Life without wrinkles

So it turns out I miss ironing. When it was a weekly duty, I considered it a check-off chore to sandwich between loading the dishwasher and sorting toddler socks.

But last week I pulled a crumpled holiday tablecloth from the linen drawer and found myself reaching for the ironing board. Remember that squeal an ironing board makes when you unfold it, the singular sound of aluminum on aluminum? It triggered something.

I dug through the hall closet and found the iron, filled it with water and plugged it in. Once underway, the whoosh of steam brought back an unexpected surge of memories. It sounds ridiculous, I know. How could my life be so devoid of adventure that I suddenly felt nostalgic about ironing? But there it was.

I was ironing my husband’s Army BDU jacket at our apartment near Washington D.C. when the news broke that the Berlin Wall had come down. I stood in front of the television with a can of spray starch, watching the footage of people cheering and popping bottles of champagne from atop the concrete barrier that had brought so much heartache to so many.

A few tears fell while I adjusted the jacket sleeves, smoothing them out so I wouldn’t press a new wrinkle into the bottom side while I worked on the top. I wished I could be there for the celebration, to walk through the restricted zone and linger under the Brandenburg Gate. For the rest of that day, I was overcome by the persistent hope that perhaps the world could change, and for the better.

Once upon a time, my mother dampened her ironing by flicking water onto it as she worked, so the heat from the iron would make enough steam to conquer the creases. I loved to iron my dad’s dampened handkerchiefs, to watch the wrinkled mess turn into a uniform square that I folded in half, then in quarters, perfectly matching the edges and ending with the tiny stitched logo, crisp and warm, on a front corner. One year my mom got me an iron and ironing board play set for Christmas. I still have the photograph. She was probably the only person in the world who had noticed the pleasure I took from ironing handkerchiefs.

When I was a twenty-something bride, I left a load of laundry in the dryer overnight, including my new sundress. It was blue with bright yellow sunflowers, and I didn’t want to ruin it getting the wrinkles out. My mother-in-law watched me struggling with her iron, then gently told me to turn up the heat, assuring me the dress could take it. We were living with her in the months leading up to her hospice care. She used that iron when she sewed the calico Christmas ornaments I hung on my tree a few days ago. She made drums and bells in different colors, pressing them into shape with a whoosh of steam, then stuffing them with crisp white batting. She hand-embroidered details onto each one.

I watched the pleasure she took from making them, but I didn’t understand what it meant to gift a piece of yourself to the people you love. She made placemats and napkins, too. I still have them, in the linen drawer with my tablecloths.

All our moments eventually collide. We load the dishwasher, we sort toddler socks, we watch the news. We grind until the days feel like a check-off chore, then we select the permanent press cycle on the dryer to save ourselves a few wrinkles.

But as it turns out, I miss ironing.