Grandma's Apron

I was wandering through a gift shop the other day when my eye was caught by a colorful display of aprons.  As I fingered the bright patterned flounces and read the witty sayings my mind was tumbling with memories of the aprons that my grandmother wore. 

My daddy's mother was a sturdy farm wife who began every day at 5 am dressed in a dark, serviceable (didn't show dirt) dress, no nonsense shoes (ugly, even to my young eyes) and a clean apron.  She didn't have a lot of clothes, in fact, most fit in the big, wooden wardrobe with room for Papaw's clothes too.  People didn't have a need for big walk-in closets, you wore what you had until it no longer could be worn, then you replaced it.  To keep her clothes from being washed to death at an early age, she covered them with big, voluptuous aprons.  These were made of a large square of material gathered onto a waistband that was long enough to tie in the back.  They usually were big enough to cover the entire front of her skirt from waist to hem and nearly meeting in the back.  The pattern of the material would range from soft faded colors to bright prints, depending on the design of the flour sacks that she sewed them from.  (The uses that the frugal farm wife could make of the colorful fabric sacks that flour, feed, and even laundry soap were bought in, is a whole 'nuther story.)

Grandma's apron was so much more than just a garment to keep her dress clean.  She used it for literally dozens of purposes throughout her day.  In the kitchen it was a quick pot-holder to protect her hand as she scooted a too hot skillet to the back burner or grabbed a pan of biscuits out of the oven.  She would give a dish a quick wipe with a corner of the apron before declaring it clean enough for her pile of fluffy mashed potatoes.  She would use it to quickly blot her hands when moving from the sink to the counter to the stove.  If a guest should arrive, she would anxiously wipe her hands before greeting them, in case a smidgen of flour should be left on them. 

The apron was useful out of the kitchen, too, as her chores continued.  The corners of the apron could be pulled together to form a sling or basket to carry various objects.  It might hold the freshly gathered eggs from the nest discovered, after much searching, behind the hay manger in the barn.  It became a basket to hold apples from the tree in the corner of the yard to be baked up into apple dumplings for dinner.  On occasion it might become a soft sling for the litter of kittens that needed to be moved to a safer location.  Later it might become a sack to hold the small toys that careless children left scattered around the big back porch.

In an emergency,  the soft material of that apron could be used to wipe tears from a small face or provide a warm shawl for a chilly child.  It could be used as a quick bandage, or if need be, a tourniquet or even to stabilize a broken limb.  On a farm, emergencies come when you least expect them and often have to be handled before medical help can arrive. 

Sometimes, the apron could be used to express extreme emotion.  Like the night that my dad sought his mother out in the kitchen with some momentous news.  Drying her hands on her apron, she turned to him, with a "I'm in the middle of dinner, can you hurry up" look on her face.  "Mother" he announced, "Thelma and I got married this week-end."  Immediately, she threw the apron over her head and began wailing as she staggered to the bench by the back door.  "Oh, Sweet Jesus!" she cried, "You are going to Hell for sure!" 

You see, my grandmother was a staunch, old time Baptist and my mother belonged to the upstart Christian church in town.  Grandma just knew that her son would be corrupted by his wife's heathen ways and stood no chance of getting to Heaven.

Dinner burned up.

Grandma eventually got over her aversion to her new daughter-in-law. 

Sort of.

Peeing on the Fence

Fall break for the boys coincided with a spell of beautiful fall weather.  It was a perfect time for the annual walnut gathering.  Each year the boys harvest the bounty of the walnut trees that grow all over the farm.  The walnuts are then sold to a local commercial dealer to become the delicious black walnuts that show up in Christmas candies and cakes. 

The boys arrived and were soon scurrying around gathering up feed sacks to hold the walnuts, baling twine to tie the sacks, buckets for collecting, and a couple of chunks of firewood to toss into the trees to hopefully knock the bounty down.   We set off for a promising trio of trees that grew in the fence line just behind the barn.  The first stop was to pick up walnuts on the side of the fence with the bred heifers.  We drove the ranger down the fence and soon everyone was tossing walnuts into the buckets.  The heifers seeing their usual feed wagon and buckets galloped over to investigate.  There is probably nothing more curious than a cow.  We were soon pushing cows away with one hand while we grabbed walnuts with the other. 

