Friday Night Lights

Brenda Stratton

At night in the country, there were very few lights unless you could see one in a neighbor’s window far away or the headlights of a car passing by.

On Friday nights in summer, it was common for my parents to do their weekly shopping because the stores were open late. It became a community affair in the small downtown area.

In addition to the sounds of car engines as they passed by, there was also the thump-thump sound they made as they crossed the railroad tracks in the next block.


People milled around stopping to chat with friends and neighbors. Some sat in their cars and waited for friends to find them. With all the store lights on and car headlights, it was so much brighter than what we were used to in the country. It was a nice change.

One thing I always looked forward to was a stop at the dime store, where the main attraction was the candy counter. Mom and Dad gave Monty and me each some money which we spent on penny candy.

After the shopping was done, we settled in the car which Dad parked in front of the dime store, or as close to it as we could get. If the weather was warm, we rolled all four windows down. If it was really hot, we opened the doors and left them open.

So many people gathered there that we knew. We sat and watched for a while. We always had friends stop by to visit.

We headed home around 8 PM when the stores closed. My brother and I were in bed soon after.

During the week, I was surrounded by my family and all of the farm animals that I loved.

Then on Friday nights, we joined the community for an evening of shopping, penny candy, and visiting with friends.

The little girl that still lives inside me remembers it well and likes to visit there from time to time.


The Blanket Tent

Brenda Stratton

Two medium-sized trees grew in our front yard, spaced just right for a blanket tent. My brother and I asked our parents for the materials to make it with. 

Mom gave us two old blankets. One became the tent walls, and the other was the soft floor inside.

Dad gave us some rope to suspend the tent from and a few bricks to hold the sides down.

At fifteen, Monty didn’t spend much time in it. He was more interested in putting it up. But at eleven, it felt like my very own little sanctuary. I spent a lot of time inside it that summer.

I still remember the scent of those sun-warmed blankets—clean, and smelling like fresh air, the way clothes do when they’ve dried on a clothesline. Sometimes I would press my nose to the fabric and breathe in deeply, just to enjoy it. 


Penny, my little Pekingese dog, was mostly black with white tips on her paws. She would curl up beside me in the tent, completely trusting. She was my shadow, my comfort, and my very own small guardian of that blanket tent.

Often, I took a book into the tent with me, my imagination taking me to faraway places while I read. More than once, I drifted off to sleep there, lulled by the heat, the clean smell, and the quiet music of summer, the story blurring into the sounds of the afternoon.

I appreciate those summer days just as much now as I did then. 

Are You KIDDING Me?

Brenda Stratton

Brrr, it’s cold. Are you kidding me? Who turned off the heat? Where did summer go?

These are the thoughts that flash through my mind every time I step out my front door after the weather has turned cold. You’d think I would get used to it, having lived in the Midwest my entire life.

It’s almost like I take it as a personal affront. It’s not that I don’t know it’s coming. And don’t get me started on December, January, February, and sometimes March!

It is that sudden slap in the face disguised as a bitter north wind that gets my attention and makes me question my life choices.

After stepping out the door, my immediate reaction is to draw my shoulders inward, pull my coat closed, and do my best to hold on to every bit of body heat that I have.

All the while, cold tries to seep into my bones as I make a mad dash between the warm house and the heated car.

I don’t particularly care for high summer, either, but I’ll reserve that rant for June 2027. 

Halloween Memories

Brenda Stratton

Ghosties and ghoulies and long-leggedy beasties and things that go bump in the night!
—adapted from a traditional Scottish prayer

When I was a child, I often created my own Halloween costumes. One of my favorites was to dress up as a hobo. I sewed scraps of fabric onto a pair of jeans with long, uneven running stitches. A flannel shirt with a few patches sewn onto it came next. 

To complete my costume, I tied the four corners of one of Dad’s red bandanas together and stuffed it with newspaper. Then I inserted a long stick through it and pretended that it held all of my earthly possessions. Mom applied some of her makeup to my face to help make me look unwashed. 

One year, I wore an old dress Mom had given me to play dress up with. On Mom, the dress came down to her knees. On me, the dress was full length. The skirt had a sheer overlay that I pulled up in back and pretended was a cape. 

I suspect it looked ridiculous, but I was happy with it. 

Unfortunately, Halloween in northwestern Illinois was often cold, which meant I had to wear a winter coat over my costume. That tended to ruin the effect.

I thought I’d left trick-or-treat behind when I was twelve. Then I had children. 

Watching their excitement was as much fun as the anticipation I felt when I was their age.

One homeowner featured a spooky scene in her garage every year. She filled a cauldron with dry ice to simulate steam. Then she dressed in a black witch’s costume and sat stirring her pot of witch’s brew. An eerie light turned her skin to a sickly green.

It was very convincing, especially to our three-year-old son. He didn’t return to trick-or-treat at her house for three years.

Several years later, before Scott was born, I sewed matching clown costumes for Tammy, Chris, and Liz. I used the same sewing pattern for each but chose different fabrics and sizes. Then I made big fluffy pom-poms from white yarn. I attached one to the hat and three down the center of each costume. 

