Ironing it all out

One of my household chores when I was growing up was ironing. Nothing big, mind you, and certainly not every week. No, my ironing was limited to whenever my dad ran out of handkerchiefs and was demanding more.

I think this GE iron is from the ’50s. I remember ours, regardless of brand, being a lot bigger and heavier. But maybe that’s because I was smaller. [Internet photo]

I’m sure that my mom was washing them every week. They just didn’t get ironed until she announced to me that I had to do it. In retrospect, it seems as though it would have been easier to iron them weekly than to wait for a month and iron 30 or more handkerchiefs.

I once asked Dad why he didn’t just use Kleenex (the only brand known to me at the time). He didn’t even get a chance to answer. Mom just sniffed (no pun intended) and proclaimed that Dad would just break right through one of those on his first blow. That may have been the first time I really studied my dad’s nose. I could see why a single Kleenex would not have been up to the job.

Dad had a Roman nose. That’s interesting to me because it means that those Romans had to make their way either to Holland or to Sweden to pass on that particular gene. Judging from pictures I’ve seen of my paternal grandfather, I’d say that they made their way across the Baltic Sea and found themselves in or near Lincopping, Sweden. I don’t know a lot of Swedes, but I never met one with a prominent Roman nose like Dad’s.

At any rate, a single Kleenex was not made to handle the contents of a Roman nose. To use more than one Kleenex would have been a waste of money so Dad insisted on a fresh handkerchief or two every day of the week. Even when he wasn’t going to work including out in the yard or in the garage workshop, Dad had a handkerchief on him. And he used every single one he carried. I know he had some allergies but it was never clear to what. He just had to blow his nose a lot.

So that meant a lot of handkerchief ironing for me.

No, it wasn’t a difficult job. I would set the ironing board up in direct sight of the TV and watch whatever black and white specialty was on at the moment. During the daytime, it might have been one of Mom’s “stories” like “As the World Turns” or “Guiding Light.” Later in the afternoon I might be able to catch “The Mickey Mouse Club.” More often than not, however, there wasn’t much on our three channels to distract me from the task at hand. It was boring.

This is similar to what I remember as a sprinkling bottle. [Internet photo]

There were a couple of challenges to ironing in those days, however. Irons were heavy. They were, well, like iron to lift. And while ours did have a steam setting on it, I don’t recall using that. Rather, I would gather the piles of handkerchiefs and sprinkle them with water from a bottle that was corked but had an aluminum top with salt-shaker-like holes in it. The slightly damp pile would just sit there are the end of the board until I reached for the next and the next until they were all ironed neatly, first into halves, then fourths, and, finally, eighths. Our house had no air conditioning, so in the hot, humid Missouri summer, ironing was not my favorite chore.

Mom never knew how to sew, but when I finally took a junior high class in home economics, the importance of ironing as we constructed a garment was drilled into me. I found myself with that heavy iron (boy, those things lasted a lifetime in those days) applying it to each piece and seam of every skirt, dress, and shirt I made. I learned quickly that if I skipped that ironing step in the process, I would pay for it in the long run. The finished garment just wouldn’t cooperate with me. Seams would pucker where they hadn’t properly been ironed.

I made my own clothes, or most of them, until I was about 35 years old. At that point I landed a job that required a lot more hours of work and provided me with a bit more income so I could own “real store bought” apparel. Still, until permanent press became the order of the day, I continued to iron, especially shirts and blouses.

Through the years, irons have become a lot more lightweight and the good ones produce a lot of steam. No more sprinkling clothes with water just ahead of ironing them. The steam would take out embedded wrinkles.

When I had changed careers and became a pastor, I used to let the ironing pile up for a few weeks like my mom did. I’d wait until I couldn’t wait any more and then I would get out the ironing board in time that I had to deliberately set aside for the job. When it happened, it was usually on Monday, my day off. I would do laundry and iron on my day off.

Ironically, I came to appreciate ironing because it provided almost instant gratification for me. I could see the results of a job well done. A pastor is seldom rewarded with instant gratification. I could touch the smoothness of the fabric and even the crispness of it when I added a little spray starch or spray sizing. I even ironed our sheets. I ironed our sheets until I found a brand of virtually wrinkle free cotton sheets that, if folded right out of the dryer, didn’t need to be ironed at all. They cost a little more, but they wore well and saved me a whole lot of time.

This Rowenta iron is a modern one. It’s lightweight, has an abundance of holes to release steam, and looks like a race car. [Internet photo]

It’s not that I didn’t like to iron, especially after the iron itself improved. But ironing was just something else that took extra time out of a day that was supposed to be a kind of Sabbath for me. The Pharisees and Sadducees wouldn’t have been amused that my one holy day of the week when I was directed not to work, I was working. I wasn’t much amused by it either. Plus, being a pastor, seldom a Monday went by when the phone didn’t ring and I’d find myself back at the church or counseling someone or making a hospital visit. Remembering the Sabbath day and keeping it holy apparently doesn’t apply to pastors.

Wouldn’t you know that I would marry a man who insisted on having a freshly ironed handkerchief in his suitcoat every day of the week? He certainly doesn’t have a Roman nose like my dad did. He’ll gladly reach for the Puffs at home or even at his office desk. But his freshly ironed handkerchiefs have been part and parcel of his professional attire Monday through Friday and on Sunday morning for church just as much as a neatly knotted tie and shined shoes. The handkerchief is part of the complete suit. So I ironed his as I ironed my dad’s years and years ago.

Then I discovered perma-press handkerchiefs.

I seldom iron anymore.

I just realized that I kind of miss it; the instant gratification of a job well done is just one part of that. I miss the smell and the feel of freshly ironed clothes and sheets. And I miss the reminder of biblical directives to wash our clothes or the memory of Lydia, a businesswoman who dealt in purple cloth. I remember how Christ’s clothes became dazzling white at the Transfiguration.

Don’t count on finding me standing at the ironing board any time soon, however. I’d hate to be the one to stand in the way of progress.

“…the Lord said to Moses: “Go to the people and consecrate them today and tomorrow. Have them wash their clothes and prepare for the third day, because on the third day the Lord will come down upon Mount Sinai in the sight of all the people….” – Exodus 19:10-11a

“And he was transfigured before them, and his face shone like the sun, and his clothes became dazzling white.” – Luke 17:2

“A certain woman named Lydia, a worshiper of God, was listening to us; she was from the city of Thyatira and a dealer in purple cloth.” – Acts 16:14a