My Apron

This is the first thing in my line of vision every morning.  It's my Grandma's apron.  She wore an apron every day of her life.  At least her life that I knew.

She would be a bit embarrassed that you can see some staining across the front and the fact that it is not ironed might get her "irish" up a little for she felt it was important to care for one's things.

But I love to look at it every day.

She was born in 1890.  She died in 1995.  I was at the tail end of her almost 30 grandchildren, and my oldest brother tells me that the rest of them "broke her in" - they tell tales of a sterner Grandma - I got the kinder, gentler one.

Maybe some things don't matter as much the older you get.  Maybe she mellowed with age and her walk with her God.  Maybe, and this is what I think, maybe she just felt a little more kinship with me because she was the one that I attached to when young.   My mother was busy with a lot of children and a new baby that was sick often; she had a large garden and was refurbishing an old farm house on a dime - but Grandma attached me to her side each morning, and we went about our "work". 

She stayed with us every winter of my growing up years - her house was big and drafty and my mother had invited her to "winter over" with us each year.  I think there were a lot of reasons hidden in that invitation, but I know the one I benefited from the most was that it was much nicer when Grandma was around.   

When I was really small and she would be peeling potatoes for supper sitting at our kitchen table, her chair was the one that I shadowed, the one that I hid behind, the one that could make me invisible when I needed it most in the late afternoon hours.  When it came time for bed, I was the only girl with my own room, so she got to sleep with me.  It was probably the most horrible sleeping arrangement of her life - but it was sweet rest for me.  I would snuggle up to her and it was good and warm and peaceful.

In some ways, she was a shelter and a shield for me a lot of years.

Every October I would start to beg my mother to mark a date on the calendar to "go get Grandma".  I would send Grandma a letter telling her to pack her suitcase, that I saw some snow flakes and she better be ready.  I would make sure the three drawers that were "hers" while she stayed with us were cleaned out.

My room always felt better when she was there.

When we would get to Grandma's house, no matter what my age, she would always grab my hand, look into my eyes and say "how are you, dear?"  We were not a "touchy" family.  I can count on one hand the times I was hugged growing up - and two of those times were when my favorite dog Spunky died.  But Grandma always touched me.  And looked at me.  And waited for an honest answer. 

She read to me every night.  At first it was one of the simple picture books you could pick up at the store for 79 cents named "Heidi".   Then as I started school, she had a hard copy of the book "Heidi" and a few pages of that would be our nightly portion.

To this day I still love children's books.  I re-read "Heidi" a couple of years ago and marveled at what an "empowering" girls book it was.  I held the book, read the words of a little lost girl who overcame great hurts and wondered at the gift and blessing my Grandmother gave me when she was reading that to me year after year.   

This was her unspoken message time after time whether through a children's book, or her "work" or her very life -- "no matter how bad it seems, persevere, persevere and keep moving"

My Grandma had the worst case of Rheumatoid Arthritis I have ever seen.  Her hands and fingers looked like a wretched zigzag - each segment going in a different direction at each joint.  Her toes were worse.  She hobbled when she walked and was limited in her movements.  Each morning, she ever so slowly came down each one of our 13 steps holding tight to the hand railing. 

I don't remember anyone ever calling her "crippled".  She just kept moving.

She read five pages in her Bible every day so she could read through it once a year.  Every year.  She didn't go to church - she couldn't climb the stairs - but she read her Bible every day.  She didn't talk about her faith a lot.  I'm not sure of her "insights" or her "words from God", she didn't talk about those things.

I am sure I saw her reading her Bible every day though.  And maybe her faith is a lot stronger than mine, because she didn't have a commentary.   She didn't have a concordance.  She didn't have "study" Bibles to "explain" all the things we don't understand.  She just read it and believed it for what it was - one Book, one Story, the Word of God.  If you don't understand it, you still read it.  Again and again.

She kept moving through it time after time.  I think God greatly blessed her for her faithfulness. 

Each one of her grandchildren has a hand stitched quilt made specially for them.  She baked and baked and baked and baked and knew everyone's favorite cookie.  When we would walk into Grandma's house I can still see the warm sugar cookies on her pull out work board - not frosted but sprinkled with a little bit of sugar and so good for dunking in a glass of milk.  

She baked more pies in her lifetime than most of Ohio has in the last ten years.  She felt the need to feed every person at the family reunion twice over.

She did all that with hands that wouldn't work the way she wanted them to anymore.  She did all that hobbling on hips that could barely move in the morning.  She did all of that going on 100 years of age.

When she died, being one of the youngest of her grandchildren, I did not expect anything from her household.  And to be honest, I thought she had given me far more than most already.  But I was surprised when nobody wanted her tin step back cupboard and I was so pleased when it was offered to me.

The day it arrived, everything was still in the cupboard drawers, just as she had left them.  Her little hammer that she had had for years was in the top drawer.  Some of her tin pie pans were in the bottom drawer.  In the middle drawer, some of her aprons and "oiled" dish towels that she used to cover her breads and cinnamon rolls were still there.  The aroma was still strong on them - it was Grandma's kitchen and I just sat and held them and smelled them and cried sweet tears of remembrance.

I put the towels in a plastic bag and for a long time took them out and smelled them every time I needed to improve my posture and stand up straighter; every time I needed to remember that one loved me and called me "dear"; every time I needed to remember that I was in a long heritage of those that can overcome almost any obstacle. 

So last month I intended to give that apron to one of my daughters for all those reasons and had washed it and hung it up there to dry.  It's still there.

I keep thinking of Grandma and know what she would say to me now:  first, a heartfelt "how are you, dear?" and then she would say "put your apron on, there's work out there you need to help with".......

She is proof that some people live more and give more in their last 35 years of life than some do their first 70.  She is proof that some of God's greatest blessings come in the most difficult of packages.

She is proof that no matter what may hinder you, you keep moving.  And her apron hanging up there reminds me how every day of her life no matter how much her pain she got out of bed, tied on her apron, read her bible and got to work.

That apron has probably rocked more babies, cooked more meals, baked more breads and cookies and cinnamon rolls - making others more happy than 14 of us put together. 

The aroma from her kitchen is gone from the fabric, but it's a proof I can touch and feel every morning.