Ironing…

By Anne Basting

This morning, with a fresh cup of tea and a list at the ready, I set about to iron the table cloth and napkins that will be part of the decorations for Care Shower #2. My ironing board is original to the 1952 house. It folds down out of its own little closet door. The floral padding is original. It is older than me. There is something about ironing. At 6:30 a.m., when the house is quiet. Just me, my hot tea, and the slow careful work of smoothing out the curled edges of this cotton cloth. At first my mind emptied, caught up in the rhythmic work of moving the iron so as not to linger in one spot too long, of nudging its hot nose into the resistant folds. But then I started to travel… to

Who does this anymore??
Why am I doing this?
Will anyone even notice that the edges of this cloth are subdued into smoothness?
Actually, this feels like care..
Attention that no one will notice.
Time and effort, that I feel, but will float in the subconscious of others.
Maybe.
Still, I did the whole cloth.
It had been a wedding gift from our family friends in France.
A white cotton table cloth, covered in an ivy pattern, with matching napkins.
Ideal for dining al fresco, one of my favorite memories of spending time with them.
My mother was a francophile - with her thick Wisconsin accent - she adored immersing herself in the culture and the words,
even if her daughters would cringe at her attempts to speak.
The daughters and Mom and Dad, traveling together through the French countryside.
Mom angry at us because we didn’t want to picnic along some random stream - and instead ate our baguette sandwiches in the back seat.

Ironing still…seeing the history of meals, faded into a few spots here and there.
Realizing that I love this slow, careful movement.
This smoothing out of bumps and folds.
This proof of care.
And I am caught in a memory - a family joke that I only understood in my twenties - that I had been the family ironer because Mom had praised my abilities when I was little.
She hated ironing. So she heaped compliments on me - “You’re so good at it! Much better than I am”.
At 8 or 9 I beamed with pride at my prowess. And took it on as a badge of ironing honor.
That was Mom.
How perfect that I found myself ironing this cloth in preparation for the second Care Shower - tomorrow, in St. Paul.
That it will lay the foundation for the table of treats - sugar cookies from her own recipe that I baked this week.

Truth is… I do love ironing.