Aprons were a very necessary part of Mom’s wardrobe as a farmer’s wife. She had to be careful not to soil the few nice clothes she had. So protecting her dresses from stains and splashes was a priority (Mom never wore slacks – she considered them sinful).
In looking at a few of Mom’s old 1920s photos, I noticed a cover-up type of apron over her dresses. In checking the history of aprons, I found that in the 1920s and 1930s, women’s aprons followed the silhouette of a dress – long, flowing and no waistline.
I hadn’t known how important aprons were for Mom until my oldest sister, Anita, told me that when she was married in the 1940s, Mom’s advice to her was, “Make sure you have your hair combed and wear a clean apron!”
My older sisters, Anita and Jannetta, filled me in on Mom’s first aprons. She sewed her own, of course, and usually they were from a discarded dress or material someone had given her. Some were colorful, trimmed in rick-rack, always with pockets. The material could be cotton, even feed bags that once held flour. She did have nice half-aprons (tied at the waist), that she usually wore only on Sundays when she wouldn’t have soiled her dress as much.
As the youngest child, I remember Mom in mostly bib aprons – either a bib pinned to the bodice of a dress or shoulder straps attached to the waistband and crisscrossed in back.
I do recall that Mom’s aprons were quite stained and were seldom washed. My sisters were quick to point out, “Mom never wasted anything – even water. If she felt an apron had worn itself out, she’d take what she considered ‘still usable’ pieces and use them in her quilts.”
My earliest memory has to do with Mom’s apron. A closet underneath the stairs held all our coats, sweaters and hats. The inside of the closet door had a few hooks and this is where Mom kept her aprons. My memory, possibly when I was only four or five years old, is of me pulling on Mom’s apron and crying because I couldn’t pull the apron off the hook.
My sisters also told me that as a child, I was a “scaredy cat.” When someone I didn’t know stopped by, I’d run to Mom, hang on her leg and hide my face behind her apron. I outgrew that stunt.
Since I’m the only sister who has an aversion to cooking, I never wore an apron. All my sisters tell me that when they did dishes at home, they wore aprons. I tell them, “I never did.” They, as usual, chastise me: “No wonder. You never worked!”
All my sisters and I have vivid memories of Mom’s resourcefulness when it came to her trusty apron.
Mom had a large garden with a variety of vegetables in the field behind our house. When she felt a certain vegetable was in season, she’d be the first to check on it. Soon she’d arrive at the kitchen door yelling, “Hurry. Open this door. My hands are full!” Indeed, her hands clutched two ends of her apron, filled to the brim with a batch of freshly picked green beans. That night we had a great ham and bean supper. But it was the children who then picked the next batches of bounty.
The same with eggs. As each of us became “of age” to gather the eggs, Mom first showed us “how to,” always with her apron. Her left hand would hold the corners of the apron, making it into a sort of folded bowl. The right hand gathered the eggs and very gently laid them in the “apron bowl.”
I didn’t mind gathering eggs in a basket so much. It was the walk from the fenced in area to the chicken house that scared me. Pop’s steers always seemed to hang around instead of in the expansive, lush, green meadow. These steers had a tendency to chase egg hunters. I was scared of them. Mom acted as if these steer didn’t bother her, but, I saw her hustle her fanny through that area a few times.
All of us remember Mom gathering little chicks or ducklings in her apron. Once these little ones started walking, they could be found all over the place. When found, Mom brought them back to their mother in her apron.
We all recall having had our mouths wiped off with Mom’s apron before meals, whether we felt that we needed it or not. We remember her sitting at the kitchen table, a bushel of apples on the floor nearby. Before cutting up slices of apple for us, she would wipe it off on her thoroughly stained apron.
I’m sure that one of the main attractions in rural households was the kitchen stove. In the 1950s, when I was a teen, Mom had a more modern electric stove. But as a youngster, I remember that all of us were served our hot meals from a large, black cast iron stove. This stove had what I considered spindly legs, close to the floor. The oven was heated from one side, fueled by wood or coal. It had a high, white head board with a short ledge, where items could be set.
When there were many youngsters at home, we had a large wooden chest at one side of the kitchen table. It not only served as a seat, but large logs, to start the fire, were placed in it.
But in order to start a fire, we had to gather corn cobs, small tree branches or small slats of wood left over from Pop’s carpentry work. Of course, it was the kids’ chore to get the corn cobs or slats of wood and fill the coal bucket, which sat on the floor in back of the stove. If we forgot, it was Mom, who, with her “apron bowl,” gathered some cobs or slats of wood and filled the bucket herself.
Mom did the cooking and baking herself; the girls did whatever chore she gave us. When making pie dough and rolling it on the kitchen table, Mom’s apron was dusted in flour. After the dough was rolled and in the pan, her apron came off. She then gathered it so the flour wouldn’t spill, and one of us kids had the privilege of shaking the apron over the railing on the front porch.
When checking on her pies in the oven, Mom would wipe her face clean with her apron from the pie’s hot steam blasted from the oven.
We always had plenty of potatoes since Pop planted and sold them. I loved when Mom made fried potatoes in the large black cast iron frying pan. I know that she had hot pads in the drawer, but if they weren’t handy, I’d see her wrap her apron into three or four folds and grab that hot skillet pan with her apron.
The uses of Mom’s apron were endless – even in the living room. When calling us, “Supper’s ready!” she would take the edge of her apron and use it as a dust rag on the end of a piece of furniture.
Mom is no longer with us, but her apron is. Unbeknownst to us, my sister Dorothy saved one of Mom’s colorful aprons. She presented each of us with “a piece of Mom’s apron” in the shape of a small, colorful heart. Mine hangs on the kitchen wall and serves as a reminder of a skilled woman with plenty of grit.
Carole Christman Koch grew up in Berks County and has been published in numerous publications. She has a passion for writing and has many stories from growing up on a farm to everyday stories.
