A Little Early Morning... Ironing?

January 14, 2006
New York City

I’ve never thought of myself as a homebody or,really, a homemaker. Until now. It’s not yet 8 a.m. So far this morning, I’ve done the following: soak three linen napkins from last night’s dinner party in clorox and wisk; iron three linen napkins on a tabletop since I don’t have room for an ironing board; set the table, prepared a fruit salad, spruced up last night’s flowers for today’s luncheon; and re-soaked three more linen napkins that weren’t to my liking.

This is not my usual early morning. Trust me. I have been told since I was very small that I move too fast, talk too fast, try to accomplish too much in any one day. In short, more wild child than ascetic. I never thought that ironing 16x16 square pieces of cloth at seven a.m. while listening to medieval polyphony was the image of myself that I really wanted to embrace. After all, I'm in New York City where anything is possible. Yet, here it is. But I really enjoyed the process this morning. Thoroughly. Surprise.


When I was small, maybe ten, my mother decided that I needed some chores. One of them was to iron the flat pieces in the ironing basket. At my house, that consisted primarily of two items: hankerchiefs--mostly my father’s-- white squares of feather light cotton with edging and WBB horizonally stitched at the tip of one corner; and linen napkins sprinkled and rolled in preparation for ironing ( no spray starch then ).

I complained bitterly about doing this chore in the basement with nothing to amuse me but my thoughts. I would never have admitted it then, but when I finally settled in to the pile of linen before me, I’d find myself really liking the process-- stretching the fabric as I moved the iron around each corner so that the final product would be a perfectly folded square. I would pile the finished linen like pancakes, always amazed and proud at how perfect the stack of white looked at the end of my chore.

During my ironing apprenticeship, mother would give me tips. “Now, watch carefully, dear”, she’d say, picking up the iron in one hand and raising her index finger. She’d point her index finger toward the ceiling, then lick it and with lightening speed, touch it to the flat of the iron surface for a split second, moving her finger away as I heard the hiss of her touch.

Recognition at the dinner table was my reward for the task.Turning to my father, mother would announce to the whole table: “Bill, wait until you see the lovely job our Mary did ironing your hankerchiefs today. Why, it’s a better job than the laundry.” My father would nod as he continued his meal. “Good work, Mary.” That was about as good as it got with my father.

I used to send these linens, mother’s linens, out for laundering. Too much trouble, too time consuming, too much fussing to do it myself. I think I’ve changed my mind.