October 15, 2007
Greetings from Hazel,
Here is a bundle of cloth, wound into a shapeless clot of
cotton. You might imagine it a turban,
or a vest, or some kind of large bandage.
In fact, at least in its most recent incarnation, it was a pair of khaki
pants.
In the long list of futile phrases, starting with
"Turn off the light when you leave the room." we add "Hang those pants up so that they
won't get all wrinkled."
All summer our boys have rolled out of bed and into a
pair of shorts, often still standing rigid from where they were propped the
night before. Add some sandals and a
shirt that was close to the top of the laundry basket and the ensemble is
complete.
But now they are back in school, and temperature and
decorum dictate a slightly more formal couture.
Not exactly black tie, but at the minimum the clothes they wear should
appear as though they don't normally double as pajamas. Or turbans.
Suzanne does the laundry, an endless duty in our
house. One by one the kids have been
taught to do their own laundry, and with some success. There is a major blind spot when it comes to
folding the clothes, an inherited deficiency from me, I'm afraid. This can sometimes lead to a version of
laundry folding best described as 'wadding'.
The boys' laundry baskets, filled with clean clothes,
will stand guard in front of empty drawers, and as the week passes dirty
clothes will pile up on the floor nearby.
Each morning they will root through the basket for something clean, and
hopefully find it, or else they will be forced to choose from the inventory on
the floor.
Add to the list of futile phrases "Take your clean
clothes to your room and put them in your drawers." The last half of that sentence might just as
well be "..and turn the music up real loud."
Because my sons inherited the wadding gene from me, I
feel compelled to compensate for it, and God in his mercy has given me the gift
of ironing. This is not exactly
biblical; so don't try to find 'clothes pressing' in Corinthians.
I don't mind ironing, it's a mindless task, one thing I
am eminently suited for. I have a
certain knack for it, although not so proficient that a career change is
imminent. I can unfold the ironing board
with one hand, know how to fill the iron's reservoir with water without getting
electrocuted and have learned after only three episodes not to test with my
tongue to see if the iron is hot enough.
I can stand in the laundry room in front of a small
window and conquer wrinkles. In the back
yard, especially this time of year, deer might wander by, flanked by a constant
phalanx of rabbits there. One cannot
watch the peaceful scene for too long for fear of scorching a collar or burning
an errant finger.
The dryer hums, sometimes with a mild counterpoint
provided by tennis shoes, and makes the room warm. It's not exactly cozy, it's a laundry room
after all, but it's nice.
Outside the laundry room door a boy waits in his
underwear. We are minutes from leaving
for church and he has been sent to his room twice for a costume change and
finally appeared with a good pair of khakis which have been carefully stored
since last spring using the Smith method of scrunch, clump and roll.
The khakis look like a relief map of Khazakstan. I remove the few lumps in the pockets, a lint
covered piece of something, and candy wrapper.
A chapstick. I rev up the iron,
little puffs of steam shoot into the air, and subdue the topography in front of
me.
There are far better uses of my time. One could easily make the case for
professional dry cleaning and clothes that are 'wrinkle free' out of the
dryer. The boys can be taught to manage
this task on their own. I don't really
need to be Iron Man.
I started a list of all the things I can give my
children, some of which will never be appreciated or acknowledged, which is the
tattoo all parents bear. This thing,
this small occasional gift of service, is so easy to do, I almost hate to give
it up. Selfish of me, but I want to hand
them a freshly pressed pair of pants, still warm from the iron, and see the
look on their face when they put them on.
It is not a noble endeavor but it is one worth doing.
Time enough for them to figure out how to do it on their
own, or how to eliminate the need. I can
give this little thing to them, a tiny accent to the work that Suzanne pours
out for them every day, and enjoy the results, which probably last longer than
any advice I've given them.
Hope this finds you in permanent press,
David
Copyright (c) 2007 David Smith
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