A Lifetime of Aprons
We were back in Boone County at the beginning of July, to celebrate Independence Day and the Vermett-Crull Wedding, and now, as we sit on the floor in our Back Bay Boston brownstone, dripping in front of the floor fan and dreaming of dips into the pond and cool summer breezes in old farm houses, we say that we wish we had made it home again for the Fair.
We miss the vibrant night lights, the gluttonous culinary delights, the handmade crafts, and the highly competitive dairy shows (of which, remarkably, I still know very little except that "this cow would have done better if she had been washed before coming into the ring," and also that an "aged cow, dry, grade" will always win a premium). We miss the Ferris Wheel, the demolition derby, the dust in our toes, and the scalding hot fried cheese. Josh misses the tractor pulls and I miss the Queen Pageant. I like to watch the contestants and cheer for them all, celebrate their victories, and imagine all the extraordinary adventures the new queen will have in the following year. Oh to be royalty again!
At the state pageant in 2004 the judges asked me how I would describe Boone County to a stranger. I told them that it was a place to see before they died. Obviously this is less of a description and more of a reminder of personal mortality, (Kristina take note!), and did not serve me particularly well through the course of the pageant.
In my defense, though, this is what my school friends would always say when I told them stories: "I've got to see Boone County before I die!"
We were back home in Boone County to celebrate the Fourth. We forsook the front row seats on our fire escape to the Boston Pops and Neil Diamond concert to watch fireworks in Fontana and drive tractors in the Sharon Parade. And that's what going back home should be like, really: driving a tractor down a crowded street with the love of your life, waving to friends and neighbors and throwing treats at little children. Boone County is a place where people say things like "when I was just knee-high to a grasshopper" and your next door neighbor, who lives a half a mile away, might call to say that she "has root beer and ice cream, if you'd like to just come on over." Maybe I should have said that Boone County is like heaven.
On Saturday, before the wedding, we went to an estate sale at Oscar and Lillian's. (Lillian is reported to have said, "there is only one thing that you can't eat too much of and that's lutefisk. You can eat and eat and eat lutefisk and you'll never get sick," while at the Daughters of Norway Lutefisk Dinner two weeks before she died from the the complications of a bacterial infection in her intestines.) Along with the stationary exercises bike, a surplus of canning jars, and a coffin, there were boxes of aprons awaiting their fate. It seemed they were meant to be mine, tragically though we left for the wedding before my dream was realized. But oh! how I coveted those little aprons. Surely there were over a hundred thrilling aprons there: the prints, the sheers, the hand embroidered details, the ruffles on the edges, and the little pockets with the lace trim! To think of the work and time devoted to those aprons and the happy domestic scenes that they represented. As I ran my fingers through the boxes, I dreamed I might channel Lillian's domestic spirit to create exquisite meals; I imagined the delicacies I might prepare wearing beautiful aprons, how I would carry crispy turkeys to the table in this red gingham, or pull cookies out of the oven in this blue polka dot. There would be little treats in the pockets of this green striped one and I would set pies upon the window sill and call my neighbors to tell them to come on over while wearing this yellow paisley.
As we left I lamented my never realized treasures and was told that I would just have to make my own aprons. Make my own aprons! As ludicrous as buying a new rolling pin, I'm sure, and my own aprons will certainly not lighten my spirits when my pie crust fails! Ode to you, Lillian Hall, for your beautiful handiwork, incredible diligence, and your sensational life's work in aprons. I suppose I will get started on my own as soon as possible.
Here in Boston, the sun has set, the fan is finally pulling cooler air in through the window, and I wish I could have made it to the Fair to wish the new queen luck, to see the neighbors with their cows, and to stroll through the Home Economics Building and know that at least once a year, Boone County is celebrating aprons and heirloom tomatoes.
Next time a panel asks, I will resist the really macabre, concentrate on the dry and ironic, and plan to be back sooner than later to start my own life's work in the domestic arts. I will tell them that Boone County is a place where a coffin at an estate sale is funny, but not unusual, and that a box full of aprons can be a masterpiece. And I will insist that it can't be described except through anecdotes, and that it really ought to be experienced before, well, you know...
