memories – Page 6 – Angel Wheeler

Home Before Dark: A story written by my dad

The benches were damp that morning along the hike ‘n bike trail there in Clearwater, Texas. Remnants of an early morning storm lingered and kept away the usual occupants of the park. No kids, no squirrels, no homeless people. Just me and the thin morning light kept each other company that day.

I was recovering from a small stroke if there is such a thing and was following my doctors orders to try to exercise a little bit. Tired and worn out from the mile or so I had walked, I sat on a park bench to blow and catch my breath. That was when I saw the old man approaching.

I watched him coming up the slight incline from the old folk’s home, he was swinging his head side to side as if expecting someone to appear out of the fog. His face was wrinkled and was lit by a ray of sunshine that quickly peeked out and hid itself behind a cloud. It would be a bright day as soon as the sun burned off the mist.

“Have you seen Bill?” He asked in a quavery voice.

I guessed his age at around eighty. He was sweatered under a heavy Carhart coat, the kind that construction workers wear. A cap with loosened ear flaps met the old gray tattered muffler ’round his skinny neck, black buckled overshoes completed his ensemble. A checkerboard wrapped tightly in plastic was cradled under one arm.

I told the old gentleman that I guessed I had not seen Bill.

“He’s a big fellow, kind of stooped and he wears a cap just like mine. Sort of our trademark.”

No, I had not seen him.

The checker player started to sit down beside me and then changed his mind and kept looking up and down the bike trail.

“Bill hasn’t been feeling good.” The old man continued. “He said he might go on up to Kansas to visit his son. Wouldn’t you know, it’s a damn poor time for him to go traipsing off.” Over on main street I could hear the honking of horns, but they were invisible to the elderly checker player and myself.

“If you see ol’ Bill, tell him his partner is lookin’ for ’em.”
I assured him that I would, and the old man shuffled off up the gentle incline. He was wavering a little and the pigeons scuttled off to either side of the trail. The sun was beginning to come out now and thirty yards away the old man sat down in the sunlight with the checkerboard resting on one knee.

A young couple, obviously in love, strolled by without a second glance. Then another pedestrian, this one a middle-aged man with an umbrella came walking by. The elderly checker player stood and watched him approach and when he drew even, stopped him. They held a conversation there in the middle of the trail. The checker player lifted one hand, no doubt to show the middle-aged man his partner’s height. After the middle-aged man started on, the old man started back to where I sat.

“You see I don’t know his whole name, ‘ol Amos knowed ’em, but he died. Ol’ Ray mighta knowed what it was, but he’s gone too. Yeah, they wouldof knowed how to get aholt of ’em.” The sunlight looked small and puny through the early April foliage.

“You see Bill didn’t show up Monday or Wednesday and now he ain’t showin’ up today. I’m ‘fraid somethings happened.”

I said he would probably show up soon, trying to put a ray of hope in the old man’s existence.

“No, I don’t think so,” the old man said before rising to his feet and starting back towards Restful Pines nursing home.

I remember standing under the long shadow of a street light, one handing a baseball into the air, trying to decide…..was it really best to be the last one home before dark?

Bob Briggs 1943-2011

written January 27, 2001

Pruning

A few days back when the sun was shining and all was right with the world, I decided to sit my plants outside. I only have 4, but they’ve been lighting up my world for several years now. I placed them in the sun, gave them a big drink of water from the hose, and allowed them some fresh air. Then I went in the house.

Three days later, after 3 nights of freezing temperatures, I remembered them. No longer green, they’d taken on a color of ash, and sat wilted and lifeless in the backyard. I was so upset with myself. One of those stupid, forgetful acts that I find myself doing more and more often.

I managed to kill them all. But with a closer examination, I noticed a touch of green life remaining in each of them. A shimmer of hope in the base of a leaf. Could they be revived? I reached for my scissors and began cutting out all the dead with a faint hopefulness in my task. My friend Pam (who my dad called Mrs. Demonic, not meaning anything bad, simply because it rhymed with her last name) told me it’s very scriptural to prune the dead.

John Chapter 15, verse 1: words of Jesus: I am the true grapevine and my Father is the gardener. He cuts off every branch of mine that doesn’t produce fruit, and he prunes the branches that do bear fruit so they will produce even more. You have already been pruned and purified by the message I have given you. Remain in me, and I will remain in you. For a branch cannot produce fruit if it is severed from the vine, and you cannot be fruitful unless you remain in me. Yes, I am the vine; you are the branches. Those who remain in me, and I in them, will produce much fruit.

