Ironing, An Impressing Idle

Ironing, An Impressing Idle

Rebecca Carroll © 2009

I love to iron, and since I was 18 and a new bride who received 4 irons as wedding gifts, I have never not owned an iron. There are those who don’t own an iron; they arrive at work with that just-got-out-of-bed look in their wrinkled shirts, or they wear that forever-living-in-the-landfill blend called perma-press. If I had been a housewife when perma-press came along, I would not have joined the legions of women, my mother being one of them, who breathed a sign of relief as they burned their irons (well, at least shoved them into the back of a closet), folded up their ironing boards, and looked for the perma-press label on new clothes. I hate perma-press, which is simply a polyester/cotton blend with enough polyester to overpower the properties of natural, breathing, glorious cotton.

Give me a pile of crinkled shirts or linens, and I will turn them into works of art with crisp collars and creases, perfect pleats, and smooth seams.

Perhaps this devotion to ironing came about because one of my chores while growing up was to iron. I ironed Dad’s t-shirts and his handkerchiefs, the sheets and pillowcases, and whatever else lay crumpled in the basket. Mom had a Pepsi bottle of water fitted with a special stopper that we used to sprinkle the clothes. This, I am guessing, was before the joys of steam irons. Don’t be misled; I hated ironing when it was one of my childhood chores. I would rather be reading a book or watching Another World. And, I couldn’t believe it when Mom told me one day that when her oldest child was a baby, Mom ironed her socks. What? How could a new mom have time to iron socks? It is an unsolved mystery, but Mom assured me Judy was the only child of her six who enjoyed ironed socks. I’ve not taken it that far, yet.

I collect lady’s handkerchiefs. Nothing thrills me more than washing, starching, and ironing a batch of faded hankies I’ve bought at an auction. When I’m done, they rest neatly folded and stacked in a drawer, forgetting that they once were necessities of proper ladies. If there are no handkerchiefs to iron, then it will be pillowcases, crocheted or embroidered doilies, or table linens. And my fondness for white cotton blouses assures me I’ll always have something to iron.

My dream house would have a room–near the laundry–just for ironing. The ironing board would permanently be out, not having to be folded up and stashed behind the door when company comes. There would be baskets of crumpled textiles waiting for me to rescue them from their slovenly heap. The room would smell faintly of starch and steamy cotton and that fresh outdoors scent of clean laundry.

Today, while I was grading the last papers (I’m a teacher when I’m not ironing) and posting the final grades, I had last Sunday’s dinner table linens soaking in a starch solution. And when the last grade was entered, I couldn’t wait to turn on the iron and transform the rumpled tablecloth and napkins into smooth, beautiful masterpieces, ready for the next supper and for the guests to unfold their napkins and enjoy their crisp texture, sure to make all food taste better, finer, even if it’s just pizza eaten on paper plates.