I wonder why I like to iron? I can remember being fascinated with ironing at a very young age. There was something very domestically magical about watching my Mommy iron things and hanging them on hangers or folding them and putting them away or on the hutch or the coffee table.
I can remember one Mother's Day when my sisters and I took everything Mom had set aside to iron out of the closet and drug it into the living room (making a huge mess). While she ate breakfast in bed upstairs, we were downstairs pretending to be housewives and ironed away-trying not to burn ourselves with the heavy iron. Mimicking Mom, we spread the item over the ironing board, sprayed it with the starch (a must!) then applied the hot iron and de-wrinkled to our heart's content.
I still love to iron. Way more than doing dishes. Doing dishes is alright to a degree...but even while you're doing the dishes someone can reach into the drainer and remove your hard work, make it a mess, only to have you repeat it again...over and over. It's too much like an occupation-sort of like peeling potatoes...I can't wait to get to the last potato in the bowl.
I find such peace in ironing. I am ministering to the cloth-removing its wrinkles, then folding it as neat as possible and tucking it into the closet. In my house, I am the only one who messes with the pretty pillowcases, the table cloths, the doilies, the dress shirts after weddings. I do find it very relaxing. Really.
When I was 18 I worked for a small, family-owned bridal gown factory. I started there as a steam-iron operator, the kinds on big springs to make them lighter. It was July. Are you with me? I had a huge fan blowing on me, but talk about perspiration...whew! It was an old wooden building with NO air-conditioning. Only fans. One day, after working on a 100 degree day, I went to a local pub where I knew they kept beer in the freezer so it would develop little ice crystals, and got one bottle. Nothing tasted as good to me as that ice-cold beer full of ice crystals on a hot July day after ironing in 100 degree weather. That was the only time I can ever remember enjoying a cold beer. Just that once.
We had to iron the gowns and hang them on hangers and pull the plastic down over them and put them on a rack. I was in my own corner with no one bothering me. Once in a while, when we got a huge order from J.C.Penney, the owner would help iron and I'd have company across from me for the day.
It's mostly the smell I remember. The new cloth, the starch and the steam of the iron mixed with the old wooden factory and the glue for the beads, the machine oil, the spot remover and the new plastic that went over each dress to protect it.
I eventually worked my way up, learning almost every machine and ended up a spreader of the lovely, expensive fabrics. I never asked to be moved, the owner must have seen something I didn't. I could fill in for anyone who called in sick because I knew every machine. I enjoyed spreading the fabric too, but I did long for my own little corner every now and then.
I had to leave that job because I was pregnant for my first son and had a serious case of toxemia. Then motherhood took over and I chose to become a stay-at-home Mom.
After almost 25 years (Nov. 14th) of marriage, I still find relaxation and a sense of accomplishment in ironing my linens and things and putting them away for the next use. As I iron each piece I recall memories of the loved ones who gave them to me, some still living and some who have passed-on. I iron in my own little corner, with my spray starch and my (much more)lightweight iron.
Today I ironed because of a whim I got to cover my hutch with this rose fabric and cover that with lightweight plastic so my plants can go there for now. And while I was ironing, I thought it would be nice to pay homage to "the ironers" of the world. The recreational ironers...those who find the
Zen in the
act of ironing. I wish that factory was still around, I just might be tempted to go put in an application.
