October 15, 2007

 Greetings fromTony Stark,

 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