Aprons on the clothesline

Colorful aprons on the line

Were someone else’s — but now they’re mine

I treasure them and the stains they show

I smile in the sunshine and watch them blow

I imagine the women who came before

Donning an apron as they came in the door

Working long hours over a hot stove

For cooking perfection, she likely strove

These aprons, I wear them you see

When I tie one on, I feel more ‘me’

Maybe I was born 40 years too late

But a well-fitting apron is simply great

An apron to this day is a perfect place

To gather up and wipe a tear-streaked face

Or hide a shy child from an unexpected guest

An impromptu basket for eggs remains the best

A reach in the pocket finds a clothespin or two

A Lego perhaps, or a high-heeled Barbie shoe

Ripe cherry tomatoes fit just right

A carrying pouch when you need a quick bite

When a towel is too far out of reach

An apron can wipe up juice from a peach

It holds enough apples to make a fresh pie

Certain to please many a farm-hungry guy

As I slip the apron over my head

I am filled with energy, not dread

I page through my favorite recipe books

Giving a few one or two good looks

Wearing an apron is just my way

Of saying I’m ready to serve your meals today

I’m ready to cook, ready to share

My aprons show how much I care

I pretend the women who came before

Are with me as I take the apron off the door

Their hands, their skills, guide me along

With them on my side, how can I go wrong?

Jacqui Davison and her family milk 800 cows and farm 1,200 acres in northeastern Vernon County, Wisconsin. Her children, Ira, Dane, Henry and Cora, help on the farm while her husband, Keith, works on a grain farm. If she’s not in the barn, she’s probably in the kitchen, trailing after little ones or sharing her passion of reading with someone. Her life is best described as organized chaos, and if it wasn’t, she’d be bored.