My mother said that all kitchens should be bright, sunny, happy and yellow. I remember her painting her kitchen walls, doors and woodwork a canary yellow. Her kitchen tablecloths, however, were always white with a green leaf pattern. Many of my childhood memories are centered in that cheerful kitchen.

It was the mid-sixties, and our house was filled with music from morning to night. We listened to everything from Frank Sinatra to Elvis Presley, from the Tijuana Brass to Louis Armstrong, and from The Beatles to The Supremes. When Dad came home at 5 every evening, he’d snatch Mom away from the stove and dance her around the kitchen. I used to hug myself with delight to see them so happy together. I remember the day Dad came home an hour early shouting, “We’re taking down the door!” He had barely removed the door between the kitchen and the living room, when the delivery truck arrived with the new hi-fi, which would occupy that space where the open door had been. Supper was late that night. Dancing came first.

Like most children of the day, I went everywhere with my mother. And like most children, I saw, heard and remembered everything. I remember Mom shopping for an apron and complaining that they all either had armholes or were half aprons. She didn’t like the aprons with armholes, she felt they bound her. The half aprons didn’t protect her sufficiently. She wanted a good full apron with a bib that covered her and had a big pocket, yet she couldn’t find an apron like that anywhere in the stores.

I was only 9 or 10, but I was allowed to go to the library on my own after school, taking the city bus home. Grants, one of the stores downtown at that time, had a small fabric section. I saved my allowance and bought some fabric, thread and a needle. I didn’t know anything about patterns, so I just made it up. I sewed my mother an apron with an ample bib and a big pocket. I couldn’t figure out how to make the bib lay flat in front and go around the neck. So, I just squared off the head opening with strips and let the weight of the fabric hanging a few inches down the back flatten the front. Since I didn’t know anything about stitching, either, I hand sewed it all in a running stitch.

I remember my mother unwrapping that apron on Mother’s Day. My Dad asked, “What is it?” My mother turned it around, looked it over and said, “It’s an apron.” They both were very surprised that I had managed to sew it, although it was obviously made by a child. My mother tried it on, and said. “It’s just right. It’s just what I wanted.”

Mom reinforced my seams on the sewing machine, but she didn’t change a thing. She wore that apron year after year. A dozen years later, when she died, it was still hanging in the kitchen, very faded and worn, but still the white apron with a green leaf pattern for the sunny yellow kitchen filled with music.