The Changing Seasons

Brenda Stratton

The air is cooler now, and many of the leaves have begun to fall here in the Midwest.

Autumn is truly underway.

The garden is finished. All of the produce is safely tucked away, and my garden beds are quiet.

Stacked firewood in warm autumn light with trees softly blurred in the background.


I have said before that autumn is my favorite time of year. It holds so many memories.

When I was a young girl, I lived just a few blocks from my best friend. I was 14, and Lisa was 16.

In the evenings, after homework was done and the supper dishes were dried, we used to go for long walks circling our quiet little village until it was time to go home. 

We had to be home by 10 p.m. whether it was a school night or not, so I always made sure to wear my watch.

Our village was small, about seven blocks long and three blocks wide. We usually walked the perimeter, making only left turns. I have NO idea why. 

I suppose it might seem odd, two girls walking alone at night, but our little village was somewhat isolated. There was a streetlight on every corner, and a mom and dad we knew on every block. We felt very safe. 

It was also a different time, the mid-1960s.

We always had so much to talk about. I doubt very much if there was ever a lapse in the conversation. 

We often talked about our horses and going riding together. Her horse was Apache, and mine was Billy. 

We talked about mutual friends, boys, school, and so much more. Because our community was small, we mostly hung out with the same kids. 

I remember vividly the sound of Thornton’s corn dryer. Mr. Thornton and his family farmed on the edge of our village, and every fall, we could hear his corn dryer all over town. 

We didn’t mind, though. It was just part of October and another sign that fall was here, along with cool weather, wood smoke from various chimneys, the rustling leaves underfoot, and the promise of the holidays soon to come.

At the time, we weren’t thinking beyond our walks together and the things that were happening in our lives. We were just two best friends enjoying time together. 

Meanwhile, our lives were quietly changing in ways we couldn’t see. 

Changing seasons, indeed. 

Carrying Love Forward

Brenda Stratton

I remember the first time I realized that letting go could open up a whole new world to me.

It was more than three years after my husband, Carl, died. 

I had spent those years trying to preserve a life that no longer existed. It wasn’t working. Nothing about my life was the same and never would be again. 

After I came out of the fog of profound loss, I realized that I had to make changes. I couldn’t spend the rest of my life like this. Carl wouldn’t want that for me. 

But how was I to move on? That was the question, and it didn’t come to me all at once. 

I was afraid of making big decisions because I didn’t want to have regrets later. So I took baby steps.

Always a writer at heart, I began writing down my family stories to leave behind for my children and grandchildren. Those first attempts have grown into this blog and a couple of other projects I am still working on. 

I began downsizing my home. A lot of things accumulate during fifty-two years of marriage, even if you periodically clear out the excess. This proved to be cathartic for me. I realized it wasn’t about leaving the past behind. It was about making room for the future. 

I reconnected with old friends and began to enjoy life again. 

There were pleasant evenings on my screened porch again. I enjoyed watching the sun set and listening to the birds as they quieted for the night, with a distant train whistle and bullfrogs from a nearby river filling the quiet the birds left behind.

My community was alive. I had missed that. Carl and I used to sit on the porch together, and for almost four years after he passed, I just couldn’t. Until the day I decided to live again.  

Moving forward felt like betrayal, at first—until I realized that I wasn’t leaving Carl behind. I was learning to carry his love forward. He would always be part of my life, even though he was no longer here physically. 

But betrayal? No. Just no. Building a new life isn’t a betrayal. 

It is a tribute to our love and the life we built together. To a man I loved beyond measure. To fifty-two years of marriage that gave me everything in life that I could have ever asked for. Nothing could ever erase that—or our love for each other.

At first, I thought this post was going to be about letting go. But I soon discovered it isn’t. Not at all. I am not leaving Carl or our love behind. I have just learned how to carry it forward.

Trying to Explain Death to AT&T

Brenda Stratton

Or: Bookkeeping 101

File this under “things that make no sense.” It was irritating in the beginning and most of the way through it, but I finally saw the humor in it.

You see, I was my brother, Monty’s, medical power of attorney until his passing in May of 2020. When he passed, the POA was no longer in effect. I had no further power to discharge any of his business.

So, I had no legal standing over his estate. All I could do was notify his telephone company about his passing and ask them to close his account.

