.

Which, if you ask me, explains everything.

Some ladies simply do not vacate their seat until their business is complete.

The Bunny’s Tail Fell Off!

Brenda Stratton

Although Mom grew up in a rural area, she had never lived on a farm before marrying Dad.

Mom was determined to be a good farm wife. She worked hard, kept us fed and clothed, kept the house clean, nurtured us in every way a mother should, and occasionally helped out on the farm.

Sometimes, especially when Dad was haying, she drove the tractor so a hired hand could help Dad on the ground with the square bales.

One day, she was out by the rabbit pens. I’m not sure what she was doing, but I suspect she was feeding them. Much to her horror, Dad’s prize buck made an escape.

She lunged for him, catching hold just as he started to disappear under the barn — by the tail. She held on tight and tried to pull him back out.

To her horror, the rabbit continued forward and vanished beneath the barn.

That left her standing there — with his tail in her hand and no bunny attached to it.

Later, when quietly explaining to my father what had happened to his rabbit, she said,“I didn’t know their tails would come off.”

“Their tails are delicate, and they will come off if you pull on them,” Dad told her.

I wasn’t privy to that conversation, but it’s not hard to imagine Dad’s laughter when he heard the story.

Ducks

Brenda Stratton

My Father’s Story

I loved listening to my father tell stories, especially if they were funny. He’d laugh so hard while he was telling them that it took him much longer to tell than it would have otherwise. His laughter was contagious, and we always ended up laughing with him before we heard all of the story. A fair part of the humor in his stories was in watching the way he told them. This was one of those stories. 


One day, two men stopped by my grandfather’s farm, asking for permission to go duck hunting on his property. 

My grandfather, a salty Midwestern farmer with an enormous sense of humor who had lived long enough to see many strange sights in his life, sized them up.

It was obvious to him by the way they looked that they were city slickers — new hunting clothes, guns that didn’t look like they had ever been fired, and boots without a speck of dust on them. They went on to tell him they were in the area from Chicago for duck hunting season. Yep, city slickers, all right.

Tongue in cheek, Grandpa gave them permission, but asked them to stop by and see him before they left so he could see how many they bagged. They were off, and Grandpa could hear occasional gunshots over the course of the day. 

Late that afternoon, they were back. Each held a burlap bag partially filled with their quarry. Grandpa inspected both bags, and handed them back to the city slickers. 

“That’s a really nice bunch of ducks you’ve got there,” he told them. 

They thanked him again for allowing them to hunt on his property.

“You’re welcome. Come back any time,” he told them as they waved goodbye. 

He sure was glad to get rid of those crows. 

Dad passed away almost 35 years ago, and the last time I heard him tell that story, he was sitting at my kitchen table, laughing so hard it’s a miracle he didn’t fall off his chair. 

I can still hear the laughter, and see his face and him doubled over with it. That is how I will always remember him. 

Born on My Father’s Birthday

Brenda Stratton

A Quiet Reflection

I was born on my father’s birthday, January 27th. The day was always special. It belonged to us alone. 

I don’t remember our birthdays before I was about five, but I do remember one when I was just about that age. We were at Grandma’s house (his mother), and she had baked a 2-layer birthday cake for us. I was sitting on Dad’s lap as our family sang Happy Birthday to us. My candles were on one side of the cake. Dad’s were on the other. I had several little candles. Dad had just one, bigger than all of mine. 

Most of our birthdays were spent at home. Mom always made us delicious 2-layer cakes, too. Our favorite was German chocolate with coconut icing, both of which she made from scratch. 

Like the birthday I remember at Grandma’s, we always shared a cake, but we each had our own candles. When someone would make a comment about me being Dad’s birthday present, he’d always say, “Some present!” Then he would laugh, his eyes twinkling. I knew he was teasing, of course. 

Later, when I grew up and married, we usually didn’t spend the day together because we lived 50 miles apart. Instead, I always made it a point to call and wish him a happy birthday—until one birthday that I couldn’t. 

It happened in the days before cell phones. We weren’t at home, and I didn’t have easy access to a telephone. I felt bad about it of course. 

Mom told me later how disappointed he was that I hadn’t called. I made sure it never happened again. Some dates stay written on the heart. 

When My Brother Ran For Help

Brenda Stratton

Lying in the middle of the road with the sun in my face and gravel poking me everywhere was secondary to the pain in my foot, twisted and caught between the spokes of my brother’s bike.

I looked to make sure no cars were coming, though there wasn’t much I could have done about it anyway. I couldn’t get up. The bike had me trapped. I was scared I would be run over.

I listened for the sound of cars but heard nothing and was only slightly reassured that I would probably see a plume of dust before I actually heard one. The blind hill about 200 feet in front of me was worrisome, because cars usually came up over it pretty fast.

Just before that, my brother Monty, had been giving me a ride on his new bike. He told me to hold my feet out and away from the spokes so they wouldn’t get caught. I listened, and I did try—but accidents happen anyway.

Watching him run away from me toward the house scared me, too. I knew he was going to get Mom, but I felt so alone. It seemed like I had been lying there a long time, but it probably wasn’t more than five minutes, since we weren’t far from the house.

Finally, I saw Mom and Monty hurrying down the driveway toward me. I was so glad to see them. Mom gently removed my foot from between the spokes and carried me back to the house, where she examined my foot and determined that no bones were broken.

Looking back, it’s clear to me that even then, Monty had my best interests at heart.

Brownie and Me

Brenda Stratton


When I was about three years old, we lived on a farm. My playmates were the barn cats, my dog, Brownie, and my brother who was in school all day. 

Brownie was a mixed-breed dog, but to my young eyes he looked very much like a border collie. He was mostly black, with white boots on his feet and soft brown markings just above them, where the white fur met the black. His face was dark, except for the brown eyebrows that always delighted me—I had never seen a dog with eyebrows before. He was beautiful to me, and he was mine.

One day, Brownie and I wandered into the chicken yard adjacent to the house. The chickens had long since been turned out to free range, and my Dad had placed an empty rabbit hutch there. 

Curious, I walked over and opened the door, which was only latched with a scrap of wood and a nail. To lock or unlock the door, all you had to do was turn the piece of wood. 

I unlatched it and climbed in. As the door shut, the latch fell into place and I couldn’t get out. So, what does a little kid do when she’s scared? I cried. And cried. And then cried some more. 

The more I cried, the more agitated Brownie got. Soon, he took off for the house and started barking his loudest at the back door. Mom tried to make him hush, but he wouldn’t stop. She finally came outdoors where she heard  me crying. 

Still barking, Brownie took off for the chicken yard, stopping every few steps to make sure Mom was following. It only took her moments to reach me, but it was such a relief to finally be in her arms. 

Brownie was somewhat of a legend in our family. Mom knew he could be trusted to look after me. That wasn’t our last adventure, but it was the last rabbit cage I tried to crawl into!