So taking this literally, I hope my plants survive the brutal cold they endured. Spiritually translated, I hope the pruning of which I am presently experiencing may allow me to produce much fruit.

Fruit of the spirit: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control.

And I wish the same for you. May the pruning of today, produce fruit for tomorrow.

Ashy loves this song. Can you believe I have it on my iPod?

Somebody help.

The Funeral

This morning I opened my eyes and the world was still turning. It still is, and more likely than not, it will continue to do so. Everything is real. Nothing has been a dream. Although it seems surreal, we laid my dad to rest yesterday in a beautiful service. A service I hope he would’ve been proud of. My sweet husband J-Dub said even though funerals aren’t cool, that was the coolest funeral he’s ever attended.

My dad’s nephew, Kevin, delivered the message and told stories that reflected his life. Although many weren’t told, or couldn’t be, I hope they are being told somewhere. Remember stories only happen to those who can tell them. Tell your stories.

My dad had a t-shirt he loved to wear and wore often. It read, “Being Bob is my Job.” Everyday was Saturday to him, and all he had to work at was just Being Bob, and he did it like no other. His nephew spoke about him being Bob the Parent, Bob the Patriot, and Bob the Provider, providing us with an abundance of laughter, joy and memories. A beautiful slide show remembered his life. Bob Seger sang, “Like A Rock” and that’s what he was. As strong as he could be. My brother Stan said he was a Superman, and that’s true, nothing could get to him.

The Patriot Riders, a group of veterans, honored him by lining the walkways and leading the procession of cars to the graveside. A very long procession of cars, I might add. His sister Jeanne said Bob would’ve enjoyed knowing he stopped all that traffic.

His pall bearers donned Hawaiian shirts in his honor, I know he would’ve gotten a kick out of that.

The Marines played Taps and presented the flag. It was a proud moment.

At the conclusion a white dove was released.

It lifted itself to the heavens, I watched it as long as I could, and then it was gone. Just like him.

His friends have made a facebook page in his remembrance, and it is a comfort to read the stories and see the love people had for him. One friend wrote it perfectly, “It is clear that Bob was well-loved, and has loved well.” How true, how true.

The tears that pour down my cheeks and fall on this keyboard aren’t tears for my dad. Why cry for him? His struggles are over. My tears are selfish tears. Tears of hurt. Tears of loneliness and sorrow. Tears of missed opportunities and dashed plans. I am grateful to have had nearly 36 years with this man.

This man who held me, laughed with me, encouraged me, danced with me, who never judged me, never spanked me, who gave me horsey rides and sloppy kisses and insisted I was rubbing them in instead of rubbing them off, who prayed for me, who believed in me, who taught me the important things without knowing it, who loved me bigger than Hog Eyes and Sauerkraut, Alabama. (I’ll have to tell you the meaning of that someday).

I know I’ll see him soon, but I can’t see him today. I’ll have to wait and press onward. He would want me to.

The prayers of friends and loved ones have reached the ears of God, and He has carried me and my family past this hurdle. But as I gaze down the road I’m traveling today, all I see is a path of hurdles ahead. tomorrow, next week, next month, next year. Today. Right now. We still need your prayers, please.

When hanging up the phone or in emails to him, he would tell us, “Love you back.” I hope he knew how deep my love was for him, and still is.

Love you back, dad.

P.S. The pics of the funeral are from the Patriot Riders, https://picasaweb.google.com/Proudnamvet/BobBriggsUSMCVietnamTahlequahOK3211?feat=directlink#5579597761663225378

In Memory of My Dad #3

Hello friends,

Here’s a second story from my dad. This was dated January 27, 1996. It is called Marking One’s Progress Through the Ages on the Doorjamb of Life. He had celebrated a birthday 11 days prior.

As I write this I reflect back to the 16th of January. That was the day that I turned 53 years old.

For lunch I had a fine piece of catfish, cornbread and fried potatoes, and a mess of turnip greens. A slice of key lime pie completed the repast, what more could one ask for his birthday meal?

Remember how you loved birthdays as a child? The presents and the birthday cake. The thrill of having one day that belonged to you alone. All this helped to make a wonderful anniversary.

Perhaps the most thrilling was the fact that you were a whole year older. You had the inch to prove it too. You stood there proudly, at attention, while your mother marked your progress on the door jamb. You were inching up on your older sister every year.