The representative I talked to at the telephone company seemed to understand, thanked me for notifying them, and said they would take care of it.   

I didn’t hear anything more from them for a while, so I assumed it was settled.

A month or so later, I got a letter from them addressed to me at my home and along with a check for $79—made out to my brother stating that it was a refund on the balance of the account.

I was confused. I had clearly told them he was deceased. Not knowing what else to do, I wrote a letter to them explaining the situation again, referring to the date of our original phone call. I enclosed the check and sent it back, explaining why I couldn’t cash it… because fraud.

I considered the matter closed. 

I was wrong.

A few months later, I received another letter with another check addressed to my brother.

Once again, I wrote to them to explain the situation and referenced both of the previous communications, thinking surely the third time would be the charm.

Again, I was wrong.

For several months, everything was quiet, and I was lulled into a false sense of security.

Many months later, it started again. By this time I was getting pretty tired of the back-and-forth game with them. In all, they contacted me about a half dozen times.

The last time they contacted me was the one that sent me over the edge.

They sent me a bill and told me that my brother owed them $25. After everything that I had been through with them, I had no intention of paying it, also knowing that I was not legally liable for it.

By then, the situation had moved beyond irritation and straight into absurdity. I mean, how does someone run up a bill nearly a year after they pass away? And what happened with the $79 credit?

If I know anything at all about bookkeeping, the math doesn’t work.

Finally, I decided one last letter was worth a try. If this didn’t explain it, nothing would.

Following is a letter that I sent to them.

“Dear AT&T, 

I’m writing to you in regard to my brother’s telephone account. My brother, Monty, passed away in May 2020, which I advised you of at the time.

Since his passing your company has continued to send refund checks to him at my address. I am his next of kin. He wasn’t married, had no children, our parents have passed away, and I am his only sibling. Any authority I had over his business ended with his passing.

Your company has continued to send refund checks to him at my address. I am not legally capable of cashing those checks since I would be committing fraud. I am not going there.

Meanwhile, I received a bill on his behalf telling me that he owes you $25, a matter that boggles my mind as I do not see how he could possibly be responsible for this since he died over a year ago.  Something here is not making sense.

Please close this account and remove my brother’s name from your company’s billing system. The phone was supposed to be disconnected over a year ago and if it wasn’t someone else is floating on your dime. 

If you wish to discharge the amount you owe him to me, fine, but you would have to put it in my name. (I am not holding my breath.) As for charges against his account made after he died, that’s just nuts.

Please take care of this right away. It’s been a long time coming.

Brenda”

Then, crickets. They did not send me a check for a refund on his account, but I never thought they would. However, it seems they finally got the message. 

I never heard from them again.

A short time later, I closed my account with them as well.

I am reminded of the saying, “You can’t get blood from a turnip.”

You also can’t give money to, or request it from, someone who is deceased.

Where They Are Still Alive

Brenda Stratton

So many of my childhood memories are anchored to the farm where we lived until I was six. I have already written many of the stories that happened there, but there are so many more to come. 

I find myself coming back to them often. I think it is at least partly due to the fact that my parents were still young, and so was my big brother. My brother and I hadn’t grown up yet and found our ways in the world. We were all still  together. I can go back there in my memories, where they are all still alive.

The farm is where I began to learn about the world. It was the setting for so many firsts—first adventures, first friendships, first discoveries.

A few years ago, my daughter, Liz, drove me by the farm. It is all gone now—the buildings, everything. It has all been turned into pasture. But to me, it lives on in my mind, just the way it was in the 1950s. 

I can still point out where the barn was, the garage, Dad’s fuel tank, and the chicken yard. I still know exactly where the house was, and I can see the interior as if I was standing in it right now. I know the furniture placement, and I remember how Mom had it decorated. 

It has been sixty-eight years since we drove out of that driveway for the last time.

The buildings are gone.

The people I loved are gone.

But in my memory, the farm is still there—just like my family.

A Basket Full of Puppies

Brenda Stratton

The house next door hadn’t always been empty. Friends of my parents lived there once, so I was familiar with the house, yard, and outbuildings. 

I don’t know who the family was that moved in next, but they weren’t there very long. Soon, the house was empty again.

One day soon after, Dad was driving slowly by the house with his window down. 

You didn’t drive fast on a country road. There was too much dust, and several houses sat close together in a tight little cluster. You never knew when someone’s child might chase a ball into the road.