The boy's new puppy, which had joined us for the afternoon, wasn't sure whether to run or attack.  It wasn't long until she had backed into the high-tensile fence, touching the one strand that was hot with electricity.  There was a pop of electricity and with a squeal she jumped back, bumping  a curious heifer in the nose.  The heifer then jumped back and knocked over a half filled bucket.  The boys started yelling and chasing the cows away from the puppy and scattered walnuts.  When things quieted down, the boys decided they could do just as well on the other side of the fence.

The walnut gathering continued without incident once we were separated from our audience of cows.  It wasn't long until the little boys became bored with the job and started looking for more entertainment.  For a while we kept them busy tossing a stick into the trees to try to know down more walnuts, but that soon dulled.  I had my back to them, filling my bucket when I heard the older one say to the younger, "Let's pee on the fence."  "NOOO!"  I yelled, realizing that the fence had a hot wire and if they hit it right the electricity would travel up their stream with shocking results. 

Every farmer has a horror story about this electrifying event happening.  I haven't ever found one that admits to actually doing it, but they all swear that they know someone who did.  I'm a girl.  We girls just don't have a problem with such an accident.  We are physically unable to accomplish it.  (I also suspect girls probably wouldn't think to try it!) 

It seems that the guys in the tobacco patch, bored with the job of cutting or topping, had been entertaining the boys with stories of such activities.  Being little they had no real comprehension of what would happen and decided to try the feat themselves.  My teen-aged grandson and I explained that this would result in great pain and probably a loss of future children (my teen's contribution).  Satisfied that we had squelched that idea we returned to the job at hand.

A while later, I caught a flash out of the corner of my eye.  Turning I saw the older of the little boys attempting to spray the fence behind me.  Lunging I grabbed him before he had managed to make contact.  Startled, I shouted, "Didn't you understand that it was going to hurt like crazy if you hit it?"  He shrugged and wandered off.  Before long, we caught him trying it again, obviously deciding that the guys in the tobacco patch were much smarter than a grandmother and older brother.  By now, both my grandson and I were yelling at the obstinate kid and the walnuts were beginning to glisten in the sunlight from the spray.  (Where on earth did that little kid get so much water!)

Finally, in total frustration I threw up my hands and told my oldest to just hush and quit yelling at him.  "If he wants to do it then he will.  If he manages to hit it solid he probably won't die from it, so just let him alone.  However, I'm not picking up wet walnuts and staying to watch the fireworks!"  With that I picked up my bucket and started walking to the house. 

It wasn't long until the boys followed me up to the house--no screams, so I assume he wasn't successful. 

I'm not sure I'll survive these three boys.

The Blitz

The two year old granddaughter has been visiting for the day and the house has exploded with toys.  Play dishes are stacked on the coffee table (sort of like the real dishes in the sink) and cows and tractors are scattered over the floor.  It is amazing how much clutter a little one can make. 

When my two were little we lived in a little house in town.  We didn't have much room but we made use of every inch.  The basement wasn't a fancy living area but a utilitarian space for the washer and dryer, deep freeze, jars of canning, tools, and storage of various boxes of forgotten belongings.  Lacking a room to use as a den we lived in the large living room upstairs.  That meant that it served as playroom, family room, and entertainment area for company.  Sometimes this worked and sometimes it didn't.

Even though the kids had a bedroom for their toys it seemed that they would soon be scattered in heaps and piles around the living room.  Coloring books and crayons would spill off the little table in the corner while sleeping bags or blankets would be thrown in front of the television.  Dolls and stuffed bears shared the chair by the window while the couch would hold swords and baseball gloves.  Tractors, balers, trucks and cars would peek out from under the furniture while toy pots and pans adorned the surfaces of end tables.   Adding to the kids things would be an afghan that I was working on or a stack of papers that Hubby was dealing with.  In short, it usually looked like a family was living there.  Most of the time it didn't bother me. 

However, when we had company, I felt, as the Extension Agent for Home Economics, my house should look like no one lived there.  This worked fine when I planned to entertain, since like most women, I would spent a week cleaning the house like it was going to be inspected by an irritated drill sergeant.  The moments that turned my heart into a beating drum were the ones that started with a phone call.  "Hello?  We were out for a drive and since we were in the neighborhood we thought we would see if you were home. "  Gasp! "Wonderful!  You'll be here in 10 minutes?  Great."  Even better was when you looked out the window to see a car turning in the drive and know you had only a minute or two to get ready. 