Ice cream was the “piece de resistance”. It was made from real hen eggs and cow’s cream. They don’t make ice cream like that anymore. It sat there in a big wooden freezer packed with ice and salt. A huge layer cake waited there in the background, the multi-colored candles just waiting to be lit and blown out therefore making your wish a cinch on coming true.

But what happens to that pride in growth as we add 40, 50, or even sixty years? We still lap up the kudos and cards from our friends and relatives, but we make as little fuss as possible over the number of years.

Birthdays are really very traumatic experiences. Today’s accent is on the young. Looking, acting and dressing the part make more than a few of us older than our years. After a fine bite of catfish and cornbread I can almost pull it off too. So instead of trying to submerge the past, there are those of us that try to preserve and respect it.

It is said that the most catastrophic birthday that we have is the one on the day we are born. Up until now no one has recorded the innermost workings of a newborn babe’s mind, and that is something that will have to wait a few years before being documented. They also say that the 40th is the big bombshell for women. I wouldn’t know about that, but even now on my 53rd, I’m not yet ready to throw in the towel.

So today I feel good about turning 53—despite the sad state the world we are living. Each new birthday becomes an achievement for me.

I wonder if our lack of pride for middle-aged birthdays is because we have forgotten that we are still growing. As each new season passes we have a new set of memories that make us more tolerant and sympathetic toward our fellow-man, and surely we should be for adding another inch of spiritual growth, it is the most important of all.

On my most recent birthday I’ve had a year’s worth of memories, ordinary, yet beautiful to me. I’ve also had unhappiness, but part of my growing process is learning that no one can grow without his own fair share of unpleasantness. The lessons I have learned go a long way toward that old saying, “when the going gets tough, the tough get going.”

Each birthday adds to my ability not to worry about mistakes that I might have made during the past year. next year I’ll try to remedy them, and if they can’t be fixed, so what? I won’t dwell on them.

The only birthday that I won’t be proud of, is the one where I back up to that spiritual door jamb and find that I haven’t grown an inch.

In Memory of My Dad #2

My family and I are in the midst of burying my dad. It’s hard. But tonight we sat around my grannie’s kitchen table and told our stories. And we laughed. And laughed. And laughed. It’s good medicine. It’s what my dad would’ve wanted.

My dad was a writer. He spent some time writing sports and commentary for the Tahlequah Times Journal. While we were rummaging through 2 drawers of my dad’s belongings searching for a compass to lead us towards his final wishes, we discovered a couple old newspapers. Inside were stories from my dad.

This one is dated December 9, 1995.

The thin morning sunlight cuts through the nearly bare trees warming my body as it shows up at work as it has for countless number os years. I can hear the dried leaves skitter by as I sit here and try to draw strength for my upcoming trip to Texas for the holidays.

Some people pray or actually go to church before going on an extended trip. Others break out their good luck charms or their religious medals (such as St. Christopher, the patron Saint of travelers)–and that ain’t a bad idea, seeing as there’s an outside chance that God is a Catholic.

I meditate. I sit quietly, as it were, commune with nature. After an hour of this my whole state of mind rearranges itself into a more harmonious state, and I’m comfortable with myself once more.

I don’t know how this miracle happens. But in sitting here alone, the pathway ahead becomes more clear, my cares become lighter and that elusive feeling of happiness is not so hard to attain.

“Quiet sitting”, as I call it, begins early in life. All children have a need to sit quietly and reflect on the happenings of the day. Every one of us can remember such a spot: an attic or cellar, a fence row or the spreading branches of a mimosa tree (just right for sitting).

My own personal quiet place was a huge blackjack oak tree. I could sit there in that fork near the top and watch the eagles and red-tailed hawks soaring on the uplifting thermals many hundreds of feet above me as the wisps of cloud tendrils weaved themselves in and out of the tree branches. On a clear day you could see forever from my tree.

These were our private retreats where oldsters were never welcome. An escape hatch where we could lick our wounds, real or imagined, after a solid bout of sparring in the real world. In those early years we didn’t know grown-ups needed their own little corner of the world, a place to sit down and go through their own little confusions and sort out their own problems that sometimes seemed insurmountable.

I have a rough-hewn bench since the climbing days of my youth. I call it mine although I am not the deeded owner. It sits between two giant sycamore trees This hard psychiatric bench is just right for sitting, and the sun nearly always finds it.

