Tag: Mom

The Old Red Pump

Brenda Stratton

I remember it like it was yesterday, a moment caught in time. I was nine years old.

It was a cool, sunny day in spring. Dad was standing beside the old well, the sun at his back, creating a halo effect around him. 

He was shirtless, wearing only a pair of muddy jeans and work shoes, holding an old bucket with a rope attached to it. 

We had just moved to the Millersburg property, which was my mother’s childhood home. The only available water source was the old shallow well. We lived too far out in the country, so city water wasn’t available. 

The well hadn’t been used in nearly twenty years, since my grandmother moved into the city. 

Dad knew he had to clean the well and purify the water to make it safe before we had any usable fresh water at all. 

The well was hand-dug and approximately thirty-five feet deep. The sides and bottom were dirt, so the bottom of it was muddy. 

Dad repeatedly climbed down the ladder he had placed in the well, and brought up the mud bucket by bucket. 

He brought up other things, too: an old bucket and a wrench that had been lost down there many years before. 

After Dad cleaned the well, he began lining it with reclaimed bricks.

I know the weather was still cool because Mom had been cleaning the bricks with a wire brush and water they brought up beforehand. I remember her mentioning how cold her hands were, and I also remember how red they were. 

Once the brick lining was finished, Dad treated the water to make sure it was safe to drink. He said he put lime down the well to purify it, which is how they did it back then.

When that was all done, the last step was to restore the hand pump, which he had pulled out of the well before he started cleaning it. 

After cleaning it, he replaced the leathers, applied a fresh coat of red paint, and reinstalled it when the paint was dry. 

For several years afterward, before Dad built the new house, we had to go out to the well, pump the water we needed, and carry it into the house.

At age nine, I wasn’t strong enough to carry a full bucket of water, so the job mostly fell to Mom and Monty. Sometimes Mom was busy and Monty was off carrying his paper route, so Mom would ask me to bring in a half bucket. Once in a while, if she needed more, I had to make two trips. 

I remember hanging the bucket on the pump spout, having to pump it three or four times to prime it, the squeak the pump made, and the clatter of metal on metal as I brought the handle down and it hit the pump body. 

Later, when Dad built the new house, he installed a jet pump in the basement and connected it to the well. After that, we did not use the hand pump nearly as often.

Even so, Dad—and later Carl—kept the hand pump in good working order.

Dad’s reasoning was simple:

A family’s source of water should not depend entirely upon electricity if another choice exists.

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.

Mom Made Ten Dozen Doughnuts!

Brenda Stratton

At least, that’s what it sounded like to me. 

Mom made a lot of desserts… Doughnuts weren’t something she usually made, which is one reason that day has stayed with me all these years. 

She also made pies, cakes, cobblers, cookies, puddings, and almost anything else you could imagine. My favorites were cream puffs and Boston cream pie, but those doughnuts were near the top of the list. Nearly everything she made was from scratch, although she occasionally used a cake mix if she was in a hurry.

We had a Crosley electric stove back then in the late 1950s. The back left cooking area had a deep well. It was simply a deep cooking pot set into the stove itself, and that’s where Mom made soups and stews, and where she deep fried the doughnuts. 

She had just started making them when Monty and I came in from school. She said we could have some for dessert that evening, but she wanted to have some left over for breakfast the next day. 

We hovered around her watching what she was doing. She let us, but kept us away from the deep well in case it splattered hot oil. 

We did get to peek once in a while, and I remember watching the oil sizzle around them.

It didn’t take long for them to fry. She took them out of the hot oil and laid them on paper towels she had spread on some plates. 

When they had cooled a little, she drizzled them with a thin powdered sugar icing. The frying bread dough and icing together scented the air in a way that any bakery would have been proud of. I will never forget how the kitchen smelled that day. 

When they had cooled enough for us to handle, she gave one to each of us. They disappeared so quickly, one might have almost wondered if they had been there in the first place, but there was the lingering taste and telltale signs of sticky fingers on both of us. 

 Of course, we wanted a second one, but she said we had to wait until after supper. 

Dad came home from work not long after, and he had one, too. I remember him telling Mom how good it was. 

