Dartha Peppers Williams
1882 to 1972 Paternal Grandmother
of Sandy Williams Driver
By: Sandy Williams Driver
Most women have an apron story and I am no exception. The symbol of homemaking most vividly emblazoned in my memory is bright yellow with four large black and white polka dot pockets lining the front. Mother made it from scraps early in her domestic career to hold lots of wooden clothes pins. She called it her hanging out clothes apron and never dared cook a meal with it on.
It’s too ragged, she said with a discerning look. I would have gladly worn it all day long because it smelled like sunshine and felt like home. When I wrapped those strings around my waist, I was a Mommy, which was every little girls dream in that long ago era. I loved to fill the empty pockets with crayons, rubber balls, and little metal jacks while our sheets and socks blew in the afternoon breeze.
The word apron comes from the French naperon, meaning small tablecloth. The apron is quite possibly the oldest item of clothing, which has remained virtually unchanged from the tie of the ancient Egyptians to the present day, states the Pictorial Encyclopedia of Fashion. European immigrants brought their aprons to America and like my mothers, they contained many pockets.
Aprons were originally designed to cover and protect the garment worn underneath. Years ago, large wardrobes were a luxury not shared by many women and washing of that clothing was not done on a frequent basis. Garments were sometimes worn four or five times and aprons served a practical purpose, to cover the dress underneath and to protect it from soiling while cooking and cleaning.
Most of our female ancestors owned many aprons which were made from cotton and covered the bodice and skirt of their dress. These full aprons were worn by homemakers as well as nurses and teachers. During this time in history, men also wore aprons as an essential article of clothing in the blacksmith, carpentry, and baker trades.
I cherish the many aprons I have tucked away in drawers and cedar chests. The longest one is black and white gingham and belonged to my grandmother Williams. Sometimes I take it out of the drawer and hold it close for sentimental reasons. The cotton is so old and soft, you can almost see through it and when I close my eyes, I still smell a hint of Bruton snuff, which she kept in one of the roomy pockets.
The pretty red gingham one passed down to me was made by my grandmother Morrow in the early 1900s from a scrap of leftover curtain material. She wore it every Sunday while cooking dinner despite her fears that Preacher Franks might think its too brazen. Whenever I stood by her side in the bright roomy kitchen, I pressed my nose against the smooth folds of the apron and smelled fried chicken and homemade biscuits. Nothing in the world was better than Maw Maws biscuits.
When my aunt Mamie died a few years back, I added one of her green pinstriped aprons to my nostalgic collection. It is my little girls favorite one and she insists on wearing it whenever she plays with her assortment of dolls, even though the big wide strings wrap around her tiny body three times. I have to wear an apron to be the Mommy, she proclaims. I have taught her well.
During the 1950s, society celebrated the role of homemaker and aprons were worn as a mantle of pride. The famous symbol of domesticity was made into a fashion statement by popular television shows such as Leave it to Beaver and Ozzie and Harriet. The June Cleaver era half-aprons were embellished with rickrack, ruffles, buttons, and appliques.
Women often changed from their cooking aprons into serving aprons, which matched tablecloths or place mats. My mother wore a highly starched cotton organdy apron trimmed with lace whenever guests joined us for a meal. I didn’t like it at all because it scratched my cheek and had no pockets.
The ugliest apron I ever saw was the white one with big red poinsettias embroidered across the front that Mother wore at Christmas time. I have no idea where she got it, but thank goodness, it was stored away in the box containing all our Christmas tree decorations during the year. Each January, I buried it at the bottom of the box under all the tissue paper in hopes she would forget about it but she never did. Despite the giggles from my children and the tears in my eyes, I carried on the holiday tradition last season.
Some people say that aprons are dead and women today don’t want to wear that uniform anymore. The pretty, frilly ones are carefully wrapped in memories and lay tucked away in the bottom of our hearts. They are a reminder of our mothers and grandmothers and the enticing smells of a home cooked meal. These historical artifacts remind us what is important and encourage us to celebrate women’s history.
Last Sunday after church, I went into the kitchen to prepare dinner for my family. I didn’t want to risk my white blouse getting dirty, so I reached for the serviceable twill apron kept hanging on a hook by the stove. It has no pockets or embellishments adorning the front, only the simple phrase, Kiss the Cook. I pasted on a fake smile last year on my birthday when I opened the carefully wrapped package from the restaurant supply store. It still smells new and feels too stiff hanging around my neck.
I hang the utilitarian apron back on its display hook and retrieve a faded one from the chest at the foot of my bed. Embedded deep in the folds are dried tears, tiny handprints, and a light dusting of White Lily flour. While I cook, my son tucks a wildflower into one of my polka dot pockets and even without instructions, he gives me a kiss on the cheek. The comforting apron strings that tie me to my ancestors may not be high fashion anymore, but then again, neither am I.
Published U.S. Legacies April 2004
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