Jodi Hills

So this is who I am – a writer that paints, a painter that writes…

Tag Archives: apron strings


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Tugged.

We could have been aproned from her apron, but still we dove right in. I imagine the brunt of what she wiped from bowl to hand to apron ended up on the front of my shirt and the side of my face. This tug to be near defied all things sticky. I just wanted to be a part of it. Of what she was doing. Baking. Creating. Becoming. And she allowed it, because wouldn’t it all get washed, not in the laundry, but in my attempt to help with the dishes. 

With the scent wafting through the oven’s heat, she filled the double sink. Extra bubbles. She asked if I wanted a stool. I shook my head no. The cupboard below was already scuffed from my tennis shoes as I placed my hands on the side of the cupboard and hoisted myself up on the edge of the sink. Belly balanced. Feet dangling. Completely wet. I danced my hands through the water. A temperature far less than what she could handle, I crawl stroked my way through the pile. Did she rewash them? I don’t think so, at least never in front of me. 

When I could no longer breathe from the weight of balancing, I jumped down. Wiped my hands, my face, my neck and belly, all on her apron. And we were connected. A tug that still calls to me. 

When I need the strength of “it’s good enough for joy,” I wrap myself in my Minnesota apron, bake the bread and wash the dishes in a temperature I never imagined I could handle, and I am home. 


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Apron strings.

I suppose we were all, at some point, tied to her apron strings. And if not tied, we loosely wandered through the flowered fabric that smelled of sugar and dough — this apron draped across the welcoming belly (also filled with sugar and dough) of grandma Elsie.

Both my grandmother and mother did the kitchen dance. My grandma, mostly around us. And it was my mother who pulled me in, doing the steps backwards, so I wouldn’t have to. From farmhouse to apartment, I didn’t have the words for it then, but I suppose it was never about the floor, always about the dance. The steps each of them took, to make our lives better, my life better, I will ever be grateful. The only real way to give thanks, I guess, is to keep dancing, to keep you dancing.

I got the wink from heaven’s kitchen yesterday, when I received the five-star review on the apron. A woman purchased one of my dance aprons from a store in Florida and then went to the website to get more for her friends. Filling the dance floor. And I can’t stop smiling, twirling, because I know the connection doesn’t end, it keeps growing. Sometimes a word at a time, sometimes even an apron string.

Maybe we never know what it will be that is going to connect us — keep us connected. So we have to stay in motion. Continue reaching out. The floor will keep changing. Sometimes pulled right up from underneath us. But we are stronger than that. We keep dancing.

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