They took their costumes to school for the festivities there, just as I did when I was their age. 

I thought when I left my childhood behind that part of my life was over, but I was wrong.

Watching my children enjoy the things I did as a child made me see the holiday in a way I hadn’t before.

The Calf in the Kitchen

Brenda Stratton

A calf was born one bitter winter night when I was four years old. Dad was in the barn feeding the livestock when the cow came wandering in. He was alarmed—she had been due to calve, but it was obvious she was no longer pregnant. Her calf wasn’t with her.

He knew he had to hurry. A newborn wouldn’t survive long on its own in that weather. The cold would take it fast. 

It was the kind of cold that made every breath sting and froze water in minutes. He followed the cow’s tracks through the snow and was horrified to find she had dropped the calf in the slough at the bottom of the pasture.

When he found it, the calf was barely alive. Only its nose was above the black water. Dad scooped it up—thirty or forty pounds of soaking wet calf—and hoisted it onto his shoulder. Its body was soaked and heavy, the slough water already stiffening in the cold. 

By the time he reached the barn, both of them were drenched and freezing. 

He knew he had to get the calf warm and the only way to do that was to take it in the house. He placed the calf in a metal bushel basket with handles to make it easier to carry.

I couldn’t figure out what he was doing when he came in the back door with that basket. I recognized it from the barn—the one he used to take corn to the livestock. I had never seen him bring it into the house before.

What I remember next may be something I truly saw, or it may be the way the story settled in my mind after years of hearing it told. Either way, this is how it lives in me now.

It wasn’t until he set the basket down that I could see what was inside—a tiny calf, cold and shivering, barely alive.

Mom hurried for towels and blankets. Dad lifted the calf out of the basket and laid it in front of the warm oil burner while they rubbed it gently, trying to dry it and bring some life back into its stiff little body.

Dad didn’t want to take it back to the barn that night. The cow was a first-time mother, and after what had happened, he wasn’t sure she could be trusted to care for it.

So they left the calf on the kitchen floor beside the stove, where it would stay warm through the night. If it rallied, they needed a way to keep it from wandering through the house—so they tied its feet together with a pair of Mom’s nylon stockings. 

They went to bed, hoping the calf would still be alive in the morning. 

Imagine Mom’s surprise the next morning when she found the little Houdini had slipped free of the stockings and was strolling around the kitchen like it lived there.

Fortunately, Dad was able to reunite the calf with its mother. He kept them together in a stall he prepared in the barn until the weather warmed and they were both stronger.

Looking back, I think that little calf taught me something before I was old enough to understand it. Sometimes life hangs on because someone refuses to give up.

The Pink Piano

Brenda Stratton
Pink upright piano with family photographs and pink roses displayed on top.


I will never forget the pink piano. 

Yes, you heard that right. 

A. Pink. Piano. Baby pink, to be exact.

I was five. Things like that make an impression when you are five.

It was an old upright piano, and it wasn’t pink when we first got it. 

That came later. 

I’ve told you before how much Mom loved pink. I don’t know for sure what led to the decision to paint it pink, or what whispered in Mom’s ear to convince her it was a good idea. 

I seem to remember the wood had been damaged, but I can’t say for certain. Whatever the reason, it remained the only pink piano she ever owned.

I’ve seen people paint them white. But that was the only one that was pink.

It sat in our living room for a long time, next to the television. 

You could see it from almost anywhere on the bottom floor of the farmhouse, except the kitchen. Unless you stood in the doorway. 

I remember people coming to the house. They almost always commented on the piano.

“It’s pink,” they said. 

“Yes,” Mom answered.

She never explained why she painted it pink. She let them draw their own conclusions. Maybe even she didn’t know why. 

Eventually, someone gave her an old pump organ.

That’s when she decided she didn’t want a pink piano anymore, and its fate was sealed. 

Dad pushed it out the front door onto the porch. 

After moving it outdoors, he hooked a chain around it and dragged it with the tractor down to the slough at the bottom of our pasture. 

I wasn’t allowed to go down there, so I never saw it again.  

Living on a Working Farm

Brenda Stratton

I lived on a small working farm until I was six years old. It is one of my most treasured memories. There were so many things to do and explore in my small world.

Mom taught me my ABCs, my colors, and how to count long before I entered school. She applied for a library card in my name when I was four. I couldn’t read yet, but the picture books introduced me to ideas beyond the farm. By the time I started school, my education had already begun.

She also encouraged me with art projects. I remember fondly watching her mix flour and water together to make paste, something she had watched her own mother do for herself and her eight siblings.

I spent my days exploring the parts of the farm where I was allowed to roam. One of my favorite places was the barn. I can still smell the bales of fresh-cut hay. Dad turned the cows out into the pasture in the daytime, so I didn’t need to worry about getting stepped on by a cow. 

