As a newlywed, my mother not only took in boarders, but also did their weekly laundry and ironed their work shirts. For this reason, as long as I can remember, her Tuesday mantra was: “When I die, I’m going straight to Hell where the Devil will hand me an iron, and that’s how I’ll spend eternity.”
Thus, at ten years of age, I received an imaginary diploma and was involuntarily drafted into the Ironing Board Brigade. By the time I was a teenager, I could professionally steam iron my plaid, pleated-all-around wool skirts, which were de rigueur at the time. Pillow cases, sheets–even linen tea towels did not escape my dedicated pressing.
As I recall, no money changed hands, but I was given three wholesome meals a day, had a warm bed to sleep in, watched Gene Autry at the Saturday matinee each week, and as I marched out the door to school, I was fortunate (so I was told,) to have a tablespoon of cod liver oil drizzled down my throat to protect me from every sickness bestowed upon mankind. My fishy breath preceded me into every classroom and trailed me back home each afternoon.
By the time I married, my trusty Sunbeam was practically an extension of my left hand. The ironing board had a permanent place of honor under a window in the basement. On winter days, I would tote the frozen sheets from the clothesline–so solid they were unable to ’flap’, carry them down the steps to the basement, and as they hit the warm air, I had to sidestep the now crumpled percale. The sheets were pressed and folded, followed by pillowcases, tea towels, my husband’s dress shirts, and underwear, the children’s pants, skirts, dresses, blouses, and my slacks, and shirts. Even the delicate, but wrinkled lace on my young daughter’s socks was lovingly ruffled.
That was over fifty years ago. I live alone now. However, little has changed other than the quantity of material involved, and occasionally I fudge, pressing only the border of the sheet which will get folded over the blanket. God forbid, someone should discover a possible infraction of the dictates of the Smoothing Out Society.
The other day, I received a call from an old friend. We chatted for a while and then I begged off by telling her that I had to get back to my ironing. On the other end of the line, I heard this raucous guffaw followed by these earth-shattering words: “Jan, I can’t believe you–I haven’t ironed in YEARS!”
My friend and I had attended college together in the early 50’s, and to tell you the truth, she wasn’t the brightest bulb lighting up the cafeteria. In fact, after ’rush’ week, she failed to make her grades and wasn’t able to ’pledge’ a sorority. That’s when I knew I must be smarter than she, for at least I had the foresight to entreat three of my professors into changing their grades which enabled me to pledge.
I lost contact with Patsy for countless years. When we renewed our friendship in 2001, I found that some people like myself obtained a sorority pin, while others gained an intellect. Eventually, Patsy had gone back to college, graduated, received her Masters, and earned her Doctorate. She taught at the college level until she retired.
After I hung up the phone, I thought to myself–WHOA! If brilliant Patsy doesn’t iron, perhaps I’ve been wasting valuable time. I unplugged the expectant iron, shoved the board into the back of a closet, hung up all the unpressed garments, and was immediately engulfed in the euphoria of my new-found emancipation!
Having acquired a bountiful amount of free time, I pondered how I would spend it. Over the next few days, I mated all my socks, wiped the year’s worth of crumbs from the silverware drawers, took everything out from under the kitchen sink and proceeded to throw away ten rusty SOS pads, an empty bottle of ammonia; disposed of too-many-to-count cans of air freshener which no longer sprayed; tossed two boxes of dishwasher detergent whose solidified granules attested to the fact that rigor mortis had set in in the ’90’s, and pitched four cans of Drano, dated 2001, ’03, ’05 and ’07. Not one had ever been pried open.
Now that the condo was in tip-top shape, my next venture was to tackle The Bucket List. You might say my life is pretty pathetic, for at first glance, number one on the list was:
1. Work the New York Times Sunday Crossword Puzzle
For years, I have worked the Crossword Puzzle from the Naples Daily News. I wait until the paper arrives at 5:30 am and immediately tear open the Neapolitan section, pull out the sheet with the puzzle, warm up the coffee, sharpen the pencil, ruminating that one of these days, I really should work it in ink.
I have even been known to time myself to see how swiftly it can be solved. Anything under five minutes and I take a red pen and scrawl ‘100%’ at the top of the paper. (Told you my life is pathetic!)
Anyone who has ever worked the Naples Daily News Crossword realizes that you can be one card shy of a deck of 52 and still complete it in a short period of time.. Some typical questions from yesterday’s paper:
1. Koch, Asner, Kennedy. Answ: Eds
2. —– min. in an hr. Answ: Sixty
3. Pink, long-legged birds. Answ: Flamingos
After church this morning, I drove to the Publix and purchased the Sunday New York Times. With wild anticipation, I raced at breakneck speed back to my building, quickly parked and sprinted to the elevator. Each floor seemed an eternity. Entering my unit, I hastily popped the cup of stale coffee in the microwave, sharpened a pencil, pulled out the Crossword and sat down, reflecting on the possibility of applying to Mensa.
Three hours later, the 365 wee white squares were still pristine, the pointy end of the pencil was still pointy, my coffee was cold, and I was dejected, disheartened, dispirited, deflated.
Muttering “to hell with it,” I marched to the closet and once again dragged out the ironing board.
Jan Chapman
January, 2013
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