Grandma’s Apron 

The other day I opened the old chest,

And gently took out Grandma’s dress,

Only then I saw the mistake done,

Unfolded, it was Grandma’s apron.


It was Mom’s keepsake tucked away,

A cherished reminder she would say,

Of the life of her loving mother’s toil,

At the family farm on Tennessee soil.


Unfolded now the memories flow free,

From the time-worn apron upon my knee,

Made of flour sack cloth of floral green,

Tattered strings and pockets pressed and clean.


With faded berry stains, gravy and millet,

Scrumptious splashes from simmering skillets,

The apron protected in so many ways,

While keeping her dress fresh and gay.


The apron wiped her perspiring brow often,

A handy potholder for pans from hot ovens,

Milk splatters when poured and strained,

Garnished the pastels with spotted stains.


As a basket for eggs from corn-fed hens,

A tote for potatoes from the cellar bins,

A lap for walnuts cracked from the shell,

And a catch where snapped green beans fell.


With a tender dab it dried a child’s tears,

Was even used for cleaning little dirty ears,

It shooed flies from fresh baked pies,

And wiped the table clean and nice.


Grandchildren nestled upon her apron lap,

Soothed hurt feelings and silly mishaps,

It was a hiding place for shy little ones,

Which gave comfort that she homespun.


As my fingers caress this garment of old,

How freely ebb those memories of gold,

From this wonderful royal apron and of,

Grandma’s life-long labor of love.  

By Larry Troxel