After we ate supper, she gave us each a doughnut for dessert, and then a second one. If I remember correctly, we might even have gotten another one before bed, and, of course, before our baths.  

The next morning, we got up eagerly expecting doughnuts for breakfast because she had said so the day before. 

Unfortunately, she told us there weren’t any left. We ate them all the night before.

As an adult, I’ve realized she probably made only two dozen or so because that’s what most recipes would yield. Either that, or Dad had quite a bedtime snack!

But at the time… I would have sworn I heard her say ten dozen.

My Family Garden

Brenda Stratton

I live in the home I inherited from my parents. It’s not my childhood home, but one they purchased just before Carl and I were married. 

After we were married, Carl and I made my childhood home our own for the next 32 years.

Mom and Dad both loved flowers, and they each put their mark on this yard.

Dad planted daffodils, a lilac bush, ghost lilies, roses, and peonies. He transplanted my maternal grandmother’s rosebush from my childhood home to where I live now.

Mom always loved hollyhocks, tulips, and clematis, which she planted on the south side of the house.

Over the years, I’ve added my own touches to the garden with more roses and peonies, hydrangeas, irises, two magnolia trees, and an ornamental cherry tree.

Not every flower has survived. This year I planted two light purple clematis vines where Mom’s dark purple one had grown for years.

It had been struggling for the last two or three years, and I don’t remember seeing it at all last year. I thought it was gone.

To my surprise, this spring the old vine returned. Now the dark purple and light purple blossoms are intertwined, climbing the trellis together.

On my list of flowers yet to replace are a new lilac bush, tulips and hollyhocks. 

The flowers made me think about my family and the things we leave behind.

Each generation adds something new to what was already there. New family members are added through marriage, birth, and sometimes adoption.

Just as I continue adding new flowers to the garden, each generation adds something new to our family.

It is a continuous cycle of life.

When I look at the flowers in my yard, they remind me of the people who planted them.

Dad is in the daffodils, peonies, ghost lilies, and roses. Mom smiles from the clematis, and Grandma still blooms in the old rosebush. 

They remind me that those who loved us are never truly gone. 

Your Pants Are On Fire!

Brenda Stratton

When we lived on the farm, there were only two bedrooms on the ground floor. Monty had one room and Mom and Dad had the other. 

I was only four or five years old, so they put me in a tiny room off Mom and Dad’s bedroom that I think must’ve been a dressing room. 

Because the room was so tiny, there was only a small white dresser and my single bed which was tucked under the north-facing window.

There was no overhead light, just a bare lightbulb screwed into a light socket on the wall with a pull chain to turn it on.

One evening, while Mom was busy in her bedroom, I wandered into mine. 

There was a pair of Mom’s black-and-white zebra striped pedal pushers hanging from the lightbulb.

I remember the light turning on, but I don’t recall who did it, although I’ve always suspected it was me. Mom would have known better.

I was fascinated when I saw the smoke starting to curl toward the ceiling.

All of a sudden, Mom was there. 

She moved me out of the way and grabbed the zebra striped pants, flinging open the front door and hurling them out onto the front porch.

If I was the one who turned on the light, I didn’t get into trouble.

But Mom never hung anything on the light again, and that was the last time I ever saw the zebra striped pants.

The “Lazy” Bread Baker

Brenda Stratton

My mother taught me to bake bread more than 50 years ago.

My first few loaves were less than perfect. Some were dense and heavy. Some had holes in them.

With each loaf, I learned something. I learned to make sure my yeast was fresh and my water was just the right temperature. I learned what it meant to let the dough double before shaping the loaf and how to make it entirely by hand.

As the years passed, I discovered bread machines which were advertised to take most of the work out of bread making. 

What magic is this?

So, I bought a bread machine, and eagerly tried it—but I was disappointed with the outcome. It did not come out as soft as the bread my mother taught me to make. 

Not wanting to waste the money, I continued to use it, still disappointed with the result, until I hit on an idea. 

I placed the ingredients in the bread machine the night before and  set the timer to start mixing it the next morning. When I woke up, all I had to do was shape the dough and put it in a loaf pan, let it rise again, and bake it. 