Sometimes, Dad let me watch him milk the cows. We had several, so there was always a lot of milk. Dad brought some into the house for us, some went to the barn cats, and some went to the calves. He had a metal bucket with a nipple on it that he hung from the gate in the barn lot. The calves always emptied it. None of it went to waste. 

I loved playing with the barn cats, too, especially the ones that let me tame them as kittens. I almost always had one that I’d named Nosey, but it wasn’t always the same cat. 

The tame ones used to come up to the house. I carried them around and dressed them up in my doll clothes. There was always the problem of what to do with their tails. I solved that the same way I did in A Basket Full of Puppies. I put their tails through a leg hole along with one of their legs if the doll outfit had a pair of panties. They never objected and let me wrap them in doll blankets and push them around in my doll buggy. Occasionally one would jump out and I had to chase after it to get my doll clothes back.

Since our chickens were free-range, they often laid their eggs in the barn. Sometimes Mom sent me out with the little green basket she gave me to gather any eggs I could find. When I brought them into the house, Mom held them up to a lightbulb over the kitchen sink to make sure they were fresh. Dad had a stack of hay bales on the barn floor, and that’s where I usually found them. 

There were so many sounds that I remember well. The cows mooing, pigs oinking, chickens clucking, an occasional woodpecker drilling for insects in one of the tall trees, and the call of the bobwhites. 

Visiting the rabbits was always fun. They were so cute and fluffy. I especially adored the babies. I stood in front of their cages and watched them for long stretches of time. I could have watched them all afternoon.

I remember the blue morning glories Mom used to plant along the fence between the house and the empty chicken yard. They were so pretty. Mom and I both enjoyed them. I remember trying to smell them and the way the blooms wrapped around my nose, but they didn’t have much scent. 

Pale pink wild roses blooming among green leaves.


Wild roses grew in the ditch on the far side of the road that went past our house. I wasn’t supposed to cross it, but I did once to smell them. They were beautiful and smelled so good. But I learned the hard way that the stems had scores of tiny prickles growing all along them. I wasn’t tempted to cross the road to pick them after that. 

Looking back, I realize the farm was my first classroom. Long before I ever sat behind a school desk, it had already begun teaching me about animals, nature, hard work, kindness, and paying attention to the world around me. I suppose I’ve been learning ever since.

Mrs. Brayton and Anne of Green Gables

Brenda Stratton

I can still hear the inflection in her voice when she’d say, “Oh, Anne…”

I don’t remember any more what the characters’ conversation was about, but I know who was speaking. It was Marilla Cuthbert, Anne’s guardian.

Before she began reading, Mrs. Brayton passed out brown paper towels—the rough kind that came on a roll and had to be cranked out manually. She gave one to each of us. Then she poured a careful measure of raisins onto the paper towels—our cook, Mrs. Archer, had graciously contributed them. We sat there, quietly eating one raisin at a time, while Mrs. Brayton brought Prince Edward Island to life.

Those afternoons were like magic in my ten-year-old mind. It was the best part of the day. Everyone was so quiet we didn’t miss a word of the story. I could see the scenes unfolding in my imagination as clearly as if I had been there myself.

All eyes were on her—at least mine were—as I watched her slowly turn the pages and speak in her expressive voice. The raisins were just sticky enough to leave a faint sweetness on my fingers, though they didn’t cling too stubbornly to the paper towels.

I believe she read to us during the winter months, probably instead of recess. Whatever the reason, those afternoons stretched over many days, giving us time to journey through Anne’s world together.

Looking back, I realize those afternoons did more than fill the winter hours. I was already an avid reader—my mother had seen to that—but being read to was something different. It wasn’t just about the story. It was about cadence. Tone. Inflection. The way a voice could make words come alive.

Maybe that’s part of why I love audiobooks.

And maybe—though I hadn’t thought about it until now—it was also the beginning of something else. I remember being in fourth grade and wanting to write stories of my own. I tried a few times. But when I didn’t know what the next step was, I stopped.

Perhaps I was still listening. Still learning how stories were supposed to sound.

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.

Cloud Creatures

Brenda Stratton

The early afternoon sun was high overhead. The deep blue sky was the perfect backdrop to the puffy white clouds.

It was a perfect summer day—warm, but not hot—and the humidity of high summer had not yet arrived.

I was standing in the front yard when the beauty overhead caught my attention. I paused to watch—to see what the clouds wanted to become.

Even then, I was a watcher.

Shorts. No shoes. Grass underfoot, as usual. I lay down in the shade of Dad’s pink rosebush, the blades tickling the backs of my legs.

Above me, the clouds shifted and gathered themselves into shapes—a horse, a dog—then something else entirely.

They looked like fluffy white cotton. Or maybe cotton candy. I couldn’t decide which.

I was always a watcher. Sometimes it even got me into trouble—but not that day. 

I wasn’t trying to make the clouds into anything. I was just watching to see what they would become.

I didn’t know then that I would spend much of my life doing the same thing with people.

Looking back, I think people are a little like clouds. They have a way of revealing themselves if we’re patient enough to watch.