In the month of February it is a warm spot in a cold world. I can see the first green shoots as they nose their way sunward during these days when winter holds the world hostage in its icy grip.

My bench sits near a busy back country road, but I seem to be in a wilderness where time waits on you rather than the pressure cooker that we call the world today. April builds a new world here, the sun lingers and early spring flowers push their heads above ground for their first peek at this brave new world they are about to become part of.

On a July when there are no floaters out, the bench is a quiet place, shaded and silent. It’s not much, but you can live quiet there. If I am really quiet, perhaps a few birds will come along and serenade me with their warblings. Perhaps old man squirrel will whisk by and stop for a while questioning my sitting–so still.

I have sat on this bench in the fall when the rich autumn colors are reflected in the waters that babble below my bench. And now there is a melancholy note to my bench sitting as I try to store up enough peace to last me the entire winter.

In this hurried pace that we call modern living, I highly recommend that you find you a quiet place to just sit. It’s therapy and inexpensive and even the busiest person can steal away for an hour or so. Try it and you will enjoy a little of the miracle.

Till you’re better paid.

Reblog: In Memory of my dad #1

Today, I’m remembering my dad. I hope that’s alright with you.
It’s been 2 years, probably about this time exactly, that he died.
I miss him. A lot. Some days it hurts, and other days are just days like every other one that has come before.
There’s a lot of good in this world, we shouldn’t dwell in sadness, so on a sad day, I’m reposting this blog from a couple of years ago. It makes me smile. Hope you do too.

This is a repost. It’s about my dad. It’s bits and pieces from his emails, all compiled into one.

Ignore the punctuation and spelling, because he does too.

Even though you may not have known him, he was good at his job, so listen to him.

About Exercise:

“i’m really enjoying it, although i’m sooo tired by the end of the week. hope i can stay focused and motivated. i kno i’m never going to be small again, but, who wants to be a little old man, then everyone in town would be beating me up.”

On Learning How to Use Email/computer

“hey ang, got your email earlier and just found out how to get back to you. how ya’all doin’. can’t find the question mark.”

On grandchildren:

“i’m getting awful anxious for little hannah to make her appearance soon, aren’t you? That little ashlynn is such a little apple dumplin’ aint she? this grandpaing is getting to be quite a kick. think i’ll just live forever.”

On pictures he doesn’t want posted on facebook:

“my gosh, angel, lets get rid of that pic of me and you sitting outside your house. it looks like i forgot to p-ut my teeth in or sompin.”

When my brother lost his artificial leg floating on a raft in the Illinois river:

“i’m so sorry that stan lost his leg. at least he has another one
at home,”

On gangsta talk:

“hey ang, what up, homes?”

On poker

“hey girls, i played in a million dollar freeroll tournament yesterday, and
only made one bad play, and it cost me. i was about 2, 800 in chips and we
were down to about 1100 players. i was dealt pocket nines, and bet out for
about 800 bucks. the guy smooth called, and i put him on A-big, or a pretty
good hand like that. over the next two cards we got all our money in the
middle, i turned over the nines and he had aces in the hole. i say i made a
bad play because i led out bettin on the turn and river. i let him trap me,
i should have been checkin on the 4th card, and if he bet big, i could lay
the nines down. but, i wassn’t thinkin. i find a lot of people doin this in
a game with over 5,000 people in it. also people playin, 9-2 off suit, or
5-3 suited and suckin outon people. people that really have no idea what
they’re doin.”

I actually have no idea what you’re talking about, dad. I take it you didn’t win me an inheritance?

On pets:

“so, you have a new dog…well, y’all be good to him and make sure he earns his keep. it sounds like he has more training then i could ever give him if he knows what “whoa” means. our stupid dog thought it meant “go at a high speed away from here” because that’s what he did when the gate was opened. i still miss him tho.”

On coming for a visit:

“I’m just going to drive all the way out to gray county, then i may get a room if i am
so tired i can’t continue. Once my truck gets a whiff of Pampa, it’s awful
hard to shut down, so i’ll be coming in at a high lope. Hope that your old
General Moters product don’t shake its self to death on that one stretch of
hi-way. Angel if you can put me up (with out me having to do anything)(and
for free) lemmee know, ok?…………………..love you’ns, ”

On Whining:

“i’m so lonely. noone ever emails me. i wonder what my kids are doing. probably eating icecream.

no body ever comes to see me. the neighbors won’t speak to me. my dog ran away. woe is me.”

