A reader shares a poetic tribute about his grandma's apron.
I loved the article “Mom’s Apron” in the Spring 2016 issue of Capper’s Farmer. Since you asked for stories about aprons, I thought I’d share a poem I wrote in 2009 about my grandmother’s apron – observations as to what it meant to me as a young boy when up on the Gaspй Coast of Quebec, Canada.
I’m an American citizen, and we use the old homestead, which is 150 years old, as a summer home. I bought your magazine in Florida, where we spend most of our days as retirees. I then sent the magazine to my son and his fianceй, who live in Maine and love country living.
I hope you enjoy it.
I had a dear grandmother who loved me very much.
She lived in a home in Canada that boasted an old farm hutch.
When school was out in summer we boarded a steam train
and made our way up north, through the muskeg and the rain.
When grandma saw us coming she pulled me close to her
lips that spoke of smile, strong arms that hugged so sure.
I loved her smooth soft skin and white bandana hair
and she would always wear an old cloth apron there.
With it, she shielded me from any scary stares.
And hopefully, when she did, the people were unaware.
If needed, she would use it to wipe away my tears.
Yes, that dear apron helped mollify my fears.
She would also use it when bringing veggies back.
It helped her carry wood that was needed to fill the rack.
It served as a companion, when gathering eggs so dear.
She would wave men in from work when dinner time drew near.
The apron never was that clean, many thus have said.
Often flour graced its cloth, a result of kneading bread.
Yet, through the mess and fallen tears came a message so steadfast
providing me with memories of love that would always last.
What an endearing tribute to your grandmother, John, and those are some fabulous memories. – Editors
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