Ironing for mom

Wrestling the ironing board into an upright position, Mom plugged in her iron, pulled the basket of water sprinkled and rolled shirts, slacks and dresses near her and began ironing and ironing and ironing.
As a 6-year-old, I watched and asked to do it.
She didn’t offer to buy me a toy iron and ironing board. She did not say, “no, you might burn yourself.” She didn’t say one word about waiting until I was bigger. My mom believed kids could do a lot of things very early in life.
“You can iron some handkerchieves as soon as I get some clothes ready for church,” she promised as she expertly whipped clothes from basket to board to hangars.
Lowering the board and turning the heat down on the iron, she showed me how to press the white squares my dad carried in his shirt pocket and the blue and red paisley squares he carried in his pants’ pocket.
“Smooth it all out flat with your hands. Now pick up the iron and iron it. Careful, don’t iron in a wrinkle. Put the iron down, now, fold it in half, iron the fold. Fold that into another square, iron the fold and then make a rectangle and iron it all flat and neat.”
I suppose she said something about the iron being hot, about keeping my hand away from the heated base of the iron. I suppose she said all that, but since she always said she had very smart children, she probably did not belabor the point. She expected us to use our brains and was not one to fuss and refuse to let us try things because, “you might get hurt.”
She watched me press a handkerchief and then handed me several that needed ironing. I proudly stepped up to the board and tackled my job of ironing handkerchieves.
In time I worked my way up to ironing skirts, slacks and shirts with buttons. She reserved pressing my dad’s suits for herself. That required a damp towel placed over each section of the coat before pressing. Pressing most anything silk or wool waited until I had matured enough to understand the expense and delicacy of the fabrics.
As a child of the 1950s, ironing was simply part of a girl’s growing up and learning to take care of herself and her house. No self-respecting female would ever show up in wrinkled clothes; that would bespeak slovenly habits. No matter how much our family income fluctuated, but my mom made sure her children left the house neatly dressed.
Once, just once, I tried to slide by with less around her.
I had arrived at my parent’s house with my family of boys and a heap of luggage. As the guys ran outside to play that first morning, I pulled a cotton sun dress out of my suitcase and slipped it over my head. I looked in the mirror and noticed a couple creases but figured it would do.
That’s not how my mom figured it. She took one look and said, “my ironing board is in the bedroom — if you want to use it.”
I took the hint and spent a couple minutes smoothing out the travel wrinkles.
Within half-an-hour my grandmother drove up to see me and my family. She complimented me on the sun dress. I told her I had made. An expert seamstress, she looked at it closely.
After she left Mom turned to me, “Now aren’t you glad you ironed that dress?”
Her remark followed me across the years and miles to this morning as I dressed, looked in the mirror and saw wrinkles on the polo shirt I planned to wear for the day. Looking at the clock, at my already combed hair and the still folded ironing board, I sighed, plugged in the iron, took off the shirt and ironed it. It took all of three minutes to smooth the collar, the sleeves, the back and front of the shirt to meet my mom’s approval … and I’m sure grandma would given me a compliment as well.
(Still ironing for her mother, Joan Hershberger is a reporter at the News-Times. E-mail her at jhershberger@eldoradonews.com.)


Posted

in

by