I Love To Iron.....

I Love To Iron

It's nearly 2.00 a.m., and it's as well I like ironing - I do an awful lot of it. Mum generates a great deal of washing, and if it had feelings, the poor washing machine would be groaning under the work load.  It runs just about every day -  sometimes twice - and, apart from the sheets, I iron everything that comes out of it.

I think where a lot of people make a mistake, is that they use a very heavy iron.  My iron is one I have used for years, and is quite light, but if I had to use a great lump of metal that weighed a metaphorical ton every time I had to lift it, I am sure I would be less enthusiastic about the job.

As it is, I try to get myself organised at a time when Mum is in bed, and things are quiet; I can have a cup of tea and a chocolate bar to hand and maybe something on the t.v.as well - although that isn't a priority, as I am happy just dashing away with the smoothing iron, with my thoughts running through my head.  It is a great time for inspiration. Then I sit down (why do most people stand up to iron?) and get started.

I love the smell of freshly washed clothes, released as the hot iron glides over the material; it's also a therapeutic job, smoothing out the creases of life as the clothes come off the ironing board looking pristine again.

Ironing also gives me a chance to check the clothes are properly dry; I always let them air off for a while afterwards, and handling each garment means I can see if anything needs mending.  A few stitches put in early save a lot of bother later on - and I'm from the era when you tried to preserve things to go on for longer. If I have a favourite dress, I want to make sure it is still wearable for as long as possible - and as long as it still fits!  I have clothes with many happy memories attached to them - I have the dress I wore the first time I sang on the City Hall stage in Durban, and some outfits remind me of the places I've been in when I wore them. I've also got a couple of "lucky" dresses - things always seem to go well, when I put then on! - and I'll keep them in good nick for as long as I can.

I have had some very strange looks when I mention I can mend and darn beautifully - the feeling/attitude seems to be, "Why would you bother, when you can buy another one?" but I am not in favour of the "buy 'em cheap, throw 'em away" approach.

Another reason why I love to iron and sew, is because Mum and my Grandma taught me how to do it.    Mum made all my ballet dresses (I have a photo of me, aged five, wearing one of the tutus she created for me), and Grandma made my smocked dresses and little pinafores (pinnies), to wear over my good clothes. She taught me to hem, and I can still turn a hem by hand quicker than most people. Grandma could also knit, but for me, that was another story.  I did learn, and I can do it, but my tension always went haywire - I was not consistent! That creative skill I left to her. As a child, I was never short of hand-knitted socks, and after my daughter Wendy was born, for years she was furnished with a regular supply of fine wool socks, beautifully warm, and infinitely superior to mass produced hosiery.

My late husband, Bob, played the violin; in the 1930s, as a lad in Glossop, he had private lessons with Mr Jones, whose wife loved to iron, too. Whilst her husband taught pupils at home, she would be busy doing the ironing in a corner of their lounge, and this inspired me to write the following poem, written in Bob's voice:


MUSIC LESSONS

When I was a lad, my mother paid
for weekly lessons on the violin.
At half a crown - two and six a time -
That was a lot of money, then.

And sometimes I'd buck at the practice
and my mother going on and on,
nagging me to play my scales - saying,
"One day, you'll be pleased I did, son....."

So every Tuesday, round at Mr Jones'
he'd lead me through some difficult work -
encouraging, guiding, sometimes scathing
when it was obvious I wanted to shirk.

And I also remember, in the lounge,
How Mrs Jones stood, ironing.
The smell of fresh-washed clothes filled the room
as I struggled with double stopping.

And thirty years on, my wife loves to iron -
she presses everything in sight;
she sits with a cup of tea, or something stronger,
and I bring out my violin.

And as the iron hisses on clean damp clothes,
The old familiar welcome smell
hangs over the music, like accidentals,
that I remember well.