Ironing, Fireworks, and Nanticoke Creek

by Donna Poole

I haven’t owned one for more than a decade.

Readers who know me in person probably guessed that fact already by the wrinkled collars and cuffs our steamer couldn’t quite smooth out. Finally, I gave in and ordered the cheapest iron and least expensive tabletop ironing board I could find from Walmart.

Saturday morning I used the new equipment and discovered to my delight I despise ironing as much as I ever did. As I stood in our steamy kitchen wrangling stubborn shirts, I remembered Mrs. Denton. She’s the reason ironing is an anathema to me. I don’t cuss, but if I did, “GO IRON!” would be one of the worst curses in my vocabulary.

I agreed to iron for Mrs. Denton one miserably hot summer of my junior high days. The payment was one dollar a bushel basket. That was decent money; $1.00 in 1962 equals $9.29 now. But every time I showed up for my ironing job the basket of clothes was piled higher until one day it was twice my height. That might be a slight exaggeration.

I was no expert in ironing when I started working for our neighbor. We Piarulli girls were the cleaning troops who suffered through white glove inspections from General Mom complete with barked orders of, “Do it over!” but I don’t remember ever ironing my own clothes.

Thomas Sears invented the steam iron. In 1938 the Steam-O-Matic sold for ten dollars. Pretty pricey when adjusted for inflation—it would cost $193.61 today. Perhaps that’s why I remember Mom in the 1950s, when steam irons were still $10.00, sprinkling our clothes with water and rolling them up, leaving them until they were damp clear through, and then ironing them without steam. Perhaps she did get a steam iron later; I seem to remember the devil’s hiss.

I didn’t quit ironing for Mrs. Denton that summer. The summer of my discontent.

“Piarullis don’t quit,” Mom said.  

Sorry Mom, in all my adult years I’ve never ironed a thing I didn’t have to. Had I not been raised in the strictest sect of fundamentalist Baptist, I would have thrown away any clothing that came out of the dryer wrinkled, but that upbringing sticks with you like super glue. I’m pretty sure discarding usable garments breaks some biblical commandment, perhaps one in Hezekiah.

Which reminds me. Someone gifted me with an ugly, faded brown, hand-me-down circle skirt when I was in fifth grade. It had embarrassingly large brown buttons all down the front, bigger than I’d seen on any old lady’s moth ball scented church coat. In the next five years I grew many inches taller but no wider. Unfortunately for me styles in that same time grew shorter. I wore that ugliness from the time it touched just above my ankles until it reached the middle of my knee. Mom probably would have made me continue to wear it, but I was still growing taller, and that strictest sect of fundamentalist Baptist frowned when skirts reached the middle of the knee; to go higher might risk excommunication.

To be fair to Mrs. Denton, we never specified in our original unwritten contract how full the basket should be. And she did have a lot of children. I can’t remember how many. I do remember I thought Kenny was the nicest of them; he was my age, and I considered it kind of him not to point me out at school as his laundry maid.

That ironing took hours that seemed to stretch to days, weeks, months, and years. I entered the Denton house to iron when I was thirteen and left when I was ninety. I survived ironing days only by knowing when I left there I was heading straight for the waters of the Nanticoke Creek. I didn’t care how muddy it was; I was going in! Or, if it was raining, I’d bury my nose in a book!

Time is not the steady, reliable creature some imagine her to be. She’s capricious. Don’t trust her. A minute is not always a minute; an hour is not always an hour.

Don’t believe me? Compare an hour in a doctor’s waiting room to an hour at the lake. See what I mean?

As I ironed Saturday morning, I thought about how time wraps some things in softness and gives them a smile they never had at the time. I smile now at that short girl standing at the tall ironing board dreaming of swimming in the creek. I didn’t know she’d grow up to be me, the woman who still finds creeks and books fascinating, still hates ironing, and still questions the fickleness of time.

Why can’t some hours last longer?

Last Monday, Independence Day, we went to Dan and Mindy’s where we enjoyed a delicious summer meal with them and four of our grandchildren, Megan, Macy, Reece, and Ruby. Mindy’s parents, Mike and Julie were there too. Mike had prepared smoked brisket; it was delicious. I’d never had it before. Shh, don’t tell my oncologist Mike and Julie were there. I’m only allowed to see family, but I figure the family of my family is my family—right?

After we ate, we sat around a blazing bonfire. Perfect is a strong adjective, but that’s what it was. We talked to Megan about her future plans. Macy entertained us with tales of her volunteer work at King’s Cupboard. Reece passed out sparklers, and Ruby shared her glow sticks. The crackling fire kept mosquitoes away and dreams close.

The huge bonfire began to dwindle, and Mindy, our mighty but tiny daughter-in-law disappeared into their woods. All we saw was a speck of flashlight. She returned dragging huge branches under both arms and threw them on the fire.

Once it was totally dark, Dan and Reece went to the back of their property and set off twelve beautiful fireworks. And then we talked some more. Who knows how long we would have stayed around that fire if it hadn’t started to rain?

Those four wonderful hours were much shorter than any four hours I’ve ever spent ironing, and no one can tell me differently.

I wonder what time will be like in heaven? Maybe this gives us a hint.

“One day is with the Lord as a thousand years, and a thousand years as one day.” –2 Peter 3:8

I think I understand that a little bit…. Once, when I was around thirteen or fourteen, I spent a day ironing for our neighbor, and it took me a thousand years.