I Stand Here Ironing

I decided to do something different in this Food for Thought. The writers group I've mentioned previously has contributed another round of their stories. I joined this group in March, which was organized by my dear friend, Barbara Kennedy. Our goal was encourage a few friends to get back on track in our writing careers. We all had so much to write about, yet we were stuck in feeling we couldn't do so, we weren't good enough, didn't have the time, etc. I am thrilled to say that our "Writer's Table" begun by Barbara Kennedy has resulted in months worth of beautiful words, confessions, joys, sorrows and exploration into life's mysteries. The first stories the Writer's Table contributed was the Food for Thought, published August 4, 2024, "To Write or Not To Write, exploring that very important topic in all our lives.

This Food for prompt was Ironing, which reminded me of Tillie Olsen's wonderful short story, "I Stand Here Ironing." I was the only writer who was familiar with this short story, in which Tillie Olsen explores motherhood, mistakes we make as mothers, and the sufferings of trying to do the right thing, only to find we had done the wrong thing. My fellow writers and I explored the topic of ironing with amazing insights and confessions that fit the beauty of Tillie Olson's short story. I hope you like our Writer's Table Food for Thought's latest contributions. I' am so fortunate to be part of this amazing group of women writers! Keep posted for more stories in the future, we're still hard at work at our Writer's Table.

Writer's Table entries, 4/29/24

Irony of Ironing

Jayne Lisbeth

The most I can recall about ironing boards are the built-in ones in all the old houses I lived in. My favorite was the one in my home in San Luis Obispo. The ironing board was housed in a small wall cupboard. On opening the cupboard the ironing board fell into place, ready for duty. I removed the ironing board and the cupboard door, painted the inside robin’s egg blue, installed shelves and it became the perfect place to display my collection of antique pitchers and other beloved pieces. I adored that space. 

I rarely iron, If do it’s on my long bathroom counter which is always the fastest method of ironing. I don’t mind ironing, it’s just one of those things I’d rather not do. Easier to throw a garment into the dryer with a damp towel and let the dryer, on low heat, fluff up and remove wrinkles from any garment.

Artist: Robert Spencer 1879-1931

Ironing was what made my mother send Hildegard back to Germany. I adored Hildegard, she was a true mother to me, much closer to me than my mother was. I can still see Hildegard slaving over our ironing board next to an endless basket of clothes. 

Prior to my sister and I departing for Camp Fire Place Lodge every summer before my father’s death, Hildegard had to iron two weeks worth of clothes for my sister and I, and then iron our name tags into each item of clothing.

My sister, almost five years older than me, hated Hildegard and complained constantly to my mother about her. When she groused that Hildegard didn’t iron my sister's camp wardrobe well enough, apparently that was it for my mother. 

When I came home from camp Hildegard, my beloved “other mother” was gone. My mother had fired her. I had no one else in my family to bond with. I was lost, drowning in an ocean of tears. I felt completely alone. I hadn’t even been able to say goodbye. My father died less than a year later. Then I was completely marooned. 

I’ll never forget the day I was visiting my mother’s home in Siesta Key. I was around 42. I went to the mailroom to collect my mom's mail and was floored to see a postcard from Hildegard. She and my mother had been corresponding for years and I had no idea. I would have loved to have contacted Hildegard all the years of my growing up.

I was furious over yet another betrayal by my mother. I wrote to Hildegard in Germany, called her and it was as though I was still seven and Hildegard was still 25. Two years later Tim and I visited she and her husband, Frans, in Germany.

It didn't matter, yet it did, all those lost years. We loved one another as we always had and she always said I was her first child. I met her daughters and they called me their sister. 

I wonder if the ironing incident had never happened how different my childhood would have been, with Hildegard helping me through my father’s death. Who knows how different life could have been, were it not for ironing.

