I grew up with ironing, a pastime that shares some letters with Iron Maiden, as well as many aspects of similar torture. BITD, my grandmas rolled freshly sprinkled clothes in baskets, mixed up evil-smelling spray starch, and treated clothing to a good flattening by fire until shirt sleeves resembled products of the local lumber yard and were about as comfy to wear.
We were feral kids, running free on the old farm the folks rented for a while, wandering over to the playground several blocks away from the antique shop, or to the various grocery stores and candy shops for bubble gum and Nehi or Royal Palm and Pixie Stix.
Not to mention getting up to other nefarious occupations, which are probably better left unmentioned. We were often grubby, and never well-dressed.
However, when we when to school or church we were expected to be primped, polished, and.....dum, da, dum, dum....ironed.
Since Mom worked many jobs that required that she be gone before the yellow metal tube with tires showed up in front of the house with a squeal of brakes, guess who was frequently elected.
Yep, you got it.
Let us start with the ironing board, a hellacious instrument of awful if there ever was one. I was never particularly mechanical, although I can hear an engine, transmission, or the belts on a piece of machinery, and tell you right away if lubricants, or tightening, or whatever other adjustments, are required. The boss often relied on me to be his virtual dipstick and save time when getting the 5088 to the field in the morning.....hey, wait a minute...that sounds kind of insulting, but I digress.
I had a terrible time setting up the ironing board though. Taking it down, was, and still is well beyond my comprehension. However, Mom wasn't there and my brother needed a freshly ironed shirt every day. Since I liked boy shirts...and still do...so did I some days. And ties. Ties had to be ironed as well.
There were burns and creases that refused to be ironed out, because they had after all, been ironed in. There were rules. Unplug, set in a safe place, avoid at all costs while racing into hot-smelling, tidy-looking clothing that would probably be wrinkled beyond recognition before the bus pulled into the parking lot in town.
And then there was the time Mom was home and ironing frantically to get us ready for school. We were living in that tiny gas station in Auriesville, where there wasn't room to swing a cat as they used to say, let alone prepare two kids for school while a toddler of around two hustled around getting into trouble.
A Bobwhite Quail began calling down by the creek. I raced over to the window to hear better and maybe see....yeah, I was bird crazy even then. The iron was cooling on the board by said window and I managed to tip it over against my summer-bare upper arm.
The burn was impressive and long-lasting. As is the memory of same. However, kids did NOT miss school for something as trivial as a four-by-one inch crimson gouge that blistered almost instantly.
Heck no. Rub a little dirt on it and walk it off.
I have had perhaps six or seven instances of needing to iron since we moved up here to the farm. I am, not surprisingly, very careful with the iron.
However, I still can't get the board up or down without pinching my fingers. I will listen to your engine for you though, if you need me to.
Posts
