When I was about 14 my grandmother hired me to do her ironing. I was thrilled, for at that age there are few ways to earn money. The price was the same, no matter the garment, so I was happy when there were lots of Granddaddy’s handkerchiefs to press.
I really did enjoy ironing. There’s something very satisfying about taking something all wrinkly and making it smooth and crisp. Using a big glass bottle with a spray head on a cork stopper, I would sprinkle the clothes and then roll them up and set them aside. If there wasn’t time to finish them all, we’d sometimes put the rolled-up garments in the freezer until the next time. I can still remember the delightful shock of holding a stiff frozen shirt, straight from the freezer, to my cheek.
Grandmother’s iron was a monster. With a shiny chrome finish, it was huge and very heavy. Once when I complained about its weight, Grandmother described what a chore it was when she was my age, having to use a flat iron heated on the stove. She considered the electric iron a great invention, and told me to count my blessings.
When I moved into an apartment, I was excited to buy my very own iron. (yes, I realize how pitiful that sounds). I don’t remember what brand it was, but I know this for a certainty: that iron was the standard bearer for a battle that I’ve waged ever since. It’s a battle I’ve yet to win.
It’s me vs. the irons.
Irons. Plural. Many irons. My grandmother had the same iron for as long as I can remember. (Back then, there was no such thing as planned obsolescence). In my 37 years of marriage I’ve probably owned 15 irons. Cheap irons, expensive irons, stainless steel irons, Teflon and plastic irons, it doesn’t matter: they’re all out to get me, and I hate them all.
I’ve had bare-bones irons that were basically Steam-No Steam. I’ve had fancy irons with multiple buttons that allowed choices between Cotton/Wool/Silk/Poly/Steam/Burst of Steam/Power Spray/Wash and Wax Your Car. I’ve followed the manufacturer’s instructions precisely. Irons used to require distilled water. Tap water might be okay for us to drink, but it wasn’t good enough for the iron. So I bought distilled water (is that even bottled anymore?) and was careful never to overfill the reservoir.
The iron’s instructions would mandate “Pour out all water when you are done - DO NOT LEAVE WATER SITTING IN IRON!” Not certain that the Minor Appliance Police weren’t peeping in my window to evaluate my trustworthiness, I dutifully poured out the water after each ironing session. If it said never to wrap the cord around the iron, I never did. If it said to leave the iron standing up until cool, I stood it up. I bought iron rests to make the irons’ lives easier. I bought a wall mount receptacle so that the iron wouldn’t have to rest on the laundry room shelf.
And none of it mattered. Because no matter what I do, or which iron I buy, they always defeat me. They quit working, they quit steaming, they leave water spots on my rayon or silk clothes, they refuse to heat up.
Once my iron died on me halfway through my husband’s dress shirt. Nicely-pressed collar, front and back, wrinkled sleeves. I had to go out and buy a new iron. Then I bought a back-up iron, in case the first one quit to spite me. Now the newer one -less than a year old- has quit steaming. The mister button still works, so I can spray the clothes as I iron them, but the steam feature has disappeared. And it occasionally spits out something brown (always when I’m ironing a white dress shirt) even though I use the self-clean feature and empty the water as directed.
So it’s back to the no-tech days of my grandmother’s youth. Next time I’m at an antique mall, I’ll be searching for an old flatiron. No steam, no electric cord, just a hot stove top and a pot holder, and I’m good to go.
(Dallas Morning News 1-11-09)
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