Ironing

It’s funny how thoughts come back to me. I was thinking this morning about how my mother used to make fun of Mrs. Moisey across the street. On one of her many cigarette breaks from housework, my mother would stand in the picture window, gazing across 106^th Avenue into the window across, wondering aloud why anyone would iron pillowcases. There she was, Mrs. Moisey, with a pile of bedclothes beside her, methodically ironing her heart out. We weren’t that close to our across-the-street neighbours; the avenue seemed to be some kind of dividing line between classes, our side being decidedly more working class – or perhaps that was just my imagination. But the houses that ran down 46^th Street in that direction seemed to have nicer front yards, nicer cars parked in driveways and of course ironed pillowcases.

My mother had a lot of house to clean and a lot of laundry, a lot of everything, so the idea that someone could spend each morning ironing bed linen seemed a silly waste of time. I can’t exactly recall the words she used, but my mother was good with words, so I suppose she had a few. I do remember “there she is, at it again.” We all learned how to make fun of Mrs. Moisey, if for no other reason than to support our side of the street.

My mother decided at some point that any boy in our house over the age of 12 should do his own laundry. We were shown how the machines worked, washer and dryer, how to plug in an iron, and were left to our own devices. My oldest brother wore shirts with pleated backs in those days. He wasn’t particularly good with an iron, or was lazy, or both, but certainly above the task. I did his shirts for 5 cents apiece. It’s amazing the skills you can acquire when money comes into the picture. In my own quiet way, I learned to love ironing. I kept that a secret. It wasn’t just the five-cent payday. It was the smoothing out of something wrinkled; a metaphor - for what I don’t know, but it felt satisfying, even personal.

I liked the idea, too, that my brother was swanning around up and down the halls of his high school in my freshly-pressed shirts with their most perfect pleats. I wore one of his shirts to school, once, and got the shit kicked out of me as a warning. My only access to the world of high fashion was to supply the labour. I think, as I recall now, I was warned several times by both my older brothers. But some lessons are hard to learn. By the time I reached high school shirts didn’t have pleats, in fact things were much looser, sloppier. Boys kicked around in T-shirts. It was a revolution. Nobody ironed anything. My brothers were off to college by then, and I was making money running bets to the racetrack for my father and bussing in an Italian restaurant where the waiters had proper shirts, some with blousy sleeves. Ironing was necessary, so I kept up the practice.

I don’t iron much anymore. The materials don’t require it as much, but this morning, as I was making up the bed with clean sheets, I noticed how wrinkled the pillowcases were. As I was ironing them, the smell of steam wafting up and around me, I remembered Mrs. Moisey and saluted her effort. She was only trying to make life a little better for someone, a little less rumpled. Yes, I appreciate that my mother was far too busy to iron something that would immediately become un-ironed, and I love my mother for being so practical about it. She did teach me how to iron in any case. And I remember, as I watched her, something like satisfaction in her expression.

Some things in life can’t be straightened out, but with the right heat, some steam and a bit of elbow grease, some can.

This is an drawing Ken produced from his stock of older items. Not sure why he did this one but I thought I had to include it,