I love to iron. Love the fragrance of laundered cotton, the smooth, polished feel of starched fabric, the hiss of steam from a hot iron. It’s a form of meditation never to be rushed. I always plan plenty of time to iron. Not that I do it often, but when I do I like to take my time.
Ironing soothes my nerves, especially if I’m working my way through white blouses and shirts. The movement from collar to yoke to sleeves, around the panels and hems of a garment, tracing hems and double seems has an almost Buddhist simplicity, a form of circumabulation around a white stupa without even moving my feet.
I iron more in the summer, white blouses, linen dresses and slacks. Wearing light clothing makes me feel lighter inside, no longer weighted down with denim and corduroy. The lightness of summer and iced tea.
I’m sure I learned to iron from my mother, but I always associate it with my grandmother, who, when she came to visit would dive into the huge wrinkled stack mom had accumulated and would transform it into orderly lines of clothing on hangers. She’d start by sprinkling each shirt or dress or pillow case with water and roll it up to be unfurled on the board one at a time for ironing. Magic.
My mother was a nurse and worked the graveyard shift. In the days before polyester, her uniforms, long sleeved shirtwaists, were a thick cotton that became dense, heavy as concrete, in their bath of water and starch. My grandmother ironed these, too. When she was done, the unifoms could practically stand on their own, white and perfect. When mom put one on, late at night, and attached her professional pins and ribbons, inserted her bandage scissors into her right pocket, and placed that winged cap on her head, she was a vision.
Ironing brings both women back to me, but mostly I iron for myself and the peace I find in white cotton, warm under my hands.
OK, so I’m not exactly up to date with this book. It came out two years ago, and I didn’t know anything about it until I stumbled on it in the library a couple weeks ago. A new library, at that. One with info signs in Russian as well as English and Spanish. And a blonde librarian with high cheekbones and an accent that made me want to tango.
I’m embroidering again. It’s been a while. Last project was a collaboration with Maia: she’d paint some canvas and I’d embroider into it (Easier said than done. ouch ouch ouch), then she’d paint some more, responding to what I’d done. It was fun to mail canvas back and forth to Philadelphia, waiting to see how it all came out. She has posted photos of the end results on facebook, which was gratifying. Also nostalgic. I’d missed seeing my handiwork.
It is good to have a hero. I have wanted to have one for a long time, but just didn’t know it. Then I met Neddie Wentworthstein, protagonist of Daniel Pinkwater’s The Neddiad: How Neddie took the Train, Went to Hollywood, And Saved Civilization. sigh. That was a sigh of contentment. Neddie is perfect for me. He’s a happy kid, truly cheerful, and ready for any adventure that comes along. He reminds me that our lives are full of adventure, they really are. I mean, look at your parents: Who could have imagined them? Not to mention spouses and children and friends! Yes! We get to have friends in this crazy adventure, like Yggdrasil Birnbaum (who appears later in the book). When Neddie asks her if people call her Iggy, she says, “Yes they do—once. Then I pop them in the nose. Care to give it a try, military school boy?” My friends say cool things like this ALL the time! I bet yours do, too. Neddy makes me happy. He does go to a military school, because his friend Seamus goes there, but it’s a military school run by retired movie actors, so it’s different from what you might expect. The book is crazier than a box of weasels (chapter 17). There’s a shaman named Melvin, an actual mastadon, a ghost bellboy, the La Brea Tar Pits. sigh. It’s heaven. I may just have to read it again. Mr. Pinkwater, thanks for Neddie.