We miss the vibrant night lights, the gluttonous culinary delights, the handmade crafts, and the highly competitive dairy shows (of which, remarkably, I still know very little except that "this cow would have done better if she had been washed before coming into the ring," and also that an "aged cow, dry, grade" will always win a premium). We miss the Ferris Wheel, the demolition derby, the dust in our toes, and the scalding hot fried cheese. Josh misses the tractor pulls and I miss the Queen Pageant. I like to watch the contestants and cheer for them all, celebrate their victories, and imagine all the extraordinary adventures the new queen will have in the following year. Oh to be royalty again!
At the state pageant in 2004 the judges asked me how I would describe Boone County to a stranger. I told them that it was a place to see before they died. Obviously this is less of a description and more of a reminder of personal mortality, (Kristina take note!), and did not serve me particularly well through the course of the pageant.
In my defense, though, this is what my school friends would always say when I told them stories: "I've got to see Boone County before I die!"
We were back home in Boone County to celebrate the Fourth. We forsook the front row seats on our fire escape to the Boston Pops and Neil Diamond concert to watch fireworks in Fontana and drive tractors in the Sharon Parade. And that's what going back home should be like, really: driving a tractor down a crowded street with the love of your life, waving to friends and neighbors and throwing treats at little children. Boone County is a place where people say things like "when I was just knee-high to a grasshopper" and your next door neighbor, who lives a half a mile away, might call to say that she "has root beer and ice cream, if you'd like to just come on over." Maybe I should have said that Boone County is like heaven.
On Saturday, before the wedding, we went to an estate sale at Oscar and Lillian's. (Lillian is reported to have said, "there is only one thing that you can't eat too much of and that's lutefisk. You can eat and eat and eat lutefisk and you'll never get sick," while at the Daughters of Norway Lutefisk Dinner two weeks before she died from the the complications of a bacterial infection in her intestines.) Along with the stationary exercises bike, a surplus of canning jars, and a coffin, there were boxes of aprons awaiting their fate. It seemed they were meant to be mine, tragically though we left for the wedding before my dream was realized. But oh! how I coveted those little aprons. Surely there were over a hundred thrilling aprons there: the prints, the sheers, the hand embroidered details, the ruffles on the edges, and the little pockets with the lace trim! To think of the work and time devoted to those aprons and the happy domestic scenes that they represented. As I ran my fingers through the boxes, I dreamed I might channel Lillian's domestic spirit to create exquisite meals; I imagined the delicacies I might prepare wearing beautiful aprons, how I would carry crispy turkeys to the table in this red gingham, or pull cookies out of the oven in this blue polka dot. There would be little treats in the pockets of this green striped one and I would set pies upon the window sill and call my neighbors to tell them to come on over while wearing this yellow paisley.
As we left I lamented my never realized treasures and was told that I would just have to make my own aprons. Make my own aprons! As ludicrous as buying a new rolling pin, I'm sure, and my own aprons will certainly not lighten my spirits when my pie crust fails! Ode to you, Lillian Hall, for your beautiful handiwork, incredible diligence, and your sensational life's work in aprons. I suppose I will get started on my own as soon as possible.
Here in Boston, the sun has set, the fan is finally pulling cooler air in through the window, and I wish I could have made it to the Fair to wish the new queen luck, to see the neighbors with their cows, and to stroll through the Home Economics Building and know that at least once a year, Boone County is celebrating aprons and heirloom tomatoes.
Next time a panel asks, I will resist the really macabre, concentrate on the dry and ironic, and plan to be back sooner than later to start my own life's work in the domestic arts. I will tell them that Boone County is a place where a coffin at an estate sale is funny, but not unusual, and that a box full of aprons can be a masterpiece. And I will insist that it can't be described except through anecdotes, and that it really ought to be experienced before, well, you know...
Carrie,
ReplyDeleteI,too, love aprons! I have several of my grandmothers, two of Rog's, one I made in 4-H as a first year project, and several I have made for visiting gtandkids. I am in the process of making a new one featuring my Dad's old ties which he recently handed to me and said, "Do something with these!" Last summer we added a new event to our family reunion....an apron style show! We asked family members to bring aprons and then to tell about the history of the apron. We had 8 this year and hope that as people catch on to the idea....that we will have many more next year! Hugs, your fairy godmother and lover of green beans :-)