Abigail's Apron

My mama always swore Abigail had a magical apron. No matter what day of the week, or what time of day you stopped in at her house for a visit, she was always wearing an apron. The thing was, it was never the same apron. Mama  decided that the apron must be magical, to change every single day. Blue gingham with yellow, white with red, yellow with green, orange and brown calico prints, bright seersucker stripes, honey bee and blue blazes quilt patterns, each day saw her wearing a different apron.

The apron wasn't the only magical thing about Abigail.

I can't quite seem to recall if Abigail was my mama's aunt, or if she was my grandmother's aunt. Everyone called her Aunt Abigail, even those in town who in no way could have been related to her. Every child in town knew, and loved, Aunt Abigail.

Abigail was a small gnome of a woman. Oh hush now, I'm not insulting Abigail, just tryin' to accurately describe her. She couldn't have been over four and a half feet tall, as most sixth graders were just as tall as she was. She had the most amazing, sunken eyes, great dark caverns with her bright eyes shining out from behind prominent bones. I doubt she weighted more than 80 pounds, either, and that only while holding a 5 pound bag of potatoes. Her hair was snow white, and set in fine, soft waves all around her head, a small bun at the back indicating that it must be long when it was all unpinned.

Abigail had been everyone's babysitter at one time or another. When mama had something important going on like a doctor's appointment, or a committee meeting, she'd send us along to Aunt Abigail's. I don't remember ever going to the front door when we were sent over, we always went to the back door. Every child in town was the same. "Go on over to Aunt Abigail's, and she'll send you home when I'm finished." Off we'd go, happily most of the time, because Abigail never really babysat us, or watched us, so much as she simply fed us into obedience. She'd invariably be putting on a fresh apron as she answered the door, and would hustle us straight into her kitchen.

"Take this dollar and go on down to the store and get some more soda pop," she'd say, "get both kinds so you won't have to choose."

An adult sending us off to get soda pop? We were in heaven! We were being trusted with a whole dollar, and with the responsibility of going to the store on our own! We'd trudge off down to the store, which was only about four doors down to tell you the truth, then trudge happily back again, secure in the knowledge that there would be cookies, pie, and cake all waiting for our return. And that an adult trusted us to buy wisely, and return safely.

Abigail cooked. Near as I can tell, if she wasn't feeding some child or other, she was cooking, baking, or working out back in her vegetable garden, growing food to cook. Good solid country meals, like pot roast with carrots, fried chicken and mashed potatoes, pork chops and corn on the cob ....  and sweets. Oh, were there sweets! Cookies, and homemade candy, brownies or fudge, and at least two cakes and three different kinds of pie whenever you went over there. Oddly, I don't remember ever eating any of her meals, though I remember the heavenly smell of food cooking in her kitchen, I only remember eating the sweets. I don't think I ever saw her take a bite of a single thing herself either, which would account for her tiny size, but not where all that food went.

I remember thinking years later, that if the only thing she ever served us was sweets, why was it that our parents were always so willing to send us over to Aunt Abigail's? They wouldn't have let us eat like that at home! I asked Mama about it once, and she said it was exactly the same when she was growing up.

Abigail's two sons were grown and gone, and I somehow got the impression that they were a disappointment to her. Her husband was long dead by the time I knew her, and mama never told me his name more than once, so I don't even remember what it was, now. I don't have a clue in the world how she supported herself unless she sold off some of the vegetables from her huge backyard garden to the green grocer, or lived on some sort of railroad pension. All I know is, Abigail's apron was never the same on any given day, her eyes never stopped sparkling when she was around children, and there was always and forever a neverending supply of sweets and treats, and hugs and happiness, for every child who stepped in her house.