I was going to write about something on the heavy side this morning but I just don’t have it in me. And maybe you don’t have it in you to read it today, either. I’m giving all of us a reprieve.
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I’m relinquishing my Suzy Homemaker card.
Wednesday I offered the following in my Buy Nothing group:
Gift: Iron and ironing board. I am handing in my Suzy Homemaker badge: I don’t iron anymore. Maybe you do?
I do not remember when I bought this ironing board. I think I may own two irons but I don’t know where the other one is. To give you an idea of how frequently I iron, one day my husband opened a cabinet and said, astonished. “We own an iron???”
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Once upon a time, in the last century, I lived in a center hall colonial in an old suburb where the mothers stayed home and the children all walked home from school each day to eat lunch. Our television was black and white and you put pennies in parking meters.
My parents had three daughters in an effort to produce one son. After me they gave up. I was supposed to be “Roger Anthony” and that is a good enough reason for me to be grateful I was born a girl. One reason I was not grateful: ironing day.
Saturday was ironing day. When I was too young to perform this task it was not such a big deal. My big sister Barb would cajole me into keeping her company. She would play the Top Forty hits on the radio and act out pretend radio call-in contests as she reached into the plastic bag that held the pre-dampened items.
“And today’s lucky winner wins…..” (I’m imagining I’d do a fake drumroll here.) She’d close her eyes and pull something out. “This beautiful…pillow case!”
We would giggle. She would iron. That was fun.
Then I was initiated into the sacred rite of ironing. I came in at the lowest rank. Flats: handkerchieves, pillowcases, and tea towels.
I guess at this point Barb was promoted to more complicated shirts and skirts. Perhaps my oldest sister Pam took on pleats and ruffles? No idea. It was all a mystery to me. All a part of The ABC’s of Being a Girl.
You’d think that handkerchieves and pillowcases would be hard to screw up. Au contraire. My mother was a stern taskmaster and I had poor hand-eye coordination and appalling fine motor skills. I can’t remember how many years of failures there were before I didn’t get sent back to redo rejected work. Repeatedly.
At some point during those years a seemingly benign event changed the trajectory of my life. My sister Barb got really sick, sick enough that my mother went out and bought a fold-up, roll-away bed so she could be nursed in my parent’s bedroom. And, for the new bed, she bought a new set of sheets with a colorful polka dot pattern.
I would not wish the stomach flu on anyone. But I was almost jealous.
Little did I know that those fancy new sheets were a bigger gift to me than anyone in the family. They were…permanent press.
By the time that my oldest sister Pam went to college - - and the ironing duties got bumped down - - many of the clothes that had required ironing before had been replaced by permanent press items.
I still ironed the lovely white handkerchieves that my father took daily to work. My mother's floral ones - - so useful for wiping a smudge off of a child's face - - were pressed into big squares. Fewer pillowcases and tea towels. And, with a few exceptions, I never progressed beyond that.
Permanent press saved my bacon, friends.
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As an adult I finally mastered the art of ironing. It looks like this: never buy anything you can't steam in the dryer with a damp bath towel.
Still, I've owned an ironing board and iron for most of my adult life. I might as well have owned a washboard and a carpet beater. I always thought they'd come in handy for ironing colorful fall leaves between sheets of waxed paper, but: nobody does that anymore, either.
I’ve had multiple responses for my post. I’m amazed but grateful. I’d feel guilty just “throwing them out.” Before I let them go I should probably plug the iron in one last time. For old time’s sake.
I have no idea if it still works.
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