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Below is an excerpt from author Linda Olson’s book Transform Your Story: Letting Go of the Past When It Won’t Let Go of You.
About Author Linda Olson
Linda Olson is a go-to story expert who helps authors, speakers and entrepreneurs to transform lives with their story. She is a TEDx Speaker, a multiple bestselling author, and founder of Wealth Through Stories. Her mission is: to impact a million people a year through story.
Transform Your Story is her story from tragedy to triumphant, as she walks through the pain of being responsible for the death of her little brother only to discover a life she never knew was possible.
Transform Your Story: An Excerpt
Mom, standing in the entryway of our 1959 farmhouse, her breakfast apron speckled with bread crumbs from making our sandwiches, waved as we boarded the bus. “Don’t forget! As soon as you come home from school, change your clothes and help with the potatoes.” Her shouts barely reached our ears before the bus door unfolded to close out the crisp morning chill.
Fall harvest was in full swing. Our family of seven knew firsthand about “if you don’t work, you don’t eat” and we didn’t complain. Cracking open a steaming baked potato in the dead of winter was reward enough for our labors.
I thought of the school I had attended last year. The imitation red-brick building had sheltered my father while he mastered his sums and learned the alphabet. For eight years, in the same one-room schoolhouse, I had recited poetry and drawn maps of foreign countries, happily studying with thirty other children who lived in our small Canadian community. The hardwood desks, arranged by grade, were the academic nests of friends and family.
Now the country schools had consolidated, and students rode a bus into town to gain the benefits of more formal education. Although I could hardly complain about getting a ride—trudging through fifteen inches of snow for three-quarters of a mile in forty-degree-below-zero weather was not my idea of fun—getting up before dawn to ride the bus an hour every morning meant an hour’s ride every night only to arrive home at twilight.
Now those days were behind me, and I was growing up—much faster than I wanted, to be sure. Meager attempts at finding my identity blurred among seventy-five freshmen classmates. Our high school student body topped out at two hundred fifty pupils—hardly the cozy, intimate circle of friends that I had hoped would welcome a local farm girl.
After the day’s lessons and the long ride home, I hopped down the steps of the bus and lugged my book bag to my bedroom. I changed clothes—work in the garden required well-worn denim jeans and a hand-me-down loose, long-sleeved cotton shirt—and stopped in the kitchen to quickly make a peanut butter-and-jelly sandwich. Tossing the dirty knife into the dishpan, I hurried to the garden to join the others.
Taking a bite of my sandwich, I pushed open the front screen door with my foot and saw that Mom had recruited some extra help for the day’s task. Grandma, on crutches but eager to help, and Grandpa Warkentin along with Aunt Laurie nodded their greetings. Three-year-old Karen, Aunt Laurie’s older daughter, played with my little brother. Billy was two years old and melted everyone’s heart with his bib overalls, bare feet, and winsome smile. He tagged along everywhere, always wanting to be part of the action. Today that action would include burrowing beneath the wilted potato leaves in our Manitoban soil to dig out the Red Russet and Golden Yukon potatoes which would be stored in the basement for the winter.
Mom looked out across the front field, her hand shielding her eyes from the late afternoon sun. She spoke quietly, within earshot of Grandpa. “Last year we took so many trips with the pails; today we’ll use the front-loader to bring the potatoes right up to the front step, as close as we can get to the house.”
Grandpa nodded, and Mom glanced my way. She must have seen the question in my eyes. My ears had perked up at the overheard suggestion and I was mutely anticipating her next words. Remembering how my arms had ached last year after hauling two five-gallon pails full of potatoes for hours, I would dearly love to avoid the myriad trips from the garden to the basement in the late-September heat.
“Would you like to drive, Linda?”
I broke into a smile. At only fourteen, I was already an old hand at driving the Cockshutt 35 tractor. Taking a turn driving large farm equipment was a common responsibility for most teenagers in the area, bridging the gap between childhood chores and essential farming tasks on the family homestead.
Mom continued her instructions. “We’ll pile the potatoes in the front-end loader. When it’s full, Linda, drive it to the front of the house. Then we’ll unload it with the pails and carry the potatoes to the basement.”
She didn’t need to repeat her words. I nodded my obedience and quickly ran to climb the thirty-four-inch tire, boosting myself into the red metal seat. I could already taste the dust flying in the autumn air, envisioning the tractor bouncing its way along the well-worn path to the house.
*****
I parked the tractor near the garden where I joined Grandpa, Mom, Violet, and Vera. We emptied pail after pail of potatoes into the bucket of the front-end loader until it could hold no more without spilling. Now it was time to head back to the house. Hopping once again into the metal seat, I positioned myself behind the wheel and turned the key. I peered over the top of the faded yellow tractor and, carefully shifting into reverse, backed the vehicle away from the garden, turning the steering wheel to change directions. Next I shifted into drive and steered the 5,000 pound tractor toward the doorway of our pink stucco farmhouse. Billy and Karen played on the front step, watching my approach.
I neared the house and released the hand throttle, one foot on the clutch and the other on the brake. This was so much easier than toting heavy pails, I thought. We’ll be finished in no time. I pressed the brake, anticipating the deceleration of the Cockshutt.
It didn’t happen.
The tractor didn’t slow, didn’t obey my command to slow its pace.
I gripped the steering wheel for leverage and pressed harder on the brake. The huge machine refused to slow. Alarmed, I realized the house was rushing up too quickly. I gathered all my strength, slid off the seat to a standing position and, with all my weight, jammed my foot on the brake, pumping up and down, up and down, demanding that the wheels stop their turning.
No response.
Bewildered and confused, I sensed the betrayal of the machine beneath me, rejecting my efforts to bring it under control. Quickly it was swallowing the distance to the house. I locked eyes with Mom, silently pleading for split-second direction; all I saw was my own panic reflected in her eyes. I screamed the only explanation I knew.
“I can’t stop the tractor!”
Learn More About Linda Olson
For a snapshot of my bigger story, I encourage you to listen to my TEDx talk, Your Story Is Gold. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=skMnvS48MsY
What does a young person do when she is derailed from her expectations of the future? What happens when life one moment is benevolent and sweet and the next moment darker than even the most unimaginable nightmare?
My walk of horrific pain and guilt ultimately led me to enjoy a life I never knew was possible. Over many years and a deep faith in God, I found strength and courage to face every challenge, every fear, every frustration that stood in my way.
Transform Your Story is the story of my life, from tragedy to triumphant as I learned the power of self-forgiveness. As you read my story I would like you to focus on, if you wrote your story, what would you like to share that could impact others? You may ask, “Me? There is nothing unique or different about my story.” Whether you believe it or not, you have a story you need to tell. There is no one in the whole world that has a story just like yours … and others are waiting to hear it. Story writing is NOT about perfecting your writing, it’s about sharing a message to transform lives. At the back of the book I have offered some great tools that can help you get started with your story.
Picasso says, “The meaning of life is to share your gift (that’s your story). The purpose of life is to give it away.”
