Updated: August 22, 2015
Originally Published: May 10, 2015
“In case you ever marry someone who can’t,” she says, rolling her eyes lightly. “Nobody teaches this anymore.”
It’s the summer of 1988, and I’m 12 years old, standing beside my mother in the kitchen, both of us focused on our metallic gray ironing board. She has set her beige Sunbeam Select-O-Steam to the “cotton” setting, and it hisses with steam, ready for action. We have one of my stepfather’s church shirts—a crisp white, collared piece with a single breast pocket—laid flat before us.
“Start with the yoke,” she instructs, spraying a light mist of starch. As she glides the iron over the fabric, it transforms, appearing smoother and whiter. “Now it’s your turn.” I follow suit, but my iron catches on the fabric in spots. “Cat faces,” she mutters, referring to the unsightly creases that mar an otherwise pristine garment.
I try again, carefully smoothing out the wrinkles. Sleeves, collar, and panels are all treated to my mother’s meticulous spray-and-spread technique. “Your Aunt Lucy always uses dip starch,” she mentions, as if I know what that means. I can somewhat imagine it, at least.
Fast forward twenty-five years, and I find myself in my own kitchen, preparing my work shirt for the day. I’ve adopted a different approach, starting with the sleeves, then flipping it over to tackle the front and back in quick succession. A swish over the collar and a bit of extra attention for the pocket, if needed. If there’s starch, great; if not, no big deal. As long as the wrinkles disappear, I’m satisfied. My method is decidedly more rushed—definitely a guy thing, and I can picture my mother’s disapproving look.
It’s not that I ended up marrying “someone who can’t”; rather, it’s become a quiet obsession of mine—ensuring my shirt is flawlessly pressed before I tackle the day ahead. Even with the rise of “iron-free” and “wrinkle-resistant” fabrics, I prefer the traditional way. As I iron a blue Oxford shirt, I reflect on the lessons learned in my mother’s warm, inviting kitchen. While the world may become chaotic, thanks to her teachings, my attire remains a source of order.
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In summary, through the seemingly mundane task of ironing, I find a connection to my mother and a sense of control over my life. Her lessons have instilled in me an appreciation for order, even amidst the chaos of everyday living.