Apron Strings

July 2026

Recently, I made a trip to Muskegon, the town where my wife and I grew up. As I have mentioned before, we are blessed to have a small “cottage” there.  It lies up on a hill overlooking Muskegon Lake.  It is a small and simple place, not pretentious in any way, but it gives my wife and me a base when we visit our family and friends in a town that we both still call “Home”.  Even though we haven’t lived there for over 40 years.

Each time I come to Muskegon, I visit the cemetery where many of my family and friends are buried. It’s just a ritual of mine.  I stop and make sure everything is in order at my parents, grandparents and in-law’s grave sites.  Making sure the stones are clean, and in the spring and summer, the flowers are watered and healthy.  I also take the time to visit a few other graves of people that had significant meaning for me in my life. It stimulates fond memories, and for me that is always a very good thing.

For some reason, this trip I was feeling reflective and lingered longer than normal at my grandparents’ grave. My mood caused me to think about my grandmother, even more so than usual. I know quite a bit about her as she was alive well into my lifetime.  And I have spent my lifetime trying to live up to the standards she set for me. So today I am pondering my maternal grandmother, her life, as well as the legacy she left for me.

Her name was Elsie Viola Wissner, which, as a child, I happened to believe was the prettiest name ever conceived.  Challenged only by my mother’s name, which was Isabella Rose.  Each still beautiful and unique names to this day.

Elsie came into this world in 1887, the third of six children born to Frederick Breckenridge Sandford & Ida Elizabeth Sandford (Lintz). In 1906, Elsie married Frederick G. Hibbard in Chicago. She was 19, he was 21. Frederick died young, at age 32 from Typhoid. Elsie’s second marriage came rather quickly after Fred’s death. On December 20, 1919, she married August Conrad Wissner. August became my grandfather by virtue of fathering my mother. I could write a great deal about his life and impact on me as well, but I will save that for another time.

My grandmother was as big an influence in my early life as anyone.  Literally, some of my first memories are of her, in her kitchen. She was raised as a Mennonite and therefore always wore a dress.  She also seemed to always be wearing an apron. I recall standing behind her and tapping her apron strings as she stood at the counter, sink or stove doing her chores. I was no more than a toddler, but stood behind her, like a cat playing with string.  

As I grew a little older, I continued to follow her around when we would visit her on the farm where she lived with my grandfather. She was always doing something, and it usually had to do with food.  She always seemed to be harvesting, preserving, preparing or serving it. She usually let me help in some small way, and that was a very special thing for me at that very early age.

As my grandparents aged, they grew infirm and moved off their farm into an apartment close to my parents. After my grandfather died, I stayed with my grandmother to help take care of her. I was just 10 years old. At that time, she was solid of mind but failing in body, really struggling to get around.  Despite my youth, I was both willing and able to provide the care she needed.  I cooked and cleaned for her and generally made sure she was ok. That made me grow up fast, but I never thought of it as work.  I loved this time and still cherish the memory.

Maybe it was my age, but I thought she was the smartest person, and the best listener in the world.  She was no longer mobile enough to cook, but she substituted a passion for crafts. She knitted and crocheted and sewed and was always working on something useful for the home or as a gift for someone.  It was amazing to watch.  While she worked, she listened to the ramblings of a young boy.  I told her my dreams, and she never once let me believe I couldn’t reach them. She made me feel like I could do anything I set my mind to, which was not always the message I got elsewhere.

My Grandma was very spiritual.  She read from the bible every day, several times for long stretches.  I asked her why she liked it so well.  She always said it was full of stories that made her feel happy and complete.  I never really understood what she meant about being “complete” until I was much older.

Yes, my grandmother loved her bible.  It was a big, thick, leather-bound King James Version from 1925.  She not only read from it but stored stuff in it too.  It was full of articles, thoughts, key dates, information of all shapes and forms.  I still have that bible and its contents.  I wouldn’t part with it for a million dollars.  It’s ragged and musty, but it’s a symbol to me of the faith my grandmother had, and the way she thought about God and life.  It is one of my most prized possessions, a permanent symbol of the influences within my early and formative years.

Not to say that my grandma made me religious, a term that could never be applied to me.  But she helped make me spiritual. She also set the stage for me believing in myself.  She also helped create my moral foundation. It was a wonderful way for a young boy to enter puberty.  But good things can’t last forever.

My childhood officially ended in May of 1974.  My mother and I walked into my grandmother’s apartment after a trip to the grocery store and we found her lying on the floor of her bedroom.  She had collapsed after suffering a massive stroke. As my mother went for help, I managed my emotions and sat next to my grandmother on the floor by her bed.  She couldn’t speak, yet she reached out for my hand.  I held it and I talked to her.  I can’t remember what I said, just how I felt.  I was scared to death! I was losing something, and I knew it.

But my grandmother didn’t die right away. She went from the hospital to a nursing home and lingered.  I visited her in the nursing home, but she didn’t recognize me, despite being fully coherent.  When she would say, “Who is that boy?” and “Why is he here?” over and over, it almost killed me.  It was the type of pain that still lingers.  It’s a scar that will never heal and a memory that will never fade.  I wish it would.

But instead, I choose to remember the good times. Her love and patience. Her willingness to listen and not judge. Her positivity. She also had amazing culinary skills, and taught me a great deal about growing, harvesting, preserving and preparing the outputs of the farm. I learned more about food from her than I did in college studying food science.  I also learned more about the impact of kindness, and spirituality.

But it’s those apron strings I’ll never forget.  How mesmerizing they were to a 4-year-old. How meaningful they still are to a 63-year-old, with grandkids of his own. Knowing that my shadow, my words, my actions, are my apron strings. Hoping that I create good, positive memories. Ones they will remember, long after I am gone. If I’m lucky.