Love Affair with My Ironing Board

Anonymous

I spent a lot of time this weekend trying to get rid of stuff I haven’t used. Trying to clear my space to allow room for my mind to focus on writing. Of course my exercise in decluttering is writer avoidance, once again. After clearing out the cabinet under my bathroom sink I had room to move my extra towels that were being stored on top of the dryer next to a cabinet. Naturally, I got distracted by the clutter in the laundry room and focused my gaze on the old ironing board, hanging innocently on the back of the door with the shiny pink iron, a water bottle and a can of magic sizing. The Niagara starch was in the drawer under the washing machine. I was getting rid of stuff I had not used in over six months. Does the iron and ironing board fit into that category? Does it spark “joy”? When was the last time I ironed anything? The only thing I can think of might be my cloth napkins. I’ve always found a certain peace and contentment to ironing. Is this the source of my feeling lost or ill at ease with life? I’m not ironing enough?

Artist: George-Antoine Van Zevenberghen, 1877-1968

Some of my earliest memories are of my nine-month-pregnant mother ironing, standing over the old ironing board with the coke bottle with a special spritzer top attached. She would spritz the clothes and roll them in a ball. Then, one by one she would iron them smooth. Did she even iron diapers, too? From what I knew about my mother’s life at that time, her life was anything but peaceful and serene.

After her death my father told me about her waiting all afternoon to see the midwife in order to have an abortion. My mother, the devout Catholic, considered having an abortion. After waiting hours when they called her name, she stood up and said, “I’m sorry. I can’t do this.” and walked out.

My “pro-birther" husband likes to point out how everything turned out alright after having the baby. I like to point out that my mother, ‘a true pro-lifer’ made a choice and chose what was right for her.

Beyond watching my mother ironing or my grandmother ironing out pattern pieces before stitching and assembling whatever garment they were making, I never really ironed much until college when my uniforms had to be perfectly pressed and starched. My roommate also was a dental hygiene major whose father was in the military. She seemed to iron everything. She even threatened to iron my face one time.

I don’t remember what I had done to make her so mad but I remember her getting in my face and saying, “Don’t be surprised if you wake up and find me standing over your bed as you sleep with a hot iron in my hand!”

I Stand Here Ironing

Barbara Kennedy

Ironing out the wrinkles? I like creases. I like the way my pants look after a crisp crease flows down my pants leg all the way to my feet.

My mother left us on our own when I was almost four. Besides stealing the babysitter's purse and running under the house where the sand was so soft. I would dig my toes in it so deeply. I opened the clip that held the blue clutch purse together and pulled out the Marilyn Monroe blue-red lipstick that was in a perfect point from the babysitter pressing her lips together to catch color on the inside bottom of her lips. To my surprise a little handheld old mirror with pearls lay in the bottom of the purse. I picked it up, stretching my legs under the sand, catching a glimpse of my mouth and took off the clear top and pressed my lips against the soft crayon of red.  I didn’t notice it was outside the lines of my lips till later.  

I left the purse and ran into the house, where yes, the ironing board and iron was. I had been pretending earlier to play “iron the clothes.” I lifted the heavy iron only to find it on and it dropped on the inside of my arm, producing a moon-shaped burn. My mom returned home and the babysitter discovered her purse was missing. I had been able to get it down from the fireplace mantle by pushing over the Queen Ann chair.  I  just reached it.

“Barbara, where is her purse, honey?” said my mother, slurring her words in a really happy mood. “You missed your lips totally,” she smirked. “Let me show you how to wear it. Where is the lipstick, Barbara?”

I ran out, slid under the house, grabbed the clutch and quickly returned it with just a little extra sand covering the lipstick tube. This was one of the few happy moments I remember with my mom. She bandaged my arm from the iron and I had that scar until my arm grew it into nonexistence. 

Funny how a wrinkle can turn into a memory at four. Funny how an iron can do so many things.

Author's Note: My Facebook name has changed to Jayne Lisbeth, not Jayne Lisbeth, Author