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.