Reflections on the Eleventh Week of Summer – Swish, Swash, Splash

Janet with Gathering Apron

I confess.

I dip my hands into hot soapy water, gaze out the kitchen window at pink sunsets behind Wells Wood trees, and splash. Others may wash dishes without soaking their middles, but I’m doomed to swish, swash, and splash―drenching my jeans, pantyhose, and undies. Sheesh. And wearing a cloth apron just adds another soggy layer.

Four years ago, tired of soppy garments, I created a waterproof apron from the 1960s raincoat I wore while walking to college classes. I spread the green vinyl on the kitchen table, traced an old bib apron, and wrinkled my nose at the permanent marker stink.

Snip snip. Stitch stitch. I had a raincoat apron trimmed with navy blue remnants. Practical.

Grinning so wide that my cheeks ached, I tied the apron on, strode to the sink, and dipped my hands into hot soapy water. The sun set, plates dripped in the dish rack, and my abdomen stayed dry. No soggy middle, but . . .

Like raindrops dripping off an umbrella, dishwater rolled off the vinyl and soaked my knees.

Not practical.

Discouraged yet determined to make the waterproof apron waterproof, I rummaged through a kitchen drawer for paper clips, attached a dishtowel to the middle of the vinyl, and attacked a pot blackened by burnt beans.

The towel caught half of the dishwater.

The rest rolled and dampened my knees.

A year later, I designed a two layer apron―a waterproof bib apron under an absorbing half apron. I wanted practical and pretty this time.

In search of thick vinyl and terrycloth, I stalked Joann’s until my feet throbbed and the smell of starch permeated my sinuses. Thick vinyl cost too much, and the only terrycloth came in puke green.

Not practical. Not pretty.

I lifted a heavy, fifty-four inch roll of cheaper plastic tablecloth material off a high rack and stuck it into a shopping cart. A third of the roll fit. The rest extended over the end so steering―to fetch the denim fabric with delicate white flowers that I’d admired earlier―became a balancing act of pressing the handle bar down so the cart didn’t tip and jerking forward and back to navigate corners. In hindsight, I could have left the tablecloth fabric on the rack and asked the clerk to lug it. Whatever. I had the materials.

Snip snip. Stitch stitch. I created two pairs of aprons with extra long straps on the bib apron that strung through loops on the denim to hold the aprons together. The set with my neatest sewing won a blue ribbon at the Cochranton Community Fair while the other set kept dishwater splashes off my abdomen.

Singing “I Feel Pretty,” I gazed out the kitchen window at a pink sunset and swished, swashed, splashed through the dishes. No soggy middle. No soggy knees.

Over time, the white plastic split in several places exposing the cotton backing.

I ignored the tears.

The tears lengthened, formed points, and peeled to create a bouquet of drooping daffodil leaf shapes. Despite weekly machine washing, soapsuds’ grime soiled the denim. And wearing the ugly apron gave me a soggy middle. I tossed the apron and wore its prize winning twin.

Ande and Old Apron

This summer, it shredded too. After two months of soaking my abdomen, I had a choice―stop eating to avoid dish washing or sew a better apron. Losing weight would be a plus. Vertigo from not eating wouldn’t. I needed to sew a better apron.

The last Saturday in August, I drove up the rutted dirt drive to Homespun Treasures Quilt Shop. Lugging my sewing machine, sewing notions, and fabric into the quilt store, I squinted my eyes to pass the racks of tempting fabrics and plunked my machine onto a table in the back room. The two other women at the class chose civil war fabrics for their reversible aprons. I’d chosen seed sack fabric―made from a washed and dyed empty grain sack. I’d passed the basket of seed sacks every quilt guild meeting since January and just couldn’t pass them one more time without buying one. Besides, the idea of re-purposed sacks pleasured my recycling gene. For the reversible side of the gathering apron, I chose a green print that the other sewers called grunge.

While Cheryl―a professional quilter and sewer of over forty of the gathering aprons―lead us step by step through constructing the apron and securing the gathering ribbon, my classmates’ granddaughters munched muffins, colored pictures, and crawled under the sewing table. They all left at lunchtime. I didn’t. Not needing another UFO, aka UnFinished Object, I stayed until I’d stitched the last stitch.

A much better apron. But not waterproof.

Three days later while wearing the gathering apron in the rhubarb patch, I fingered the seed sack material then slapped my forehead. Duh. I’d found the solution to my soggy middle.

A seed sack.

Not the printed grain sack that I bought for thirteen dollars at Homespun Treasurers, but the empty, plastic, sunflower seed sack in the cold cellar.

Jogging in from the garden, I clomped downstairs, fetched the seed sack, and climbed to the loft. Snip snip. Stitch stitch. I fashioned a bib apron from the sunflower seed sack, made a half apron from a white hand towel, and trimmed them with remnant fabric from my stash.

After dinner, I tied the apron on and snuggled against the sink. Watching the sun glow behind Wells Wood trees, I washed dishes. The hand towel caught the splashes. Without spending one penny, my jeans, pantyhose, and undies stayed dry. Practical. But―

Crinkle, crinkle, crinkle. When I fetched dirty glasses from the kitchen table, the apron crackled like wrappings being torn and crushed into balls for cats to chase on Christmas morning.

Now I wash dishes with a crackling, waterproof apron that sparks happy memories.

New Waterproof Apron and Rills