Violet Voices

Ironing it out

by Barbara

There is something satisfying about standing over an ironing board taking the wrinkles out of a favorite blouse. I realize that in this day and age when permanent press/no iron clothing is a must and the norm, I am an oddball for thinking so.

I can still remember the very first time my mother allowed me to iron a basket of clothes. I was only four years old and I loved to watch her. It looked like great fun, even though the irons we used were called sad irons. Unlike today’s sleek, lightweight beauties, these were heavy, cast iron, solid metal irons. Mom had a row of them heating up on top of our stove to be used by turn until they cooled too much to be effective.

There is nothing like the smell of iron-hot, starched cotton. Sounds play a part in the memory, too. There was that particular sizzle as we would wet our fingers with our tongues, then test the heat of the iron by pressing, briefly, that finger to the iron. HISSSST - yup, still warm enough to work well.

I was taken back in time today as I set up my ironing board – and isn’t it something that today’s boards still have that grating squeak as you set them up? I dampened a basketful of blouses using a spray bottle. Memories washed over me as I remembered that when I was small we used a glass Coca-Cola bottle with a metal-headed sprinkler corked into the neck.

On washing days we would have spent the majority of the day hanging laundry on the backyard clothesline and praying that the clouds overhead had no rain in them. Many were the times we would have to run into the yard to rescue nearly dry laundry from a late afternoon thunderstorm.

Sheets were folded and stacked onto shelves, while pillowcases and other things were set aside for the iron. The basket would soon be full of my sister’s and my school blouses, my mother’s work uniforms, hankies and pillowcases. The sprinkler bottle was put to good work then as each piece received its baptism and was rolled and placed back into the basket.

Ever wise, my mother set me up with a basket of handkerchiefs and pillowcases. This was “back in the day” when men carried large white handkerchiefs and ladies carried smaller, yet still substantial, hankies at all times. I was delighted to press and fold, press and fold again each piece. Even now I can remember the sense of pride I felt as my stack of finished work grew taller while the basket grew empty.

Mom praised me abundantly and I went to my room that night with a great feeling of accomplishment. I’m sure she had to re-iron everything, but she never made me feel less than adequate in what I had done.

Many might see ironing as drudgework. But I sort of miss it and I found it emotionally healing this week.

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Written By: barbara
Posted under: On Being a Parent, Women's Voices .  Email This Post