Grandma Little, and the Big Secret of Her Hatchet Jacket

I can’t tell you how many places I’ve looked to try and solve the mystery of the hatchet jacket, my great-grandmother’s vintage apron style.

Ok. Actually, I can. I’ve interviewed most of my mother’s family, posted on many vintage clothing forums, checked out the Portland library’s collection of mid-century apron books (which was only 1 book), looked up countless vintage patterns of cobbler aprons, and badgered an American expatriate apron maker in France who once used the term “hatchet jacket” to describe an apron on her Pinterest.

The French apron maker never got back to me. No other instances of the word “hatchet jacket” have been found. The case has reached a cold and clammy dead end. (Or, hopefully, just a cul-de-sac and something will turn up eventually.)

In opposition to the world, however, everyone in my family uses the term “hatchet jacket.” That’s how this whole wheel started rolling down hill.

Hatchet Jacket Odyssey

My mom started it by gifting me a hatchet jacket one year.

“This is a hatchet jacket!” she said, giving me a dark blue apron with red flowers and snap buttons. “It’s just like the one your Grandma Little used to wear when she would go chop off the heads of her chickens!”

“How quaint and terrifying!” I thought and probably said.

But, as it turns out, every one of my 3 aunts has different memories of the hatchet jacket, and importantly – why they called it that.

“Oh no, that’s a mishearing. It’s a hatch-ING jacket. Because she could wear it when she was pregnant. Like she was hatching a baby.” said my Aunt Kris.

“It’s hatchet jacket. Like how we call something a ‘hoodie.’ It doesn’t necessarily mean anything; it’s just a name.” said my Aunt Dana.

“It’s called that because she used it to carry baby chicks from one location to the next while they were hatching.” said my Aunt Brenda.

Everyone took a different stance. They all had completely different stories. Nobody made concessions. Nobody had their memory jogged and said “ohhhhh THAT’S right. She was Grandma Little-Baby-Chicken-Pockets! We called her Grandma Little for short.”

I really wanted to hold off writing this article until I had some gosh darn answers. But alas, the deadline I set for it passed and I don’t want to lie: I have no idea who is right, or if other people call this style of apron “hatchet jacket.” If they do, it’s not a strong enough contingent to be obvious on the internet.

But, here’s my official altar call: Are you a human? If so, have you heard the term “hatchet jacket”? (and not, like, an ICP coat. That is mostly what comes up with the term is googled.) And actually, I don’t care if you’re a human. You can be a dolphin, for all I care. I just want to find a small majority and make a ruling on why Grandma Little’s apron was called a hatchet jacket.

My own personal belief is that my mom is right, and Grandma Little would wear the apron when she killed chickens. As the scariest theory it is also the best, and I’m loyal to my mom. You’re #1, mom.

Mid-Century, Mid-Michigan Farmhouse Wife

Besides participating in the life and death of chickens, my Great Grandma Little was known as the favorite grandma who would always keep cookies in the freezer for her grandkids. She’d make them cakes on their birthday, play a game of cards with them when they’d stay the night, and make them farm fresh scrambled eggs with loads of black pepper in the morning when they’d wake up. (and you’d have quite a selection of salt & pepper shakers to choose from. Mabel accrued quite the collection throughout her life.)

Born Mabel Wilson on April Fool’s Day, 1902 in mid-Michigan, and lived there her whole life. She married my Great Grandpa Fay Studt, and they started a small farm together. The farm had plenty of chickens, cows, a small vegetable garden, and apparently a small beer brewing operation in one of the barns.

“Grandma Little definitely had a sneaky side,” my Aunt Dana recollects. She told me a story of a time she caught her lying to her mother in law, and feeling shocked and amazed at catching her grandmother lying.

Eavesdropping for Recipes

My great grandmother would also, famously, eavesdrop on her neighbors using the farm’s party line telephone.

Party line telephones were very common in the early 20th century, and prevailed in popularity through the mid-century, especially in rural areas. Farmers and their families could benefit in the discount of sharing a telephone line, as well as enjoy the gossip and entertainment of having an easy way to hear what the neighbors were up to.

One of my family’s favorite cookie recipes comes from my great grandma eavesdropping on the phone. The Party Line Potato Chip cookies were always in the freezer, conveniently balled up and ready to bake on demand. Thanks, neighbors!

I love imagining the world where mid-Michigan farm wives carefully read each other recipes over the phone, while the neighbor eavesdrops, grabbing a notepad and pen to catch every detail.

“GOTCHA, FERN!” I imagine they would say. “You’re not taking the Sweet Pickle Blue Ribbon this year! No way! Now I know your sinister ratios!” They’d laugh an evil laugh, and tuck their contraband missile codes into a folder, and lock it in their secret bunker under the barn. Every one fights their own cold war.

My great-grandmother passed away in 1998, leaving behind a family that loved her dearly. A few years before that, my Aunt Brenda took upon the ambitious task of typing up all of Grandma Little’s recipes. USING A TYPEWRITER. Y’know, like chk-chk-chk-chk-chk-sccrrrrip-DING, repeat. (you’re welcome.)

That act of transcription has made my job much easier, and is blessing my life by being able to visit and revisit some wonderful mid-century, mid-Michigan farmhouse recipes. They’re a part of my fabric, my body, and my heart. The two cookies I recreated of hers were the first recipes of this project, and I’m excited I get to share recipes from my family…my hatchet jacket wearing, eavesdropping family. We’re not sorry.

Make her recipes: Party Line Potato Chip Cookies and Date Pinwheel Cookies