Celebrating the Strength of Women—Together 💜

As a tribute, I share part of the eulogy I wrote for my mother’s memorial service at church last September.

As early as I can remember, my mother told my brother and me that us “God loves all children”. We do not judge people, and we live the right way because it is who we are – we worship from a place of love, not from fear. We take the high road, always, and when we make mistakes we apologize, and do better next time.
She openly cried when JFK and Dr Martin Luthor King Junior were killed and tried to explain to us why everyone does not love others in the way that she taught us. This lesson was tough – how do you help your kids understand hate and killing?
I always thought of my mother as a quiet feminist. She did not carry protest signs or burn her bra with some of the women of her day.
She quietly defied her parent’s wishes, attended nursing school and moved from Oklahoma to Michigan. Her family had told her that young women did not become nurses as it would lead to losing their virtue. She marched on.

She was steadfast in her message to us that we could do anything we worked for and that a woman could do anything a man could do. So, when the kids at school told me that girls don’t play the trumpet, she got me a tutor and encouraged me to practice harder. When my school counselor told me to choose a college degree that was appropriate for “girls” she corrected him and told me to choose a career that I wanted and work for it.

My mother has always been a great role model for me and for others…..

“One Day at a Time”

One of the things I received after finishing up at the International School of Baking was an apron. I treasure it more than the certificate! It’s white and crisp, long and functional. I especially like how the “apron strings” are long enough to wrap all the way around from the back to the front of me and tie perfectly to the right side. I tuck a clean towel in by my left hip so I can wipe my hands on it as I’m working.

I love aprons—always have. I snatch them up at junk stores and have even sewn a few in my day. I have several in a box upstairs in storage and three drawers full in my bakery! I pull them out and wear them feeling the love from the person that they may have belonged to, or from the friend that handmade my daily apron selection.

It’s comforting and on some strange level, wearing the apron, I feel like I belong.

A farrier/blacksmith wears a heavy, leather apron. A welder wears the same. A seamstress, a gardener, a carpenter, a scientist all wear an apron. A hairdresser, a painter, and a housekeeper. A baker, a chef, a chemist, an x-ray tech, a waitperson, and a homemaker wear an apron. The apron that we wear somehow says here’s what I do and where I belong!

The word apron is a derivative of a French word from the 14 century “naperon”, (“napron” by the 17th century) which means: small tablecloth, or napkin, or a frock. Of course we know that is worn to cover up and protect our frontside and clothing from harm or damage. (merriam-webster.com)

What is your memory of an apron? Do you wear one for your line of work? Maybe you are like June Cleaver and wear one to protect your dress as you prepare for your dinner party! Many mothers and housewives wore aprons daily in the 50’s and 60’s. It was part of their attire for that day and they may have even changed into a clean “frock” when their man came through the door from a hard day’s work. There were of course dressy, sheer or lacy aprons, and plain, muslin, functional aprons.

I still have a very colorful apron from my Grandma Betty. It’s still one of my favorites to don while baking up my culinary delights. We have a family slide of my Grandma Lily at Christmastime standing in her kitchen with a snappy, little apron covering her dress clothes while she is smashing potatoes.

I always loved going into the City Bakery in Red Lodge, MT. In the old days they had all of those old aprons strung along the tops of the walls with a clothes line and clothes pins to add to the antique themed decor.

There are many good books on the history of aprons. I love that you can even pinpoint the year in which the apron was made or worn by the fabric, buttons and decorative notions. (Remember rick rack? Was that just a 70’s thing?!)

You have my permission to pull out that apron, put it on. Honor the women in your life and enjoy each new day as it comes —knowing you belong!

Here’s a little food for thought on this early spring day here in Northwest Wyoming:
“One Day at a Time”

“Everyday now, the countryman will remind you, is another day toward spring. If it is bright and sunny, it is a bonus day to weigh against the winter averages. If it is raw and blustery, full of snow or sleet or torturing wind, it is one more day of winter endured. Either way, it moves us another step toward April. The days themselves are changing. When the year turned, the sun was in the sky for only a little more than nine hours. In mid-February it will be there, visible or not, an hour and a half longer. And the night hours of darkness are loosing their grip on the numbing cold. Until the middle of February, the nights will have been losing about two minutes of darkness each day, but after this period they will lose almost three.
Don’t go looking for spring just down the road. All you will find is March. The vernal equinox now is just weeks ahead, true; but spring isn’t a date on a calendar, and it isn’t an astronomical calculation set down in an almanac. Spring is a new sprout, an unfolding leaf, a blossom and a bee. It is brooks chattering across the meadows and peepers shrilling in the bogland in the dusk. But first, winter must pass. And winter, whether it lifts your heart or tries your soul, still passes one day at a time.”
—Editorial from the New York Times

Of course my mom and grandmother inspired me. But Laura Ingalls Wilder was a true inspiration. I fell in love with the tv series, then as an adult, my parents bought me the books. My husband, our daughter and I have been doing historical reenacting for close to 30 years now. Not only the three of us, but son-in-law and four grandchildren. I owe my love of history to Laura Ingalls Wilder.

Back in the 60s, my mom was a single mom before it became popular. She had to get a job due to my parent’s separation. My dad rarely paid child support. My mom never dated again. We struggled. Never took handouts. But, with help from family, we made it. Although sickly later in life, my mom was a trooper. I miss her.

I would like to honor my little mother, Margaret…little as she was under 5 feet, but she held a larger presence. She was not afraid to be herself and put all of herself in her family, her husband and the 3 daughters she rose to be strong, accomplished women. She took care of us, and in her “spare time” went back to school in her 30’s to get her nursing degree. An incredibly intelligent woman, she suffered so much the last decade of her life with advancing alzheimers. I watched her regress mentally and physically back, back through the stages of life to an infant unable to speak or walk. But her eyes would look at us with love. She is an ever-present part of who I am.