Boaz and Ruth

My husband and I many years ago got a beautiful gray cat from his sister.  The cat was small and had come to her house looking for food.  After some coaxing, she got it to a place where she could catch it, and we took it home.  And named him Boaz.

We thought Boaz should have a little companion and were delighted to hear about some kittens being born a couple of blocks over at a neighbor’s (that was before they became prolific; our little town  now has millions) (really) (I’m not exaggerating).  We were excited to choose Bo’s new companion kitty.  After careful consideration, my husband decided on a female that we were going to name Ruth for the wonderful love story in the Old Testament about Boaz and Ruth.  Off we went, Ruth in tow, to introduce the two.  And they got along well, although Ruth seemed to like to wonder a little more than she should (outside cats).

The big day came for Ruth to go to the vet for her big prespay check-up.  I, the proud cat mommy of Ruth, got her out of the carrier and put the little, well-behaved darling on the table.  (I found out later they are so well-behaved because they have been freaked out by the carrier.)  (Or so the vet said.)  After checking Ruth very well, and checking her a second time, he looked at Ruth and frowned.  I thought, “Oh, no.  Something’s wrong with Ruth.”

The vet looked at me, as he lovingly held Ruth, (I was sure by this time she was almost dead) then he looked back at Ruth and said, “What did you say you named your cat?”

“Ruth,” I said.

He looked at me and smiled and said, “Well, you better start calling him Babe Ruth.”

Mom’s Last Gift

My sister and I went shopping last night… again.  It is after Christmas, the sales are beckoning as though we are drowning and they can save us… and Mom is gone.  That is why we have been going out to eat, sometimes twice in one day, and why we’ve been shopping together, a lot.  We are at loose ends; we need to be together; and we have been given our freedom.

For the last five years Mom was steadily going downhill, getting more frail, more feeble, needing more help.  And Mom wanted her daughters to be the ones to catch her on the slide down.  Not some strangers in a freezing nursing home (I mean they probably keep it 75; Mom’s was not one degree less than 95).  Mom trained us from birth that she never wanted to go to a nursing home, her biggest fear in life, although she had many as she grew older.  So when the time came for the care Mom needed, my sister and I were there.  And so was my brother as often as he could be, and my older sister was the one who came and stayed continuously at the end, seeing Mom right into heaven.

But the day-to-day care for the last several years was Dar’s and mine.  And, really, more hers because Darla lives in the same town as Mom did.  So when Mom fell, the little box that sat on the shelf where all the photos of the smiling children and grandchildren were kept, the little box from the “I’ve-fallen-and-can’t-get-up” organization, relayed the message to Darla, and Darla came with whomever she could get from her work to pick Mom up, dust her off, and put her back to rights.  Soon, we were going after work and on weekends, staying till we got Mom into bed for the evening, making sure every light was off, every ceiling fan shut down and the air conditioner turned off, and everything locked up tight.

Then she fell and cut her forehead wide open on the carpet.  It was time for the outside help that came to Mom’s house during the weekday while we were at work.  They would stay till 4:30, and then we stayed, again, till bedtime.  Those were good times.  Times we got to talk and share and eat ice cream or sherbet together.  Times we learned a few things we didn’t know about our mother, about us, about family.  We talked about God and Heaven.  My mom loved Jesus and His Word and lived her life as best she could for His honor and glory.

One evening I noticed Mom was yellow, so we went straight to the hospital.  The time had come that she didn’t need to be by herself at all anymore.  So we started staying the nights then, taking turns by the day or couple of days.  Get at Mom’s around 4:30 in the afternoon and stay till morning.  If Darla and I wanted to do anything, we got extra sitters or worked something out with Ben, our brother.  But it was rare that we got to spend time together as we had done in the past.  After all, we were and are best friends.  It’s tough giving up your best friend, seeing her a few minutes here and a few minutes there.

Mom died, giving up the struggle and succumbing to the arms of the angels as they whisked her away to Heaven.  And set us free.


Terry should write a book.  Really.  She is so funny, so witty, so intelligent, so colorful, so earthy, so… storyable.  Her friends and she have been throwing around the idea, coming up with some hilarious scenarios –  that are real incidents I might add.  You see, they’ve done a lot of dating between the three of them, imbibed too much a few too many times, and know men.  I will not go into how well they “know” men.  They just know them.  Had some rather interesting encounters, some interesting marriages (or not), and some interesting outcomes to both aforementioned interestings.  So a book written by these gals would become a movie.  A movie everybody would want to see.

I want to see it and I haven’t even read the unwritten book yet!  Just listening to her tell about the combined experiences makes me laugh to my toes, the kind of laughing that makes your face get wrinkles as you age, those wrinkles that were worth it.  She has been my good forever friend.  The one that goes to the doctor with you when you’re nine months pregnant and she’s seven months pregnant and both of you won’t eat until after the weigh-in.  Then look out!  I’m talking baby-belly appetite.  The big and pregnant friends that go camping with what we called husbands at the time, laboring with protruding bellies (and one little four-year-old daughter) to put up a tent, and splashing mud all over those same big bellies as we drove the doorless jeep into town.  We had nice tits though.  A couple of studs were watching us in the lake (we were in up to those nice tits) (bellies in the water) until we decided to go back to shore.  Boy, did we let them down!  Probably literally.

My bosom buddy.  It’s nice to feel bosomy sometimes.

Just the beginning!

Apronsandappetites came to fruition after years of saving recipes out of magazines.  It was first going to be called Magazine Menus.  I had big plans of inviting different friends over to sample all the different dishes (on my beautiful new white plates) (that I have yet to buy).  Sort of a small-town Julie/Julia:  Mommas/Magazines with iced tea.  But that just didn’t really encompass exactly what I wanted from a personal blog.  I wanted more than trying all the recipes.  I wanted… well, life.

For about ten years now my life has been in a sort of hiatus.  Lots of stuff that can wait for another time to tell.  I feel like a butterfly in a cocoon breaking out into light.  And I want to do everything!  My appetite is waaaaay bigger than just a meal made from magazine recipes.  Wala!!!  The Appetites.

What goes better with big appetites than a great apron?  I love aprons.  I love the stories behind aprons.  I love the way they feel, the way they look, their secrets.  They’re like a good book, one you stay up all night to read or loathe to have to put down till another day.  I want to share some of those great aprons and apron stories with you, and I want you to share yours with me.  Aprons aren’t just for keeping clothes protected… they’re all about personalities, life situations, and love.

My name is Brenda, and I have to tell you right up front:  I’m a little different.  Ellen Degeneres had a hilarious phone call from a little woman who said, “I love Jesus, but I still drink a little whiskey every now and then.”  Or words to that effect.  So if you love Jesus (I do) and you’re not afraid to be in touch with the earthy you (or offended by the earthy me) then please join me… and enjoy my journey.