You know, when we get older we often look back on our life and try to see what was truly important. This story is about one such look back in my life.
Old Dogs and Grandma's Apron
I was sitting at my kitchen table folding the laundry, which I'd done earlier in the day, when it came to me like wisdom – about what's wrong with our kids nowadays. It comes down to two things we are missing: old dogs and grandma's aprons and the love which they displayed.
Back in the day – a long time ago it seems - a kid could go to grandma's house to escape the worries of the day. "Hey, Gran! Where's old Mike?" I can hear the young boy say as he went looking for the dog who was most likely sunning himself behind the house.
When that old dog saw the boy, he would get up and stretch his legs and wag his tail saying hello in his own way. Without a word being spoken, that old dog would follow the boy to the woods behind Gran's house until they came to their special place. It might have been a big flat rock or a big old tree fallen from a long ago storm. But whatever it was, the boy would take a seat; and old Mike would lie down at his feet.
If it was something really sad that brought the boy to Gran's house, he'd grab Mike around the neck and let the tears fall into the fur of the dog his daddy called a stupid, mangy cur. Mike would sit there still as stone and then he'd turn and lick the boy in the face as if the tears and the sadness he could erase. Then back to the house they'd head; problems of the world put into their proper place.
At other times, the boy would wander into Gran's kitchen and watch her cooking at the stove or rolling out dough for biscuits or the lemon cookies that he loved. Grandma always wore an apron, a loop around the neck and tied at the waist with big pockets in front. It kept her dress clean while she was cooking, cleaning, or doing other household things; but it was much more than just a covering.
The boy would hang around the door not saying a word. Gran would wash her hands and dry them on her apron before going over to a chair at the kitchen table. "Boy, come over here and give your Gran a hug," she would say. That's all it took sometimes to get to the bottom of things. The boy would run to his Gran with tears in his eyes and get a big hug and then lay his head down on her lap and cry into that apron while she stroked his head. "What's wrong, boy?" Gran would ask. And between the tears, the words would tumble out. It's not that Gran always had an answer to the worry of the day, but she was always there and took her apron and wiped the tears away. Somehow that old apron, worn by many washings, was like magic; it set things right just by its touch. Or did it simply reflect a grandma's loving heart?
On happy days, the boy would take the old dog and play. Tossing sticks for Mike to fetch and then running here and there. No better companion could be found. He didn't complain or want to be "first" or get mad when the boy decided not to play anymore. It was an easy friendship.
And if the boy should take a tumble and skin his knee up real bad, Mike would run over and lick the wound and wait right there until the boy got up from the ground. The boy would head to the kitchen where Gran could always be found. She'd take a look at that knee and say, "Boy, come over here and get up on this table."
The boy would go over and use a chair to step up to the old wooden table. He'd take a seat with his legs hanging down. Gran would wet an apron corner at the sink and come over and wash the wound clean. She'd take another corner and use it like a fan to dry the boy's knee. From next to the stove, she'd grab a jar of salve and put a small dab on her hand and gently, oh so gently; she would rub it into the wound. "There, boy," she'd say. "You're fine now. Get on down now and go back and play." And fine he was.
Old dogs and grandma's apron. I paused from my laundry folding and thought long and hard about this new found wisdom until tears filled my eyes. I don't even own an apron, and my grandchildren are far away. We have some very fine dogs, but none of them is an old mangy cur named Mike, a plain old dog who will lick the tears from my face. We've lost some irreplaceable things some where along the way.
Copyright © January 5, 2010 by Karen M. Crump
Edited: May 29, 2011
Edited: May 29, 2011
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