The GGma Chronicles, Part 20: “What Is an Apron, Mother?” and “Papa’s Hollyhocks”
Apron Fashion, The Greatest Book, and Why Fat People Have Tiny Feet
This was written by my maternal grandmother, Alice Green-Kollenborn (1911-2005).WHAT IS AN APRON, MOTHER?
Are aprons going the way of lace handkerchiefs, Mother Hubbard dresses, and stiff corsets?
I remember back in the twenties when every woman wore an apron. She had her everyday work apron made of calico or gingham worn thin and faded from much wearing, washing, and ironing; her fancy Sunday aprons of organdy, checkered gingham and unbleached muslin trimmed in [rigrac?] perhaps embroidery work, fashioned in every conceivable style. Crocheted edging, often adorned [with?] colorful embroidered designs and unbleached muslin aprons while the organdy boasted lace on crocheted edges and often dainty lazy daisy flowers.
Some of my fondest memories of Mama are of seeing her in her voluptuous apron filled with freshly picked green beans, roasting ears, garden peas, and freshly-dug new potatoes for dinner.
Her work aprons were used for everything from carrying dry sassafras twigs to kindle the old wood range with, to gathering eggs or for wiping flour from her hands as she bent over the old oak kitchen table, kneading her light bread dough.
I can see her now with her long dark hair worn in a knot at the nap of her neck, her smooth ivory skin glowing, wearing a big calico apron as she beat, turned, and worked the bread dough to just the right consistency while telling us kids stories. She seemed to know the elasticity of the dough just when to quite kneading and when to shape and grease it and place it in a big dish pan for the first rising. When it was baked and ready to remove from the oven, she often used her apron tail for hot pads to remove the golden loaves from the oven and place them on a cooling rack.
Many a tear was dried on the corner of her apron. Tears of joy as well as sad tears. Often I’ve seen Mam with a far-away look in her soft brown eyes as she wiped away a tear from her eyes while she gazed from the kitchen window toward the churchyard where Papa lay beneath white daisies.
When one of us 7 children felt our heart was broken by the loss of a pet or by some other hurt we’d run to Mama and let her dry our childish tears on her generous calico apron while she kissed us and soothed the pain away.
The only times I can recall seeing Mama without her work-a-day apron were when she made her few trips to town; on Sunday; when she was sick in bed, which seldom happened; or after the chores were done in the late evening. It was only then that her apron hung behind the cook stove on a special nail while she sat and rocked on the front porch, telling us kids our favorite stories as we lounged close to her listening intently, or if the huge moon was just climbing over the tall pine trees to the east we’d sit quietly, each occupied with our own thoughts, listening to the mournful cry of the whippoorwill moaning in the big red oak trees down by the spring house.
In the winter, we’d all gather round the crackling fire in the big rock fireplace, tell stories, talk or listen to Mama read from the Bible. She’d often say, “You can find any kind of story you want in the Bible, from great love stories to unbelievable tragedies. It’s the greatest book of all.”
Grandma never liked wearing an apron, but always had one ready to tie on whenever she went in the kitchen. She would never wear one that slipped over her head. “The string around the neck bothers me,” she’d say. And so she wore small straight aprons, pinning each side of the bib to her dress. She never changed the style of her aprons, nor did she wear fancy ones. She preferred plain, calico, long, tied at the waist and pinned with safety pins the bib.
Our nearest neighbor, Sarah Jones, always wore a half-length dark calico apron over her long black dress when she walked across the field to visit Mama. She was a hefty woman and her apron gathered at the waist gave her an even larger appearance. Her black dress swept the floor, barely showing the tips of her pointed black, high-buttoned shoes.
“Why do fat people always have tiny feet,” we’d often query Mama. She’d laugh and say, “They only appear small because only the tips show.”
PAPA’S HOLLYHOCKS
Tall hollyhocks, pink, white, deep red-black grow along Papa’s shop. These were some of his favorite flowers and Mama kept them growing there long after his death.
He planted artichokes, a tuberous root, along the rail fence for his hogs to root out an eat. “The early bird gets the word” as the saying goes, and us kids were always early and always hungry. We probably got the lion’s share of the artichokes. Sitting on the top rail without a care in the world, munching those delicious sweet roots straight from the rich earth makes the difference in city and country life.
I don’t think I‘be read this story of Mom’s….was it in one of her published articles, or am I just forgetting?