Nana’s Aprons 

by Vernie Lynn DeMille 

(Excerpt from:  Walking My Father’s Fields: Love Letters from a Daughter of the Land )

Principle #3:  

Live in such a way that when others hear your name they know that it means “love”  

My mom is known by multiple names.  There’s Nana, Grandma, Mom, Momnwie, Jan, Painie and Grandma Jan.  But regardless what name she is known by to her family and friends, when we think of her, it is always associated with smiles, laughter, and aprons. 

 

My mom has two hobbies.  She reads and she cooks.  She is in heaven when the latest Taste of Home magazine arrives in her mailbox because it is such a fantastic marriage of those two pursuits.  I moved 1,200 miles away from her and Dad’s farm a few years ago, and she still calls me to tell me the latest recipe she tried and how she plans to amend it and make it her own.  I love the continuity of Mom.  I could walk into her house on any day of the week, at anytime of that day, and find her in one of two places:  the kitchen, stirring something that smells superb on the stove, or the den, sitting in her favorite chair surrounded by piles of books and magazines. 

 

The love of good food started when my Mom was very young.  Her father, my Grandpa Stratton, was injured in an accident during the WWII era in San Jose, California.  His injury necessitated Grandma Stratton’s return to the workforce.  Mom has told me often she can remember running to greet Grandma as she walked home from the bus stop in her pretty work clothes and then watching her in the evenings as she would take off her beautiful lace-trimmed blouse and stockings, wash them out and hang them to dry for the next day’s work, make dinner for the family and attend to household chores.  She watched this day in and day out over several years, and as she grew older she observed how tired her mother was, how weary at the end of the day she sometimes seemed, and my mother wanted to help.  She told me once how she remembers asking Grandma when she was washing out her pretty blouse one evening, “Mama, what can I do to help you?  What can I do to make things easier?”  If you knew my Mom you would smile at that question; it has defined her life.  She has spent years perfecting that desire to make life better for others.  And I think it all started in that little house in San Jose in 1946.  Grandma Stratton didn’t brush off my Mom’s question; she knew that she meant it and she took her seriously.  She took my mother’s hands in hers and said, “Janice, if you could learn how to cook, it would help me a lot.  If you could start dinner when you get home from school, it would save me a lot of time.” 

 

So that is what my Mom did.  She says there were a few big mistakes early on, the most memorable being the time she used Tabasco sauce on the salad thinking it was vinegar dressing.  Uncle Cecil thought he was going to die; but, other than the rare near-death kitchen experiences, cooking seemed to come naturally to her.  She followed her mother’s advice; and when she got home from school, she would help start dinner.  Her own grandmother, my Great-Grandma Stowe, lived not far away and according to my mother she was a superior cook.  Everyone wanted to celebrate holidays at “Mamie’s” house and enjoy her cooking.  She never bought anything canned; she was truly a “from scratch” cook.  She taught my Mom the secret to good gravy, how to ensure that the meat wasn’t over-cooked, how to check produce for quality, and all about aprons. 

 

I have just two pictures of Great-Grandma Stowe when she was a grown woman, and she is wearing an apron in both of them.  Her aprons are similar to the ones my Mom wears now, more of a smock than a skirt, with arm and neck holes, strings to tie in the back and deep pockets.  When she woke in the morning, she would dress and put on her apron first thing.  It was her uniform, her armor, and the insignia of her rank.  There was no discouragement in wearing that apron.  There was no regret for roads untraveled or songs unsung.  There was no feeling of drudgery wrapped up in wearing that well-used cloth.  I’m sure there were moments of frustration that had her propping her hands on her hips and wearing the fabric there a little thin, probably more than a few tears (her own and others) wiped with the hem, and countless childhood treasures housed in the pockets.  

 

I never knew Great-Grandma Stowe.  She died when my mother was in her teens.  It was a hard loss for her.  She loved her Grandma; she was her rock when her father was injured and was in the hospital for over a year—a hospital that didn’t allow children inside for visits.  She did what so many dedicated grandparents do; she softened all the rough edges of living.  She wrapped my mother up in her arms and rocked her when her heart was filled with fear and worry, wiped her eyes with her apron, then took her hand and led her into the kitchen where she could put both of their hands to work and ease some of the heartache.  There was nothing she could do to heal the wounds of my Mom’s father, but she could heal some of her granddaughter’s hurt.  With a little cup of flour, a pinch of salt, and some sugar and spice she could make something warm and sweet to try to ease a little of the cold of fear inside.  There’s something to be said for setting your cares aside for a moment to enjoy a homemade cookie and a cup of “silver tea”, a drink made of milk with a spoonful of tea and sugar in it, as my mother did in her Grandma’s kitchen.  Problems are ever present, but it helps to step back from them sometimes, take a few minutes to find joy in the love of family and bask in its warmth. 

