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| Mom. All pressed and ready to go. |
My mom was an iron-er.
A Demon iron-er.
She ironed everything.
Shirts. Pants. Dresses. Shorts. T-shirts. Socks.
Pillowcases. Handkerchiefs. Sheets. Pajamas.
I kid you not.
Everything.
And when I say ‘she’, I mean her girls.
From the age of eight, I had my own little ironing pile.
Admittedly, it was the more easily ironed items. Pillow
cases, handkerchiefs, and . . . flat
stuff.
But it was all mine.
No other hands could – or would - touch it.
Ever.
In fact, it would still be there waiting for me, even if I’d
been hiding in the barn all day.
Ahem . . .
Mom was very particular about her ironing.
Everything had to be done just so.
I was fortunate in that my
items left very little scope for mistakes.
My sister wasn’t nearly so lucky.
I can still see my mom preparing things to iron.
She would sprinkle everything with water, via a spritzer
attachment atop a seven-up bottle.
Incidentally, we thought that said spritzer would be great
fun in a water fight.
It wasn’t.
Moving on . . .
Then she would carefully roll the sprinkled items into a
tight bundle and put them into a plastic bag.
Then put the plastic bag into the fridge.
I know.
I thought it was weird, too.
She said something about ‘keeping things moist’.
Who listened.
One by one, the items were pulled from the bag and ironed.
Then hung.
Then put away.
There was a definite process.
And one didn’t dare skip any of the steps.
Because Mom always knew.
Even if one folded up the handkerchiefs into tiny, tiny
little squares.
Tiny.
Those gimlet eyes saw through everything.
Sigh.
Though most everything these days is permanent press, I
still iron.
Sometimes.
Okay, I admit it, the bottom of my ironing basket has never
actually been seen.
There is a dress down there in a size three!
It’s like an archeological dig.
I miss my Mom.