Now, the bread came out just the way I wanted it to. The bread machine did all the mixing and kneading, let the dough go through its first rise, and then kneaded it once more. That let me finish the bread the way my mother taught me, giving it the soft crust I remembered.

Mom’s method is simple. As soon as the bread comes out of the oven, I butter the top. I let it rest in the pan, place a paper towel on top, then cover it with clean potholders and dish towels to keep the heat and moisture in the loaf. I let it cool in the pan before cutting it. Cutting it while it is warm makes it dry out faster.

Sometimes waiting is hard when the family is eagerly waiting for a warm slice, especially if I have some fresh homemade jam.

Every loaf I bake reminds me that my mother’s way is still part of mine. Sometimes the best results come from blending the old with the new.

The Accidental Casserole

Brenda Stratton

A Note From The Porch

It was a typical busy late afternoon. Carl and Scott were home from work, and I was in the process of starting dinner. 

I gathered the ingredients together, which included a forage into the garage where our overflow pantry and freezers are located. 

I came back to the kitchen and started assembling dinner. 

Mom always made sure there were at least three different things for dinner, followed up by a dessert of some kind. 

Since she is the one who taught me to cook, I did the same. It worked equally well when there were six of us for dinner as well as just for the three of us after our other three children moved out and established their own homes. 

One of the dishes we were having that night was a corn casserole, a recipe Mom had given me many years before.

After I assembled the casserole and put it in the oven, I put together the rest of the meal and began tidying up the kitchen. 

The corn casserole calls for a box of Jiffy Corn Muffin mix. I picked up the empty box to throw it away and froze. 

Emblazoned across the front of the box it clearly said Jiffy Yellow Cake mix. 

I froze, horrified by the discovery. I had just ruined dinner!

Trying to decide what I was going to feed the guys, I decided the best thing to do was to make a new corn casserole, this time with Jiffy Corn Muffin mix. It would only delay dinner by a few minutes, since it was very quick to put together. I had enough ingredients on hand. 

Less than 15 minutes later, I slid a new casserole into the oven satisfied that I had saved dinner. 

I had every intention of throwing the accidental casserole out. I couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to eat a cake with creamed corn, cheddar cheese and green chiles in it. 

Except… Carl and Scott both said they wanted to taste it. 

I thought they were teasing me at first but quickly found out they were serious. 

So I gave them each a serving, fully expecting them to take one bite and push it away.

They didn’t.

They liked it.

So, now I was curious and tasted it, too. 

I was shocked to find out it was actually good. 

We have always liked a little bit of sugar in our cornbread, so I suppose it wasn’t such a stretch to think they might like the sweetness of the cake in it. 

Fifteen minutes later, when the actual corn casserole came out of the oven, they weren’t interested in it. They had polished off the accidental casserole, so I saved the right one for dinner the next night. 

We have talked about the incident at different times over the years. The horror of what I had done soon wore off, and now I find it funny, too. 

But I never made another one with a cake mix. 

I learned several things from the incident. 

  • Mistakes are not always failures.
  • Sometimes the “ruined” thing becomes the memorable thing.
  • Family stories often come from ordinary kitchen accidents.
  • Perfection is overrated when people are laughing and eating.
  • Always read the label. Jiffy Cake Mix and Jiffy Corn Muffin Mix look remarkably alike, and you may end up with an accidental casserole of your own.

In case you are curious, I have listed the original recipe below. And if you decide to substitute a cake mix for the corn muffin mix? I won’t tell anyone. 

Corn Casserole

Prep Time: 10 minutes  | Cook Time: 45-60 minutes  | Total Time: 55-70 minutes  | Servings: 4-6 

Ingredients:

  • 3 eggs
  • ¼ cup oil
  • 2 cans creamed corn
  • 4 oz. can of chopped green chiles
  • 8 oz Jiffy corn bread mix
  • ¾ – 1 cup shredded cheddar cheese (for topping)

Instructions:

  • Preheat oven to 350℉.
  • Combine all ingredients, except cheddar cheese, in bowl, beating eggs before adding the rest. 
  • Pour into a casserole dish. Top with cheddar cheese. 
  • Bake for 45-60 minutes or until the center is set. 

