Category: Reflection

Echoes of The Past

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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.

Transitions

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I didn’t expect much from today when I woke up this morning. The only thing on my agenda was to catch up on some laundry.

My day starts off like usual… feed the dog, feed myself, dispense meds, and get started.

After Gracie, my fifteen-year-old Shih Tzu, and I eat breakfast, I load the dishwasher and tackle the laundry.

I have way too many clothes—a result of gaining control of my diabetes and losing weight. I now have two sizes of clothes: what I wore before, and what I can wear now.

I am sorting through the larger clothes so I can pass them along, keeping a few oversized T-shirts because they’re comfortable. They also make great work shirts.

We’re in that in-between stretch where the seasons can’t quite make up their minds, so I’m trying to put my winter clothes away. That can get tricky here in the Midwest. Just when it feels like spring has settled in, winter rushes back and says, “Not so fast.”

I am packing the clothes I can no longer wear so I can pass them along. The winter clothes I still wear will go into storage—soon, once I’m sure Mother Nature is finished playing seasonal roulette with the weather.

But it’s not just about the clothes. It’s the space they take up—and what they represent.

The same is true for so many other things in my house.

I’m transitioning my office from designer Brenda to writer Brenda.

There are still too many pots and pans and small appliances in my kitchen—more than I need now. My family is smaller, and I don’t cook the way I used to when Carl and all four children were here.

I don’t need all of this anymore. I’m still figuring out what stays—and what it means to let the rest go.

The Hurrieder I Go, The Behinder I Get

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While I was folding laundry this afternoon, I happened to think of this little cardboard sign I hung on the wall in the kitchen of my first apartment. 

I thought it was a cute saying, and would be a reminder to keep my apartment tidy. But I also liked the fact that it was printed in a psychedelic color scheme because—1970.

I currently find myself in the process of downsizing. That little quote seems just as true today as it was in 1970. It seems like the more I do, the more I find that still needs to be done. 

But, the meaning has shifted since I hung that sign so long ago. It’s not so much that I am behind now, as it is that I am just in the middle of things. 

I don’t like getting behind in my work, it’s true. I never have, especially in my professional life. 

But now, it is less clear where to start and where the middle happens, although the end is clear. I want more space and fewer belongings.

What I’m finding is that it isn’t so simple to lay the job out in a straight line like I’ve done most of my life. 

 I often find I can’t take the next step in one job because something else has to be done first.

A case in point… I live in a multi-level home. I am getting older, so I am trying to minimize the times I have to go up and down stairs every day. 

I want to create a space on a shelf to keep a few convenience foods, some things I can quickly grab for a no-fuss lunch or dinner. But before I can do that, I have to clear the shelf. 

With clearing the shelf comes deciding whether to move the items to a different location or let them go. 

Maybe I’m not getting behind after all.

Maybe there is no exact starting point.

Maybe it’s enough to just begin—wherever I am—and work my way through it, one piece at a time.

Depression, Grief, and Healing

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This piece discusses personal experiences with depression and grief.

Depression didn’t arrive all at once for me.

By the time I recognized it, it was already there.

It’s something I have struggled with at certain times in my life, which always surprised me. I have always thought of myself as a happy, easygoing person.

The hardest times came during periods when my role in life was changing.

The first time happened in my early forties. My children were growing up and no longer needed me in the same way they once had. I had been a mother for over twenty years, and that had become a large part of my identity.

This wasn’t about anything they did—it was simply a change I wasn’t prepared for. I didn’t yet know how to redefine who I was beyond that role.

It came on quietly. So quietly that I didn’t even realize what was happening until I was already deep in it.

I hurt—not physically, but somewhere deeper. I withdrew from people and from things I had once enjoyed. And when it became too much, I slept. When I was sleeping, I didn’t hurt.

Eventually, I realized something was deeply wrong. I went to my doctor and got the help I needed.

It didn’t get better overnight, but with time—and with the patience and support of my family—I found my way through it.

I learned a great deal about myself during that time. I thought I had learned enough to keep it from happening again.

For nearly thirty years, life moved along well.

Until it didn’t.

My husband, Carl, whom I had been married to for more than fifty years, became ill and passed away.

My world changed in an instant.

I believed I was grieving in a normal way, whatever that means. But over time, something else settled in.

This time, it wasn’t the same as before.

It wasn’t the kind of depression I had known. It felt different—quieter, heavier, and harder to recognize.

I didn’t recognize it. I thought I was simply moving through loss.

But looking back, I can see that I was just marking time.

I lost interest in so many things. I didn’t want to go out or see people. I let hobbies go. I withdrew into my home.

My children brought me joy—as they always have—but beyond that, I wasn’t really living.

I even stopped taking care of my health. As someone with diabetes, that is a dangerous path.

It took something unexpected to shake me out of it. A situation that forced me to stop and take a hard look at my life.

Recognizing the apathy for what it truly was became the turning point.

That’s when I began to heal.

I took a serious look at my health and realized I needed to make changes if I wanted the rest of my life to be different.

I got my diabetes under control, and in the process, I lost forty pounds.

But healing didn’t stop there.

I have always been a writer at heart. As a student, I wrote stories, essays, and poetry. Later, writing became part of my work—as a crochet designer and as an editor.

In 2025, I began to explore writing in a different way. I had so many stories in my mind—from my parents, from my life—and I wanted to preserve them for my children and grandchildren.

As I began to write those stories down, something shifted.

I found healing.

I found purpose.

I was no longer just marking time.

My life began to feel meaningful again.

And in ways I didn’t expect, that sense of purpose continues to grow.