 

There was so much more to Great-Grandma Stowe’s daily teatime ritual than biscuits and a warm drink.  There was the continuity of family: no matter what.  There was the love of simple pleasures in the face of any obstacle.  There was the understanding that she couldn’t make everything “all better,” but she could provide just a little physical and emotional nourishment every day.  By taking the time to not only teach my mother how to cook, but how to enjoy what she had made, Great-Grandma Stowe showed my mother that her worth went far beyond the work she did in the kitchen or the house.  The work became not drudgery but rather an expression of love for one another.  It was a gift from the heart, worked with their hands, and given freely.  It is a lesson my mother has never forgotten. 

 

When my Mom married my Dad after the tragic death of his first wife Birgit, she knew it would not be an easy thing to blend two different families, with different cultures, different memories, and still so much pain and loss in everyone’s hearts.  One of the first things she found after they were married was an apron that had belonged to Birgit.  It was a lovely thing and wonderfully practical, evidence of a mother who had loved her children enough to make their home beautiful and to find joy in that service.  Mom’s Aunt Bernice, who was a good seamstress, saw the apron she was wearing and took it home to re-create it.  The next Christmas Mom got a package in the mail that held 3 new aprons.  

 

Wearing an apron may seem like a small thing, but it is so like my mom to have thought of it.  She wanted to provide a sense of continuity to all the children.  She didn’t seek to replace their Mother, but rather to provide them with simple reminders of her influence on our family.  She couldn’t heal all their hurts, but she could show them that they were loved, that their traditions, their mother’s traditions, were still alive and treasured.  She couldn’t take away the pain that death had struck in their hearts, but she could create a meal that would warm them a little and provide them with the nourishment they needed to keep going until things got a little better.  My sister Debbie told me once that even before Mom and Dad were married all the kids looked forward to Thursday nights because that’s when Jan would bring over dinner and cookies.  She said, “There were other church women who would bring over things like onion casserole with peas.  Who brings stuff like that to a bunch of kids?  It’s disgusting.  But your mom would bring hot dogs or potato casserole with lots of cheese and cookies every time.  We loved it when Jan came over with dinner.” 

 

The older I get, the more I am amazed at the depth of love my Mom has showered on her family.  I grew up knowing and loving family that I never met.  She hung pictures of Birgit on the wall so that everyone who visited would know the lovely woman whom my Dad had loved and raised a beautiful family with.  She told me once when I was looking at the pictures as a young teenager, “When I married your Dad, I often thought to myself, ‘How would I want to be remembered?’ and I have tried to always keep memories of Birgit around our home.  She loved your Dad, your Dad loved her, and she is a part of our family.  I would want to be remembered too.”  And so I grew to love a woman I never met, but to whom I owe a huge debt of gratitude.  She gave me many of my brothers and sisters, she is the grandmother of some of my best friends ever, and she holds a place of honor, respect, and love in my heart because of the tenderness of my own mother’s heart. 

 

And so my mom was able to take a simple thing, an apron, and weave two families’ histories together with it.  I’ve heard her tell the story of where her apron pattern came from to Birgit’s granddaughters and then tell them the story of her Grandma Stowe’s aprons because they are her granddaughters also.  Remember, there are no half’s or steps in our family.  Every year Aunt Bernice sent Mom a package with new aprons in it, all in a multitude of colors.  Whenever the next generation was learning to sew, an apron was always on the list of things to make.  My Mom has worn them all.  She saves the prettiest ones for her Sunday best just like Great-Grandma Stowe used to do; she color coordinates them to match whatever she’s wearing that day.  She has shared them with her Amish neighbors, and they’ve become a huge hit in the community.  The local Amish women’s industrious fingers have sewn enough aprons to cover most of Harrison County.  

 

A small and simple thing…a worn piece of green paisley cloth fastened with a button in the back.  But not so small when I think that my Mom took that little cloth apron brought from Sweden over half a century ago with Birgit and tied it to the apron string traditions of the Stratton’s, Stowe’s, Putnam’s and Inman’s and wrapped all of us up in a legacy of love, daily dedication to one another, and a treasury of small joys that have led to a lifetime of happiness.  

 

The name she goes by in each part of our family doesn’t seem to matter much; it is what the name has come to mean that has made all the difference.  Come visit sometime, and I can show you where love lives and how she dresses.  No matter what time of day it is I can guarantee you she’ll be in an apron.