On Advice:

“my best advice i can give is this: DON’T GET FAT.PERIOD.”

On Falling:

“the thing is you’ve got to know how to fall. Forwards, not backwards, and preferably into something soft, like a fat lady at Walmart.”

On Love:

“remember i love you both. so love me back…..dad”

I love you back, forever.

love, love, love, love, love

This won’t be eloquent. I don’t have the energy to make it sound pretty.

My dad is gone, and my heart is broken. A million shards.

People say cherish the memories. And I do, and I will. But what about our plans?

You may think I’m stupid, but I wanted him to see my chickens. They’re coming in 2 weeks you know. I wanted him to read my blog everyday and leave me snarky comments about how it has no plot. I wanted him to enjoy my new place with me. Even if it is a trailer house. I wanted him to dribble his coffee on my carpet as he staggers down the hallway with his unsteady gait.

I had so much more to share with him.

I will write about my dad today, and I will write about him tomorrow, and the day after that. I may write about him for the next 19 years.

So please be patient.

Bob Briggs

January 16, 1943-February 26, 2011.

I love you, Dad.

Overcoming

Sometimes I get tired.

Physically tired.

Emotionally tired.

Spiritually tired.

I don’t like myself like this.

Days like today, when all I want to do is vomit hate, bitterness, rage, and tears all over my keyboard, I must restrain. I must filter.

My stable self says, Read your Bible, Count your Blessings, Breathe Deeply.

My irrational self says, Eat chocolate, Yell at the dog, Screw the world.

I must focus in order to let my stable self prevail.

Tonight I thought it might help if I found my gratitude journal. Oprah. I can’t stand her, but I learned about a gratitude journal when I used to watch her. Each day write down 5 things you are grateful for. I haven’t written in my journal in years, but I knew where to find it.

I rummaged through my closet looking for my gratitude journal and found my prayer box instead.

It contains prayers I wrote down from the year 1998.

I can’t share all of them because some reveal a very pathetic, desperate side of me and are much too personal.

This one is for my sister prayed on 7-2-98 “Dear Lord–please reward Jolea and John with a precious, beautiful, healthy child—-all in your time.

Two years later she was blessed with a daughter, and then two years after that, another. All in His time.

This one is asking for help in learning to say I’m sorry. It’s a work in progress. Pride is an ugly thing.

As I unfolded these papers one by one, I found prayers for marriages that were never restored.

Prayers for people whom I don’t even know or remember, but at the time, I believe they were on my heart for a reason.

There are prayers of loneliness, prayers for salvation, prayers of relationships, prayers for forgiveness, prayers for healing.

Some have been answered.

Some weren’t.

Some I’ll never know.

Some I’m still praying.

Like this one:

“That God will use me as a witness for Him”

As I look back on these prayers, I experience God’s sovereignty. His faithfulness. His forgiveness and love.

I am encouraged, my burdens are lifted, my heart is lighter. I even added two new ones tonight.

It’s funny. My mom always taught me never to put anything in writing.

Obviously, I didn’t listen.

I never found my gratitude journal in my closet. It doesn’t matter.

1. Thank you for my health.

2. Thank you for my husband and family

3. Thank you for my job.

4. Thank you for my salvation.

5. Thank you for always knowing best.

6. Thank you.

7. Thank you.

8. Thank you.

9. Thank you.

10. Thank you.

Pets

This cat belongs to my niece Ashlynn.

He goes by the name of Biggie.

It’s short, or maybe it’s long, for Big Cat, his real name.

One might think him to be gigantic with a name like Biggie or Big Cat. To the contrary. It’s that Ashlynn had two identical cats. One was bigger than the other, so naturally they got penned Big Cat and Little Cat.

Little Cat pooped all over the house and something very mysterious happened to him. He just vanished one day. Up in smoke. He should have been named Houdini the way he magically disappeared. It was during a time when my sister was in town visiting. I do believe she was the last one to see him, but oh nevermind about that story. Perhaps you’ve had a pet Houdini in your life as well.

Yesterday I received a phone call from my mother. She was moping about. Biggie was gone.

Then later I received a text from my niece. It read:

ATTENTION: yellow tiger cat, named and listens to Biggie. If found plz call. THANK YOU!!!