A basket full of small blonde puppies.


It was then he heard the puppies crying. He stopped and listened because he knew no one lived there.

Our house was nearby—what would be about two blocks by city standards. Dad went home and told Mom what he had heard. They were both upset and knew they had to rescue the puppies. 

Dad went back to the house and followed the sounds of the crying puppies. I remember hearing him tell Mom they were locked in the shed and he had to force the door open. There was no mama dog with them, and he wasn’t going to leave them there to die. Dad placed them in the box he had brought with him and carried them home to Mom.

There were three puppies. They were light brown in color with white markings, and their little bellies were round and tight—but I didn’t know what that meant then. 

They were dirty and smelly—and they were starving.

Mom warmed some milk for them—milk she hadn’t yet skimmed the cream from. They ate eagerly, but Mom only let them eat a little at a time, knowing that if she gave them too much it would make them sick.  

When they were finished, she gave each of them a warm bath, then dried and wrapped them in towels to keep them warm. Then she made a soft bed in a laundry basket and said that’s all she could do for them that night. 

The next day, Dad called Dr. Beer, our veterinarian, and asked him to make a farm call. He also had some livestock for the vet to examine and asked him to stop at the house to look at the puppies while he was there. 

I had been quietly watching over them. When Dr. Beer came, I had to move back to give him and my parents room. I heard him say in a low voice that he didn’t know if they would survive because they were pretty little and very sick. He told Mom she was doing exactly what needed to be done—little meals often. He said they would know in a few days if they would live. 

A few days passed with Mom giving the puppies round-the-clock care, and Dr. Beer stopping by whenever he was “in the neighborhood.” I think that was his way of saying he was worried about the babies. 

With Mom’s tender care and steady feedings, the puppies rallied quickly. They grew strong and were ridiculously fat and round, but this time it was because of good nutrition. 

On one of his trips to check on the puppies, Dr. Beer said they were out of the woods and would be just fine. 

It wasn’t long before the puppies were playing, tumbling, and finding their voices. Mom started letting me hold them, then. The weather was nice, and when they got big enough, she let me start taking them outdoors to play. She knew I would be careful with them. 

They were so wiggly and squirmy but didn’t seem to mind me dressing them up in doll clothes and pushing them around in my doll buggy. Most of my dolls had dresses with panties. So, when I dressed the puppies, I wasn’t sure what to do with their tails—so I put them through one of the leg holes with their legs. 

I had so much fun with them, but too soon Mom and Dad said it was time to find new homes for them. We already had one farm dog, Brownie, so these little ones would need to have homes of their own. I wanted to keep them all. 

One by one, people came to see them, and soon they all found new homes.

I missed them. A lot.

I had watched my parents do what needed to be done. That seemed to be how things worked in our house.

Looking back, I realize they were teaching me something far more important than how to care for abandoned puppies.

If something was hurting…

…you helped it.

Army Beans

Brenda Stratton

A Dad Story.

When Dad was in the Army back in World War II, the soldiers took turns cooking. None of them liked KP duty. In fact, they had a rule that whoever complained about the cooking was to be the next one to take over the chore.

One night, the soldier who was on KP duty made navy beans and over-salted them on purpose to avoid cooking again the next night.

When meal time came that day, the soldiers took turns filling their plates and settled in to eat.

It was immediately apparent what the cook had done, but the soldiers continued eating stoically.

But one guy just couldn’t hold it in.

“Damn, those beans are salty!” he exclaimed. Quickly realizing what he had done he went on to add, “But, BOY are they good!”

Every time Dad told this story, it was punctuated by one of his signature belly laughs. We couldn’t help but laugh along with him.

The Day I Sold My Husband

Brenda Stratton

As an introvert, I have never liked to be the center of attention. 

I’ve taken piano and organ lessons as a child, and more organ lessons as an adult. But, I never liked to play for anyone outside my family. 

The business world wasn’t any different. A boss once asked my opinion on the subject at hand during a meeting—before I had formed one.

I felt like a deer caught in the headlights and spent the next minute or two feeling like I was babbling.

Carl and I went back to college when I was 36 and he was 39. 

As I was choosing my classes, I realized I needed one extra English class for my English/Writing major. I’d already chosen all the classes I really wanted. Of the ones remaining, speech was the most intimidating. But, I had it on good authority from other students in my class that it was easier (less intimidating) if I took it as a six week summer class.

