Yesterday morning I forced myself away from the computer and went upstairs to iron some linen shirts that have been awaiting my attention for days. I enjoy ironing--but I'm happy at how little I actually need to do.
As I started on the first shirt (collar, sleeves, body, just like my mother taught me,) I remembered back in the Fifties, the tremendous amount of ironing there was to do--my father's shirts, my brother's shirts and trousers, my and my mother's dresses, skirts, and blouses--almost everything needed to be ironed. (At my grandmother's house, sheets, towels and my grandfather's underwear were also ironed.) Which is why my mother insisted on my learning
Sometimes we had a maid who would spend half a day out in our utility room, ironing and listening to "race music" on her radio. But my mother and I both did our share, though it was some time before I learned that one could adjust the ironing board and sit to iron. Amazing!
For the past many years, most of my ironing was done in the construction of quilts--the clothes John and I wear daily (jeans, trees, sweat shirts) don't need ironing.
As I ironed, I wondered if Josie would ever learn this arcane art. She wears only comfortable knits and refuses anything perceived as 'scratchy.' I wonder if the iron will go the way of the buggy whip . . .
Glancing up, I noticed the old milk churn that holds rolls of wrapping paper. Gift bags and pre-made bows have proliferated till soon that wrapping paper will be as quaint as the old churn. As will the ability to tie a bow.
I could look around and add to the list . . . all those odds and ends that articles advise seniors to get rid of because their children won't want them .. . but that's for another day.
Lie moves on.
