Ironing

I put my white tablecloth back on my table today.  A couple of weeks ago I had washed it at Sarah’s.  As I was ironing it, Sarah was sitting at her dining room table (in a rare moment of being still!) watching me and we were just visiting.  She asked me why I was ironing it since I had to fold it to take it home and there would be creases in it anyway.  I said something to the effect of a few creases are not as bad as a lot of wrinkles.  And, then, I talked about when I was a young girl, around 10 years old, we lived on a farm in Quemado, Texas, and Gramma (my mom) would pay me 10 cents a piece to iron the sheets, pillow cases, kitchen towels, simple things at first.  That was one way I had of earning some money and a great way to learn how to work…and, I suspect, keep mom from having to do it!

Why did people iron their sheets and such things?  Where did my mom get that idea from?  I do know that ironed sheets are just scrumptious to sleep on.  Mom would sometimes use just a tiny bit of starch so the napkins, linens and such would have a crispness to them.  When you folded them for storage, they would fold so neatly.  There was a peacefulness to it all.  Mom always listened to music so ironing was usually during quiet afternoons but with music playing in the background.  Those were the days of radio or record players and mom had a nice album collection.  One of her favorites was ballads by Marty Robbins.

Ironing was always done the day after laundry was completed.  Laundry would be washed in the morning and mostly hung out on lines in the back yard.  Late afternoons were for bringing in the clothes and folding and putting away.  Even after we had a dryer, mom loved to hang out the sheets and linens.  Hanging clothes to dry in the air doesn’t leave the fabric soft to touch but does give linens a wonderfully crisp and clean fragrance.  All the clothes that needed ironing were put into piles (the linens were separate).  Then, they were sprinkled with water drops either by hand or by a spray bottle if there was one.  They had to be sprinkled with just the right amount of moisture, enough to soften the cloth but not be really wet…just damp. Then, they had to be lightly stuffed into a….pillow case…pillow slip!  Seriously!  Then, put into the refrigerator to “set” overnight.  They could stay in the fridge for no more than 24-48 hours…anything longer than that would be too long because they could begin to sour…and if that happened, they could stain, and most definitely, stained or not, would have to be rewashed, dried and the process started all over again!

Isn’t that crazy?  And, yet, I have only fond memories of washing, drying, ironing and folding laundry.  There is something about it that has a beginning and an end…a process that, like many of the simple things of life, can bend one in a direction perhaps unfathomable at the time.  I remember the smells of clean laundry, the sounds of sheets flapping in the wind, the wonder at watching the wrinkles and stiffness smooth out as the iron glided across the fabric, the talking with mom or listening to her and my sisters work in the kitchen or other things while I ironed, the satisfaction of a job well done, completed, the feel of clean, smooth sheets on the bed at night, or a crisp, folded, smooth towel hanging in the kitchen, and, finally, the joy of paying for my own soda at Smith’s Grocery in town on a hot summer day.  Their sodas were in bottles and were iced down in a cooler on the front porch of the store.  Orange soda was my favorite.

It seems like a million years ago in a story I read and yet, I remember it as if it were yesterday.  And, I remember my mom…she loved her home no matter where dad would move her and she loved her family.  I really enjoyed that day at Sarah’s.  It is rare that we get to just sit and talk and share … I hope someday when I am gone, each of my children will have some good memories of me as they do of their grandmother.  Not for me, but for them, something I have said or done that will help them find something pleasant to carry them through one more day on their own path.

So, this is written as a tribute to some good moments of my childhood and as a thank you to my mom for teaching me how to iron.  Ironing sheets led to ironing shirts … and … ironing a man’s shirt led to the process of learning to sew … and life goes on…always forward.