Who irons anymore?
I’m reasonably certain that my kids and grandkids don’t own an iron or ironing board. And today I’m trying to figure out what about me says that I need to iron my freshly washed and wrinkled clothing, some of which I wouldn’t think of wearing until I’ve ironed them.
The problem is, I usually don’t have time to iron on laundry day so my clothes get hung on hangers awaiting my attention. But then another laundry day comes along. More hangers. And another. More hangers. So today, given that I’m running out of clothes to wear, I’m ironing.
Remember back when the ironing board was almost like a piece of furniture? In our house, it was always set up, never taken down, at the ready for Mom’s basket of ironing. For a family of eight, that darn 🧺 basket multiplied until clothes toppled over, then another basket was filled.
And, as the oldest of six, take a wild guess at whose job it was to do the weekly ironing. Mind you, this didn’t always mean just the clothing we wore. No, pillowcases, handkerchiefs, kitchen towels and more went into the basket too (although those always got ironed first because they were easy).
But, wait. Before ironing, everything was sprinkled with water from a pop bottle with a sprinkler top held firmly in place by a cork. You sprinkled, sprinkled some more, then rolled up the clothing to supposedly stay damp which supposedly made the ironing easier. By the time I got to the ironing, I never encountered anything damp.
But when the iron was heated and doing its job, steaming away on clean clothing as it made wrinkles disappear, the smell was heavenly. And there was a satisfying feeling as you finished one of Dad’s shirts, a house dress of Mom’s, a stack of pillow cases, your four sisters’ dresses. By the time the basket was empty, you felt as though you climbed Mount Everest. And you gave yourself several pats on the back for this major accomplishment.
