Category: Moments

The Peanut Man

Brenda Stratton

On the days Mom had to work at the hospital, I usually spent the day with Dad. Some of my fondest memories revolve around the times he took me with him to the Sale Barn. 

I don’t know if it had a name, but we always called it the Sale Barn, where farmers came to buy livestock, or brought some of their own to sell. 

There was an arena the animals were brought into for the sale, and there were bleachers where we sat high above the livestock arena. I can still hear the auctioneer’s voice as he worked through the different animals. I never had any idea what he was actually saying, but Dad seemed to know. 

And the smell—I’m sure you can imagine, but I didn’t find it particularly offensive. It just smelled like our barn, a place I loved to play.

But the real draw for me was The Peanut Man. I can’t tell you his name because I’m not sure I ever knew it. I think I may have heard it once or twice in adulthood, but he was, and always will be, The Peanut Man to me.

 He was always there with his peanut cart, dispensing bags of hot peanuts. I always wondered how he kept the peanuts hot. I never asked him, but I’m sure he would have showed me if I had. To this day I have no idea how he kept the peanuts hot. I just know that they always were. 

He was such a kind man, and he always had a smile for me. I really loved him. He was unable to speak, but he didn’t really need to. I gave him the nickel or dime my Dad gave me, and he’d turn and scoop up a brown paper bag full of hot peanuts, give me a huge smile, and hand the bag of peanuts to me. Then I would go back to where Dad was still sitting in the bleachers, and we shared that bag of peanuts. They were the best peanuts I’ve ever eaten.

I don’t know how old he was, just that he was an adult when I was a child. Everyone knew The Peanut Man in my hometown, and many remember him long after he was gone. I will never forget him. 

The Green Pickup

Brenda Stratton

Riding on the Fender

Life in the Midwest in the 1950s was slow and easy, or so it seems by today’s comparison. We lived on a farm, and I remember that Dad had a dark green pickup truck with fender mounted blinkers that had orange glass in them. I  was to learn later the truck was a 1949 Ford. 

One afternoon, Mom, Dad, and I, piled into the truck to make a trip to Nina‘s country store not far from our house.  We were on a mission to buy popsicles.  Dad was a farmer so it wasn’t unusual for us to see him at different times throughout the day.  My brother, Monty, wasn’t with us so I assume that he was in school.

It started out as any other trip to Nina‘s store, Nina being the proprietor. Mom and Dad conducted their business and we all got popsicles. The question was how to eat them without getting the inside of Dad‘s truck all sticky.

With all the wisdom of any five-year-old, I suggested that we ride on the fender. Obviously it would’ve been more normal had we decided to ride in the back of the truck, but for some reason I wanted to ride on the fender. So that’s what we did. I straddled the blinker and Mom told me to hold on tight which I did. She sat behind me and put her arms around me and we held tight to the blinker together.  

Dad pulled away from the store driving very slowly. I didn’t know how fast he was going then but, in hindsight, I  estimate that it was probably less than five mph. I remember watching the road in front of us and thinking that I could’ve probably run faster than the truck was going. (I couldn’t.)

I don’t know why we did that. I think it’s because I wanted to do it and my parents indulged me. It was a time out of time. People don’t do things like that anymore that I’m aware of. But they used to let us ride in the back of the pickup truck, too, always with admonition to sit down. I seem to remember Mom riding in the back with us to make sure we did.

Tongue on the Pump Handle

Brenda Stratton

Never Ever

“Whatever you do, never ever stick your tongue on a pump handle,” cautioned our hired hand.

It just so happened we had a pump handle between the house and the barn. 

Old hand water pump in winter snow

It was winter.

Ever curious, I thought about it. The next time I went outside, I walked over to the pump. At that tender age, I didn’t see what all the fuss was about. So I tested it out. 

And stuck fast.

It instantly became clear why I should never ever stick my tongue on a pump handle. It was so cold, it felt like my tongue was burning. I was outside alone, so there was no one to help me. Wanting to get away from it, I jerked my head back—and took a layer of skin off my tongue. 

That hurt almost as bad as it did while my tongue was still stuck on the pump handle, and it continued to hurt for several days afterward. 

Mom had words for the hired hand.

Dickie and the Horse

Brenda Stratton

Dickie and his family lived on the farm next to ours. They had a horse that I often saw standing at the pasture fence beside their house. It was big. Bigger than the horse Dad used to bring cattle in from the field—and that horse was already off-limits to me.

This one wasn’t.

I don’t remember how I got up there. Someone may have lifted me onto his back, or maybe Dickie and I climbed up on the fence and stepped over from there. What I do remember is being suddenly very high up, sitting bareback on a wide brown horse, my legs stretched farther than they were used to going.

The horse moved in a slow, steady rhythm. It felt a little like rocking in a rocking chair. My feet might have dangled, but at five years old or so, the width of his back probably kept them from going very far.

Dickie was casual about the whole thing. He wasn’t much older than I was—maybe seven—and that made it feel even more special, like this was something we were simply allowed to do.

The adults knew. Dickie had permission to take the horse out of the pasture and ride him down the road to take me home. It wasn’t a secret.

Still, I remember my mother being surprised when she saw me coming down the road, sitting so high up on that horse’s back. I don’t think she knew ahead of time.

I loved it. I was proud. I felt like I was on top of the world.

When we reached my house, Dickie stopped the horse in the front yard. Mom came out and lifted me down. I was sorry to get off. I would have happily stayed there longer.

The Pink Wall

Brenda Stratton

I remember standing in my crib, holding on to the side rail, quietly looking at the wall across from my crib, comparing it to the white woodwork in the doorway to my room. I was fascinated by the color. 


I thought about that wall often, in brief flashes. For years, I didn’t know where we had lived then. I only knew that I was very little. One day when I was about 30 years old, I happened to think of it while my mother was visiting. I asked her where we had lived where the wall in my room was a deep pink with white woodwork.

A little shocked, she replied, “You couldn’t possibly remember that. You were only 10 months old.” 

She paused, then added, “It wasn’t supposed to be that dark.”

Except, I do remember. Many decades later, I can still see that wall in my mind’s eye. And I still have the feeling of being tiny. Why it made such an impression on me I can’t say. But pink always has been—and still is—my favorite color.

The Day I Went to School With My Brother

Brenda Stratton1 Comment

I wasn’t school age yet. I must have been four or five — sometime around 1956 or 1957. After watching my brother get on the big yellow school bus every morning, my mother sent me along to school with him one day.

It must have been late spring because I don’t remember needing a coat, and I’m fairly sure I wore a dress—because girls wore dresses to school then. It was one of those mild, sunlit days. That’s why I’ve always thought of it that way. 

The teacher gave me a little chair to use beside my brother’s desk. I was the only “extra” child — for which I am sure the teacher must have been grateful, but I remember feeling like one of the big kids as I colored beside him.

Recess was quite an adventure for me. There were so many kids to play with where I normally spent most of my days playing alone or with my dog, Brownie, while my brother was in school.

When recess was over, the teacher rang the bell for everyone to come back inside. It was a handheld bell, not the electric kind schools have today.


I have often wondered what led up to going to school with my brother, and why it was allowed, but there is no one left to ask how it came about. It may have been one of those end-of-the-year “bring your sibling to school” days—but that’s only my best guess.