Handkerchiefs I

Good Sunday Morning John,

Well, John you have done it again. Brought back to me some wonderful memories – with what I am sure you thought was a mundane comment about a mundane task. But not to me your reference to ironing handkerchiefs sent a memory reel going.

One of my earliest memories is of my mother ironing. Days before steam irons, as you know, meant you “sprinkled” or dampened and rolled up the clothes before you ironed them. If you were delayed in getting to an item you might put it, rolled in a towel, in the refrigerator so it wouldn’t dry out so fast. I remember when I was first allowed to “sprinkle”. The sprinkler was an old RC Cola Bottle with a sprinkle spout stuck on top. You had to sprinkle evenly or of course or you would have wet spots and dry spots.

Eventually I graduated to ironing my father’s handkerchiefs. I was probably about five years old. I would “get” to iron when mom need a break from ironing or had some other task to do. The ironing kept me out from underfoot for awhile so there was probably an ulterior motive.

I would be so careful with spreading the white cloth and going all the way to the edge, folding in half and pressing again, folding in half and pressing again. The stack of nice white, freshly ironed handkerchiefs would grow. And of course, my father would make a big deal over them when he got home from work, beaming his broad smile and pantomiming about how smooth and nice they looked, winking and kissing my cheek.

How can I describe the feel of those handkerchiefs when the were taken out of my father’s pocket and used to dry a tear and wipe a nose after some small tragedy, the faint smell of the hot iron and the feel of the hand that held it.

Of course later I was taught how to iron a dress shirt and all the other tricks and techniques. Ironing was never a punishing chore for me. The smell of hot damp cotton equaled smiles of love and appreciation. It was only later, when as a young wife I made this weekly token of my affection only to find it was expected rather than appreciated for the labor of love that it was, that it started to become an onerous chore.

Now, I am able to enjoy it again, as a gift to myself or to Johanna or Freya. (Kevin insists on doing his own ironing but surely someday he will let me do a bit now and then.) I am afraid I will bore you beyond belief if I detail memories spurred by your comments about Maria’s handkerchiefs. Suffice to say, they are many and dear.

Rain on the Roof

Rain on the roof – Yes, a real pleasure for me going back to about 5 years old when my father added a back porch to the house. It was large and “screened in”. It had a metal roof and when it rained hard it was almost deafening and when it rained softly it mildly amplified the sound so you could hear each drop individually hit the roof. I could hear it in my little bedroom and sometimes I remember lying on the glider on the porch and just listening to the rain and smelling the rain soaked garden smells. Hmmm.

The Sunflower Room

I read about the sunflower room in two paragraphs of a gardening column in the Indianapolis Star many years ago. I clipped the two paragraphs but not the whole column so I cannot give credit to the author. In the few sentences it described a summer activity for children – growing a sunflower room. You mark off a square in your lawn – sacred space to many homeowners – digging the sod up to form 12 to 18 inch “beds” around the square and planting giant sunflowers interspersed with rows of different kinds of sunflowers that would grow to varying heights.

I was fascinated by the idea and wanted so to be able to create one for my daughter. But apartments and rental houses and lawn proud parents prevented my acting on the whim. Now I have my own little house and a granddaughter just getting to the right age but I want a Sunflower Room not for her but for me. It sounds like a little heaven or haven for reflecting and soaking up sun alone or with others of like mind.

Really the longing must be coming from a need to have a personal retreat, mental and physical, from a happy but “full” summer house and an expatriate life style. But since I always wanted to have my cake and eat it too, I would even share it with my grown daughter and her daughter and with my friend who shares my enthusiasm for it…but by appointment only.

I sit here a thousand miles from my little house and imagine myself there. Supervising the measuring and digging (doing it myself is no longer an option) and planting. How many packets of sunflower seeds have I bought for this room but never planted? Too many!

I am sure I will have a willing little helper to keep the seeds watered until they sprout. Then we will eagerly wait for the growing, ankle high, knee high to me, hip high and head high to my helper and at last reaching over my head. I will bring my wicker chair inside and a small table for cool drinks and to rest my book on and a light blanket to cover my knees. Maybe I will add a smaller wicker chair for some small person and carry in a chair for my friend. We will all be very still and listen for bees who will no doubt want to come visit.

I will go there in the early morning to drink coffee and listen to birds. I will write pages of words for no ones eyes but mine. I will paint pictures. Will I be invisible inside the sunflower room? I wonder. Do I want to be invisible? Hum, I wonder.

It is January 18. For now I will dream about it, and plan for it and invite my friend to dream and plan for her own sunflower room. It will be our secret. And maybe, just maybe this June there will be the turning of earth and the planting of seeds.