Uffie's Apron

Uffie’s Apron…

When I have the chance to reflect on my childhood, I often think about the people who served as the weavers in the fabric of my life. With every stitch, my sense of self became clearer, and the influence of each person helped shape the person I’ve become today.

On a cool April morning, I drove my grey Toyota slowly through the old neighborhood I once called home. The streets were familiar, yet changed—houses remodeled, new trees planted, and cherished neighbors now long gone. These sights stirred a melancholy smile as bittersweet memories swirled through my mind. Now in my late fifties, with a family of my own, I often find myself thinking back on my parents and the simple joys that made my childhood so spectacular.

As I drove down the block, I paused in front of a house that used to be bright yellow. It now wore a coat of dark navy-blue siding. The flower garden that once wrapped around the porch was gone, replaced by a paved extension of the driveway leading directly to the front steps. I pulled over and parked. Standing there, taking it all in, it felt surreal—almost like I could still hear my parents calling us in for supper, their voices carried faintly on the breeze.

When I was a little boy, that house belonged to an elderly couple: the Uffelmans. Mrs. Uffelman—or “Uffie,” as she was lovingly known—had a big, warm smile and always wore a white apron that smelled of cinnamon. She lived with her husband, who bravely battled Myasthenia Gravis. The two of them lived quietly and kindly, their home filled with sailboats, lighthouse paintings, and pastel furniture that made everything feel calm and comforting—like a gentle embrace.

I remember when Uffie came over to our house. My mother would put the kettle on, and they’d share tea at the kitchen table. Sometimes, Uffie would bring me a small candy, always tucked carefully in the pocket of her apron. Their time together was special—sacred, even—and they often worked side by side, filling box after box with handwritten recipes. At the end of each visit, she would tuck the recipe cards safely into her apron, pat me on the head, and say with a twinkle in her eye, “You be a good boy now, okay?”

Years later, those very recipe boxes were found in my parents’ attic when the house was sold. Today, they reside in my attic, nestled among the sentimental treasures of my life. What a joy it is to hold those memories in my hands.

As I stood there gazing at the porch—now screened in—I could almost see her sitting in her usual spot, listening to soft music as the sun went down. As a kid, I’d often climb those wooden steps and sit beside her. She would share stories from her youth or read aloud from her Bible, her voice as soothing as the evening breeze.

Uffie loved to knit. Without fail, every afternoon, she’d be on her porch swing with a ball of yarn tucked into her apron. She’d hum softly, tapping her foot to the rhythm of an imagined tune, never missing a stitch. It was multitasking at its most graceful.

Shifting my stance, I looked at the well-trimmed lawn scattered with cheerful dandelions. I chuckled, remembering how I’d proudly present her with wilted handfuls of those little flowers. She always made a huge fuss over them, acting like I’d given her a bouquet of roses.

That was just who she was—someone who made people feel seen, cherished, and important.

Every May Day, Uffie would walk to Leigh’s Florist and buy pink carnations for the neighbors. She tied each one with a red ribbon—also stored in that magic apron—and delivered them with a heartfelt “Happy May Day!” It became a tradition we all looked forward to, a little dose of kindness in bloom.

At Christmastime, she always invited me to help decorate their tiny artificial tree. It stood on a table in the living room, no taller than two feet, and was adorned with handmade ornaments in every color imaginable. But the best part was the snacks: her legendary Snickerdoodles, still warm from the oven, paired with holiday music. When we were done, she’d reach into her apron and hand me a crisp dollar bill. “Thank you for helping me,” she’d say. “I couldn’t have done it without you.” Then she’d give me a little package to take home—a fruitcake she baked herself.

Honestly, none of us liked fruitcake, but we accepted it with a smile. I’m sure that if you searched my childhood home today, you might just find one of Uffie’s fruitcakes tucked away, still waiting to be eaten.

One of my most treasured memories is the way she made me feel safe. I remember when my parents went away for their anniversary, and she stayed at our house to watch me. I was walking my dog when the leash snapped, and he bolted down the street. Terrified, I ran home in tears. Uffie hugged me close, let me cry, and then got in the car to help me find him. Her cinnamon-scented apron and her calm presence reassured me that everything would be okay.

As I stood there in the quiet of the afternoon, staring at the house that once held so many memories, I felt a deep sense of gratitude. A cool breeze swept through, tussling my hair, and for a moment, it felt like a whisper from the past.

Uffie passed away when I was still a teenager, taken too soon by cancer. Even in her final days, she never lost her gentle humor or optimistic spirit. She faced the end with the same grace she showed in life—leaving behind a legacy of warmth and love for an awkward teen who didn’t quite know how to say goodbye.

Today, she’s remembered as a woman who lived fully, laughed often, and made the world a better place one small gesture at a time. I am forever grateful that Uffie was part of my childhood.

As I turned to leave, a small yellow butterfly landed on my shoulder. And in that quiet, fleeting moment, I knew it was her—sending me a kiss from Heaven.

Driving home, my heart felt full. How beautiful it is to remember those who have touched our lives in such lasting ways. I think of Uffie often—and that sweet apron that smelled of cinnamon.

For that, I am truly grateful.