This isn’t the first time Biggie has run off. One other time my mom needed to leave town for about a week, so Ashlynn came to stay with me and brought Biggie with her. He was in the yard 12 seconds before he promptly disappeared. The next day, he still hadn’t surfaced. We checked the pound and made posters to hang on the the lamp posts. My sweet niece was beside herself with grief. Did he get lost? Could he not find his way home in this strange neighborhood? Had he been picked up? After 3 days, we put an ad in the paper. No one called. Then one night my husband popped in the door late after work and announced to Ashlynn, “I just saw your cat running across the street.” We were then able to breathe easier knowing that he was simply out tomcatting in a new neighborhood and would return when he was through prowling. And he did. Three or four days later, he came back and infested us with the worst case of fleas I do believe I have ever witnessed. Needless to say, that was the last time I kept Biggie when my mom went out-of-town.

Yesterday when my mom phoned, I reminded her of that story. Remember mom? Remember? Oh yeah, she remembered. She felt better and relaxed with the faith he would return. And he did. Today he is back home sleeping off his wild adventure.

To many, one of the worst experiences in their young life is when their beloved pet goes missing. My childhood pet, the one I dearly loved, was a cowdog named Fancy. Loyalty was to her as orange is to the sunset. I remember losing her one Saturday. My friend Misti and I had been hanging out at my house early that day. We decided to walk around the block to Misti’s house and of course Fancy followed, her little stub tail wagging. We played a while inside Misti’s house, then ventured out to her back yard. After a time on the trampoline, boredom set in, so we opened the back gate, went down the alley and back to my house to engage in something more exciting. After a day full of play, dusk came, and we couldn’t find Fancy. We looked and called and called and looked. Finally, we discovered her lying on Misti’s front porch, waiting. Waiting on us to come back out of the house we had entered hours earlier. That was the last place she had seen us, and she would not abandon us. No matter how strong her hunger. Or her thirst. She had followed us to Misti’s house and when we went inside, she stayed on the porch. Unaware that we had gone out the back door and down the alley back home, she faithfully remained on the porch.

For the entire day.

I do believe she would have waited there all night. I’m just glad she didn’t have to.

The Apron

When I was a little girl I loved to wear an apron. I remember the feeling of tying an old apron around my waist. The ties were so long they wrapped back around in front and tied in a bow. I would ask my mom if I could clean. Of course she whole-heartedly agreed to that proposition. I would load my large apron pockets with necessary cleaning supplies, and my cleaning would last about 8 minutes. Or less. There was a novelty in wearing the apron, but not the chores that came along with it.

In high school, my waitressing job required us to wear a maroon dress with a white ruffled apron over it. My grandmother would starch and iron my apron until it stood alone. Each evening after I came in from work, I would hand her my apron. As I got ready for bed, she would sit at her kitchen table, empty my pockets, stack and count my tips in nice little piles and proudly tell me how much money I made.

Now as a grown-up, I own one apron. It is cow print. It’s a full length apron that slips over the neck. I rarely wear it, but I love it all the same. Over time, aprons have transformed from practical to cutesy. Here’s a tribute to the apron I’ve been saving in my email inbox. It makes me happy. And nostalgic. I’d like to share it with you.

The principal use of Grandma’s apron was to protect the dress underneath, but along with that, it served as a potholder for removing hot pans from the oven.
It was wonderful for drying children’s tears, and on occasion was even used for cleaning out dirty ears.
From the chicken coop, the apron was used for carrying eggs, fussy chicks, and sometimes half-hatched eggs to be finished in the warming oven.

When company came, those aprons were ideal hiding places for shy kids. And when the weather was cold, grandma wrapped it around her arms.Those big old aprons wiped many a perspiring brow, bent over the hot wood stove. Chips and kindling wood were brought into the kitchen in that apron.
From the garden, it carried all sorts of vegetables. After the peas had been shelled, it carried out the hulls. In the fall, the apron was used to bring in apples that had fallen from the trees.

When unexpected company drove up the road, it was surprising how much furniture that old apron could dust in a matter of seconds. When dinner was ready, Grandma walked out onto the porch, waved her apron, and the men knew it was time to come in from the fields to dinner.
It will be a long time before someone invents something that will replace that “old-time apron” that served so many purposes.

It’s funny how Grandma used to set her hot baked apple pies on the window sill to cool,
Her granddaughters set theirs on the window sill to thaw.

There may not be another article of clothing that carries as much love as an apron.