NOTE: If you like a little spice, add a few jarred jalapeno pepper slices and a tablespoon or two of the liquid.

Watching Mom Crochet

Brenda Stratton

Mom was sitting on the end of our black sectional sofa, the one with silver threads running through it, crocheting a doily. It wasn’t the first time I had seen her crochet—but it was the first time I really paid attention.

I sat down beside her to watch.

She was working with dark pink and forest green crochet thread, two of her favorite colors.

I wanted to understand how she formed the stitches that made the doily grow. Her quick hand movements—and the steady progress of the piece—fascinated me.

I watched her for a long time that day. And after that, whenever she sat down to crochet, I often sat beside her to watch.

I couldn’t figure out how she did it, but I wanted to learn.

She didn’t think my seven-year-old hands would be able to manage a tiny steel hook and thread, so she gave me a blue plastic crochet hook and a ball of bright pink yarn.

She taught me how to make a chain stitch. I used up most of that yarn making one very long chain.

She tried to show me how to turn those chains into something more, but I lost interest before I had much success. It would be years before I picked it up again.

Later, when I was about eleven, a friend taught me to knit in garter stitch. I made a lot of knitted headbands that year.

In my late teens, I picked knitting up again for a while—but I was never completely comfortable working with two needles.

It felt awkward.

That’s when I turned back to crochet.

I taught myself the basic stitches from a book and quickly realized that working with a single hook felt far more natural.

As I became more invested, I learned advanced techniques and began making hats, baby blankets, purses, mittens—even rugs.

Before long, I realized I could look at a finished piece and write a pattern from it.

That led to designing my own patterns.

Eventually, I became confident enough to submit them for publication.

The first few were turned down, but I was determined. Each rejection taught me something. I studied my work, paid attention to what publishers were accepting, and adjusted.

Before long, more and more of what I submitted was accepted.

That was the beginning of what became a decades-long career in crochet design.

Rose Garden, a doily I designed many years later. Mom would have loved this one.

In 2004, that path led me to accept an editorial position with a Midwest craft publishing company, where I worked for several years before retiring.

I have long since lost track of that first ball of bright pink yarn—but I still have the blue plastic crochet hook Mom gave me.

Over the years, I’ve collected many hooks—favorites I reach for again and again—but none of them compare to that simple blue plastic one.

That one holds the memories.

Memories of sitting beside Mom as she worked with a tiny steel hook, creating what felt like magic out of thin air.

I’ve often told people that Mom taught me to crochet, because she was the first to put a hook in my hands.

She always gently corrected me, saying it was the other way around—that I taught her by passing along what I had learned.

Either way, she was my inspiration in crochet—and in so many other things in life.

And to think… it all started with watching Mom crochet.

Dancing With Dad

Brenda Stratton

Mom and Dad met at a dance in the late 1940s, after World War II.

They loved dancing. On Saturday nights, they sometimes went out with friends. Their favorite place was the Coliseum in Davenport, Iowa—later renamed the Col Ballroom.

They especially loved waltzes and had a number of records they played at home.

We were lucky to have older cousins who could babysit Monty and me.

Eventually, they stopped going to the Col when the music shifted from Big Band to pop.

But their love of dancing never changed.

Some evenings, they would put on records and dance right there in the living room. Waltzes were always their favorite.

One evening, they set the record player on a table in the little dinette area tucked into one corner of the room.

I can still see it—the black sectional couch with silver threads running through it, the arched doorways of our mid-century modern home, the kitchen at the far end.

I wanted to dance too, but I didn’t know how.

Then, to my delight, Dad asked me to dance.

He told me to step up onto his feet—we were both in our socks. Mom put The Blue Danube on the record player, and suddenly we were waltzing around the room.

I don’t know how he made it look so effortless—especially with me standing on his feet—but he did.

The next dance was for Mom.

I sat quietly on the couch, watching them, listening to the music, taking it all in.

It’s an evening I’ve never forgotten.