Ironing
Wed., August 24, 10:03 AM
As I believe you’ve heard, nothing you ever learn is wasted. This morning, dug up an obsolete skill. I ironed.
I’m sure that some of you have never heard of such a thing, but I was born long before permanent press was the norm. It’s been a while since I had to do it myself, but there is some background here. U.D. did all the laundry when I was sick last year and, even though I am very grateful that she was there to do it, I have to admit that there was something lacking. After all, this was the teenager who would rather take her outfit of the day from the laundry basket, rather than put her clothing away. Is it such a surprise that, given the chance, she would dress directly from the dryer? I discovered she was likely to wash only what she deemed necessary – I never ran out of underwear, for example – and some things that I threw into the wash seemed to disappear into limbo. I decided to hold on to some garments until I had better control of what was being washed. (I still haven’t found both parts of some two-piece outfits!)
Not trusting U.D. to wash “special care” garments, I kept those too. I was catching up on the mound of not crucial laundry when I strained those muscles I use to bend down. Always something, isn’t it? So only this week did I get to wash the specials – cold water, line dry, cool iron. My ironing board was a wedding shower gift, but it is good shape, not having been overworked. I never minded ironing, and as I plied my iron, I thought about how I learned.
The first ironing board I remember in the House on Court Street was just a board that my mother supported between the kitchen table and the counter. Everything was ironed flat; there are tricks to ironing this way, and I was to learn them over the years. By the time we got a real board – with legs – my mother would get annoyed because I made use of the shaped end of the board.
I began with handkerchiefs and dishtowels. Mother said we ironed those not only to flatten them, but also to sterilize them. When we did linen tablecloths, we ironed both sides. Eventually I advanced to skirts, and then to sleeveless blouses. The ultimate skill was to care for my father’s shirts, whether they were dress shirts or his poplin work shirts.
A professional laundress had shown my mother how to iron a shirt properly, including collar, cuffs, yoke, facings, and sleeves. Even after I knew how to do it – I was in my late teens and doing most of the family’s laundry by then – my mother felt it necessary to give me another lesson before she went away for a week.
Ironing is a perfect example of a philosophy I worked out for myself may years before. For any chore, you have the choice of doing it yourself or paying someone else to do it for you. In some cases you may just choose not to do it. Since I was usually low on cash, I had no problem in doing my own ironing, and my kids knew it. I don’t think my daughters bother with it. My son cares enough about his appearance, and he learned how to use the washer and dryer and to iron when he lived with us; but he sends out his fine laundry now.
I’m still frugal. I’d just as soon do my own chores. Husband would rather leave chores undone. I have to steal his shirts in order to wash them, and he complains, even though there is a clean shirt ready and waiting for him. (One more reason: don’t get married.)
