I think I was 10 when I learned to iron. It was 1967 and it became my main chore. I started with my Dads handkerchiefs. He left for work everyday with a crisp white one folded into his pants pocket. The next thing were the pillowcases. We were a family of five, so there were quite a few. Even at that age there was something relaxing about the warm steam and then the reward of the smooth fabric underneath my touch. As I got better at it, Mom let me iron Dad's white work shirts with just the right amount of spray starch on the collar and cuffs. It felt like a work of art to complete one masterfully.
Anyway...flash forward to yesterday and today.
I've been ironing our bedding. I'll explain why another time, but I've been bombarded with memories spending hours behind the ironingboard. At times I felt like I could even smell my house. The one I ironed in. And the smell of our fresh cut grass through an open window. There was something precious and right and good about the way I grew up, with church and family and dinner around the table together every night. Homemade clothes sewn by my mother with love. These were the important things. I learned so much from my Mom and Dad as they instilled in me the things of love and family and manners and responsibility.
I've taken a break from the ironing for now. One bed to go, but its hard work and I'm tired.
But my heart...my heart is full!!