Ironing reflections

Ironing. A never-ending thankless job. I hate ironing. I have always found it a chore, standing in basically one place over a board, moving an iron back and forth, up and down, over a piece of cloth. Boring, tiring work.

The other night I gave in.

A trip coming up in the near future necessitated getting clothes ready and that mean ironing.

One hour later 5 shirts and blouses and 1 skirt were nicely steam-pressed.

It was a time of reflection. ... I thought about writing -- I've always enjoyed the art ... I thought about suggestions others have made to write a book or a devotional ... I thought about my mother.

The ironing -- the hot steam took me back to childhood memories of her sitting in front of the big old mangle iron on the back porch, summer or winter, pressing our clothes. I could see the clothes line, the summer house my grandparents first lived in when the big house was being built, and almost smell the sweet fragrance of those popcorn-shaped flowers.

We lived in the country, not far from the Cedar Rapids city limits, but far enough if you needed aid -- because they just wouldn't come. If your house was on fire, it would likely be burned to the ground before anyone would or could get there.

Still, I loved living in the country. Now days, I look out our front window or back window or any window and just see houses. When I was younger, I was surrounded by cornfields and massive maple trees and evergreens. I could stand in one place or sit on the front porch step and watch the beautiful sunsets. Here, now, nothing is as simple. Life is not so serene and peaceful. Only in our memories.

But back to ironing. ... hey, this is kind of relaxing. I didn't say it was fun and I didn't say it would be relaxing next time, but for this brief span, it is.

The iron -- I bought a new heavier model nearly a year ago -- it works very well; does a much improved job over those cheap lightweight little gadgets you can buy.

The iron just glides across the material, and if you're not paying attention, as when memory wandering, you may find the iron has slid off the board and onto your foot. It didn't, thank God, but the possibility was there. I didn't burn my hand either. I think about these things ... steam heat is HOT! I refilled the water reservoir three times before completing the task at hand.

If only my mother were here, I could have shown her how well I ironed my blouse. Kinda silly isn't it? I held up that blouse and promptly complimented myself on doing such a fine job. I had considered showing my husband, but then I thought, no, the effect would have been lost.