Before my mother taught me to iron, she taught me to sprinkle. Filling a Coke bottle with water, she corked it with a round metal top that had holes in it, like a sprinkling can—and showed me how to sprinkle every dry item—napkins, table cloths, blouses, skirts—and roll them into sausage shapes until they were evenly damp.
Next, I learned about the iron itself which—like many adult appliances—was dangerous. You could burn yourself, your clothes, and the ironing board. In fact, you could burn down your house like we saw in a movie at school about the dangers of fire. I had nightmares for years.
But ironing napkins was easy and I even mastered the intricate rules for blouses, starting with the collar, then shoulders, sleeves, back, front. I thought I got the hang of it eventually, but my first husband persuaded me that he could iron better than I (Bless his mother!) and took over the job. I didn’t mind.
Nowadays, wash-and-wear clothes—and a more casual lifestyle—have almost eliminated the need for ironing. I can’t say that I miss the task, only the memories—the warm smell of the fabric, the heft of the iron, the quiet back and forth rhythm, and the lovely sensation of smoothing the wrinkles out of my life for a little while.
