Sunday, July 13, 2008

My friend Stan over at These Things Too has suggested more than once that I start a blog. Normally, I ignore Stan’s suggestions since they tend to include the likelihood…… no, the certainty of jail time for me. His explanation for this is that he would do poorly in jail whereas I would somehow fare better. I don’t see how a blog detailing my textile obsessions could land me in the slammer, but if it does, Stan has promised to bring me cigarettes to trade for stuff.

For someone who wouldn’t do well in jail, he sure seems to know a lot about it.

Textile Memories – The Apron

It will be no surprise to anyone in the family that my earliest and fondest memories involve textiles. Whether it was the times, the family, natural inclinations, or a combination of all three, textiles dominated the landscape of my childhood.

The rag box, the linen closet, and the ironing basket all have their stories, but my favorite textile memory is my apron. It was 1957. Rosie the Riveter and her jumpsuit had been banished in favor of June Cleaver vacuuming in her pumps and pearls. Every woman wore an apron over her housedress, and it was possibly the most useful garment ever made. Constructed of fabric leftover from a variety of sources with a pocket trimmed with rickrack, aprons were used not only to protect the housedress from housekeeping splatters, but to dry hands, wipe children and, if you held the bottom two corners up, serve as a basket. I was 5 years old and like most 5 year old girls, I wanted to be like Mom.

My apron was under the Christmas tree. It was yellow cotton and had a pocket trimmed with orange rickrack. Along the bottom hem were little pockets where a set of 48 crayons had been inserted. I liked the crayons. I loved the apron. Santa had ostensibly brought it for me along with a Dale Evans cowgirl outfit, but I knew Grandma had made the apron. Mom tied it around my waist and I was on my way to adulthood. The apron became part of my everyday attire, usually tied over the Dale Evans cowgirl skirt. After washing my doll clothes in the old starch basin, I hung them out to dry, pinning them on my little clothesline with clothespins that I had clipped along the hem of my apron. I had a real handkerchief that I kept in the pocket of the apron that I used to wipe my brother Tim’s nose. Tomatoes from the garden and toys from the sandbox were brought into the house using the apron as a basket. In an otherwise well-photographed childhood, I’ve only found one picture of me wearing the apron. It was Christmas and I’m sitting on the floor, hair in pigtails, wearing the apron over a red plaid jumper. Tim, 3 years old, is in front of the Christmas tree. I have a watchful eye on him in case he might need dried or wiped.

As much as I loved the apron, I grew, and the apron became too small. It made its way into the dress up box, which too has its own story. It lived in the dress up box for years and I would see it from time to time. Eventually, I lost interest in the dress up box and I don’t know what happened to the apron.

This last paragraph was going to be a nostalgic, misty-eyed lament to the demise of the apron. As I type, I am wearing jeans and a t-shirt. Over my jeans and t-shirt I am wearing an old oversized denim shirt. All my adult life I have worn a similar shirt around the house. It has a pocket and protects me from housekeeping splatters. My shirt has dried hands, wiped children, and if I hold up the shirt tails, can serve as a basket. Maybe I’ll sew a little rickrack on it.