Since, here in the east, we're smack dab in the middle of a whopper snow storm, I thought you might have time for a bit longer post today. So, out of the archives I've pulled a piece that was published in Prairie Times last year. Hope you enjoy! Stay warm and stay indoors if you can.
An
Unexpected Reverie
By
Susan Sundwall
One
gloomy Saturday I found myself in the laundry room facing several items that
needed a touch of ironing. They’d been there for awhile waiting – kind of
forlorn like. So I decided to hunker down and just do it. As I stood at the board listening to the steam
hiss from the dimpled face of the iron, I thought back to the days when women had
to iron all the time. There’s almost no such thing now, but I have to tell you,
a sense of contentment washed over me as I ran the hot appliance over my
favorite denim shirt. I was doing something useful and productive. And I had to
stand still to do it.
There’s
a pleasant scent that rises from freshly ironed clothes. It’s fleeting but floats
up from cloth and hot metal coming together to smooth out wrinkles. As each
piece is finished there’s a great sense of satisfaction in seeing a line of wrinkle
free shirts lined up in the closet. As a kind of bonus, while that task was
being performed, I was able to let my mind happily wander; right there doing
such an old fashioned thing.
Don’t
get me wrong, I never want to go back to the days of the old nursery rhyme where
one would wash on Monday, iron on Tuesday, scrub on Wednesday, etc. No thank you. I’m a modern gal and think it’s
marvelous what machines do now, freeing us from the drudgery of days gone by. But
as I pressed and turned my shirt, smoothing out the sleeves along the ironing
board, other thoughts crept in.
I
kind of miss the routine of washing and drying dishes. Really. When my sisters
and I were growing up, we’d do the dishes together. After we’d tried every
trick in the book to get out of it, we’d usually settle down and get the job
done. We’d use this time to sing some of the songs we’d learned in school. We,
the three oldest, all had the same elementary school music teacher and our
voices rang out over the sudsy water and clank of plates. Songs like “White
Coral Bells,” and “Shenendoah,” drifted through the kitchen then.
At
other times we’d play beat the clock. “Okay,” I’d say. “It’s six thirty. I’ll
bet we can get this whole stinking mess cleaned up in twelve minutes.”
“Never
happen,” said one sister.
“Come
on, let’s try it,” said the other.
“Ready?
Set? Go!”
And
we were off like an illegal firecracker. We usually made our time and if you
watched us you’d have seen quite a ballet. Dipping, reaching past, and dodging
each other. At intervals we’d each throw a glance at the clock.
“Three
minutes to go! Hurry up.” Then we’d put on the speed and congratulate ourselves
when the last dish was dried and the sink was cleaned out. Dad was a real
stickler for doing that last bit.
Years
later when the younger brothers and sister came along (eventually there were
nine of us) Mom and Dad were able to afford a dishwasher. I was out of the
house by then but I’ve always wondered what those siblings found to facilitate
bonding. Playing Pac Man, maybe?
As
I ironed my next piece I thought of a conversation I’d had with my
daughter-in-law not too long ago. We spoke of the school playground games that
were prevalent when we were kids. She, too had played Four Square and
Tetherball. I usually got clobbered at Four Square primarily because the boys
were killer shots. I hardly ever made it to square one. But let me tell you
about Tether Ball.
I
was one of the queens at that game. There were about four of us in the fifth
grade who ruled in the tether ball arena. My chief rivals were Cynthia and
Donna. If you got off a good first punch you almost always had the advantage.
The trick was to keep that ball flying so high over your opponent’s head she
couldn’t reach it to send it back at you. If, on the other hand, she got in a
couple of whomping pows! herself, well then the game was afoot. I relished the
challenge and frequently won. I had a good right arm back then. And the boys?
They pretty much stayed out of the way for that game. They were usually off
somewhere in the kickball field or dribbling like crazy on the basketball
court.
Grabbing
a hanger for that last shirt, I smoothed the collar and thought of how pleasant
it can be to give in to some long put off chore that nonetheless fosters
reverie. Ironing probably lends itself more to that indulgence than some other
things, like scouring the toilet. As a girl I would have scoffed at the idea of
a pleasant hour of ironing, but those days are gone. I know better now.
There
are things we remember from childhood that burn in our memory. They are not
always the giddy with excitement times or the horribly embarrassing ones. No,
sometimes a simple task like ironing will bring the more eduring ones to the
fore in a lovely, and unexpected, reverie.
Image: John Kasawa Free Digital Photos