Fortunately, it turned out that I only had to give one speech during the summer semester. That speech came at the end of the session—and counted as a significant portion of my grade.

The professor gave the class the freedom to choose our subjects, with some gentle direction on possible subject matter. 

After giving it a lot of thought, I settled on giving a sales pitch.

I decided to “sell” my husband. 

Of course, I asked Carl if he minded doing this for me. I explained that he would have to come to class with me and sit in front of the class beside me while I explained what a bargain he was. He readily agreed.

Here were just a few of his best features:

He’s a great cook and baker.

There is nothing that he can’t fix.

He is good-natured and has a terrific sense of humor.

He’s very smart. If you ask him a question, he usually has a ready answer. (This was before the internet.)

He pays the bills.

And there was so much more.

Having him beside me during that speech helped calm my nerves and made it much easier for me to get through it. 

As I had been advised by other survivors of speech class, it also helped imagining the whole class in their underwear. 

Between having Carl beside me and thinking of the class in that state of undress, I actually made it through my sales pitch with a smile. 

I also got a couple of offers for him, which made us both laugh. 

Somehow, between Carl beside me and an imaginary classroom full of people in their underwear, I got through the class and walked away with an A in Speech.

It’s Fall, Ya’ll!

Brenda Stratton

Actually, most of us here in the Midwest really don’t talk like that, but I couldn’t resist. We’re much more likely to say “It’s fall, you guys,” but it just doesn’t have the same ring.

Still, every time I pull out my “It’s Fall, Y’all!” T-shirt, I can’t help but smile. It is my favorite time of year.

While it’s not officially fall yet, the kids are back in school and there’s a different feel in the air.

Summer is wrapping up, and my garden is slowing down. I will soon can, freeze, and dehydrate the last of the vegetable crop. 

There will be zucchini for zucchini bread, tomatoes for soups, stews, and pasta dishes, cucumbers for pickle relish, and a variety of herbs tucked away for the months ahead.

And it’s nearly time to trim my roses back so they can rest until spring. 

The trees will soon turn color, painting the landscape in brilliant hues of yellow, red, orange, and russet.

And there will soon be traces of woodsmoke as people light their fireplaces against the first chill of the season. 

Although the home I live in now doesn’t have a fireplace, I fondly remember the one we had in my childhood home, where Carl and I continued to live until 2002. Now, I’ll enjoy the memories and perhaps catch the scent of someone else’s fire on a cool autumn evening.

It won’t be long until the earth itself breathes a sigh of relief and settles from the busy energy of summer into the slower pace of fall, as it prepares for winter’s slumber. 

For me, fall has always been a season of quiet gratitude. It is a time to reflect on the year so far and look forward to the months ahead. I hope to spend them writing, enjoying life, and sharing the holidays with the people I love. 

For now, though, I’ll simply pull on my favorite T-shirt, smile at the changing season, and enjoy every colorful day that autumn brings.

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. 

Ice Cream Cones and Car Rides

Brenda Stratton

Some lazy summer evenings, after supper and the dishes were done, we’d head to the Tastee Freeze for ice cream before taking a slow drive through town.

It was nothing special, but it was a chance to get out of the house and do something different. 

We waved to people we knew, and slowly drove the familiar streets.   

We saw children playing in the yard, people watering flowers, and lights coming on in windows.

We weren’t spying on anyone. We were simply enjoying the feeling of a town settling in for the evening. 

There was something comforting about seeing porch lights come on and families gathered inside their homes. Even then, I think I was quietly wondering what their stories were.

We didn’t know everyone, of course, in a community of over three thousand people. But we had been born and raised in this small town, and so had our children. It was our town, and these were our people, whether we knew them all or not.

I have always been a listener, an observer. I had no way of knowing back then, but all of these little moments were quietly tucked into the back of my mind, and now they seem to be clamoring to be told. 

Our lives were pretty ordinary. We worked hard, took care of our family, and built a life that made us happy. 

At the time, those evenings were pleasant but they didn’t seem to be more than that. They were simply a way for our family to spend an evening together.

Looking back, I realize they were far more than that. 

They gave me a sense of belonging—to my family and to my community. I didn’t think of it in terms of contentment then, but I know now that’s exactly what it was. I was content, and I was home.