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.