That's when I would turn to the family and yell "BLITZ!!"  With a leap everyone would jump up and grab the closest pile of stuff.  I would run to the basement and grab a couple of laundry baskets.  Running back upstairs I would toss them into the middle of the living room floor.  By then Hubby and the kids were ready with armloads of toys, papers, blankets and crayons.  In they would go into the basket while everyone rushed for another load.  Within minutes we had the room empty of all the offending clutter.  Hubby would then grab the baskets and run to the basement while I plumped pillows and wiped faces.  Then we would open the door, poised like Mr. and Mrs. Cleaver, (perfect parents from an old TV show, for you youngsters) welcoming our guests into the immaculate living room.

Of course, it took us days to find the bills Hubby was working on or the pieces to the puzzle the kids were putting together. 

Tagging Calves

It's been a busy summer but things are beginning to slow down a bit, so we can catch up on a few of the chores that got put off in the rush.  The mama cows have been doing their job with only a little help from the men and we have a fine crop of fall calves running around in the fields.  To make keeping up with the records on these babies easier,  each calf is usually tagged with an ear-tag that corresponds to its mama's ear-tag.  Since we raise Angus cattle and they are all black, it's a little hard to tell one calf from another unless you do something.   In the rush of late summer hay and tobacco cutting we are woefully behind in tagging.

Hubby and son decided that it was time to sort this mess out before it got worse. 

When the babies are newborn, it's not a real problem.  The little fellows follow close to their mama and it's easy to see who belongs to who.  It's also easy to grab the little ones and quickly put a big yellow tag in their ear.

However........

Hubby and son stood at the fence looking over the fine crop of calves.  "Ummm.  Some of them have a little growth on them."  muttered son.  "Not a problem.  You can handle it." reassured Hubby.  "Have you got the tagger?", queried son.  "It's in the ranger, ready to go.  Let's get started." affirmed Hubby. 

They started for the field.  The plan was for Hubby to drive the ranger until they identified a baby needing a tag.  Hubby would then drive the ranger next to the calf, son would jump out and grab the baby, holding it until Hubby could get out and tag the calf.  Easy enough when the calf is a week or two old.  Unfortunately, some of these "babies" now weighed close to 200 pounds--son weighs about 180 pounds.  Let the games begin!

Hubby drove off and had soon spotted a calf.  He eased up beside the calf, who is now on high alert, and yells "grab him son!"  Calf and son both leap at the same time.  Son grabs frantically and feels his hands slide down the smooth back of the fleeing calf.  Landing on his hands and knees he straightens up and brushes futilely at the grass stains on his jeans.  "You've got to move quicker next time." encourages Hubby.  "Uh huh" mutters son.

Soon they are approaching another calf--another near miss.  "Son, you need to go for the head." instructs Hubby.  "Well, Dad, that's the part that's leaving first." retorts son.

The next try goes better with son getting a better grip.  However, they are pretty evenly matched and it becomes a bit of a struggle.  Calf is determined to leave and Son is try to flip him over so he can hold him on the ground.  Hubby jumps into the fray and grabs for an ear to tag it.  About that time the calf gives another lunge and throws Son.  Hubby then loses the grip on the tagger and calf and tag part company.  Son looks up and shakes his head. "At least the tagger came loose or we'd be chasing the calf down to get the tagger back."

The tagging continues with lots of mutters and oaths with Hubby and Son slowly getting the job done.  As the afternoon continues, tempers get a little short.  Finally, they approach a late calf that is still little enough to grab easily.  Son corners the little fellow and reaches out to grab him.  The calf, sensing that he's trapped wheels quickly and makes a dash for freedom.  Son grabs him across the chest and slips his knee behind him to keep him still.  Bucking and squirming the little calf wiggles lose and heads between Son's legs.  Trying to keep from letting him go, Son squeezes his legs together and effectively makes a head catch, just like a cattle chute.  "Tag him Dad!" Son yells.  Hubby jumps in and swiftly tags the bellowing baby. 

Hubby steps back, takes one look at his son and starts to laugh.  The calf had evidently been in a fresh pile of manure and in the excitement had probably added a little of his own.  In his dash for freedom through son's legs, he had effectively squeegeed himself clean on son's jeans.  Son took a tentative step and realized that he was saturated to the skin.  "Son," murmurs Hubby, "I think maybe we've done enough for tonight.  Why don't you head to the house."

Son looked up sadly, "I would, but I'm pretty sure my wife won't let me in!"

We should make washing machine commercials.