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| The Sprinkler |
When I'm in the mood. And I have the time. And it doesn't involve pleats.
There's something about smoothing out wrinkles that feels therapeutic. The steam, the iron gliding across the surface of the material, is a kind of magic.
If I didn't have steam, like my mom in the early days of her shift, I probably wouldn't like it so much. She had an elephant sprinkler that she filled with water to wet the clothes. Mom spent hours every week pressing clothes and sheets and handkerchiefs. She welcomed the age of permanent press with glee.
By the time I reached junior high school, my siblings and I were wearing clothes that didn't require pressing. And sheets no longer needed an iron. So her weekly routine was mostly about my dad's work shirts. His job as a purchasing agent required him to wear a dress shirt and tie every day. By that time, handkerchiefs had been replaced by tissues, which were far more sanitary. Although, in my memory, it seems my dad still carried a hanky in his pocket for quite some time after they went out of fashion. And handkerchiefs continued to be a staple Christmas gift from my grandmother. (My mom kept the unopened boxes in a dresser drawer for years.)
These days, Mr. is the one who does the lion's share of ironing in our house. He cranks up Bowie and presses on. I know it's not his favorite thing to do, but he does a fine job. Alas, I am not as meticulous as he. While I love the way the imperfections on the surface of the fabric magically disappear, I know that most days I'm going to be one big wrinkle before I get halfway through my workday. I'm just a slob that way.
Oh well.
I imagine that one day in the not-too-distant future, ironing will go the way of the 8-track tape player. That wash and wear, even with shirts, will become de rigueur.
And future generations won't take the time to smooth away the wrinkles.
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