(Image from Google)

My brother (aka Baby Bear, but who prefers “rka Baby Bear” – reluctantly known as) is a great ironer. Is “ironer” a word? Well, it works for me. As one who has suffered a life-long aversion to the task, I admire anyone who not only gets the ironing done but actually enjoys doing it! For one of Baby Bear’s long-standing pet-minding clients, he also does the ironing. Said client has a good giggle when she tells her friends she has to get home because her “ironing man” is delivering.

And as good fortune would have it, I too have my own ironing man 🙂 As we prepared to return to the land of domestic reality last year, the MOTH and I negotiated how we would split the chores without the help of the lovely staff we had for our eight and a half years in Manila. We always intended to be a bit flexible but fundamentally whoever did the cooking, the other would take care of the dishes; I was willing to take on cleaning of the “wet” areas, so bathrooms (and toilets – aaaah), kitchen, laundry and all sweeping and mopping of hard floor surfaces, while the MOTH was in charge of vacuuming carpets and dusting throughout the house. The other main area of demarcation was the handling of laundry – with me being the “washer woman”, while the MOTH ironed. His five-and-a-bit years in the army inducted him into the hall of ironing fame – he is both good at it and happy to do it. Yes, that reads happy to do it. I don’t understand either!

The laundry takes up an hour or so of my day a couple of times a week, perhaps a little more on the days we change the bed linen and towels. The MOTH tends to save up the ironing for a special treat every two or three weeks … so that it lasts for at least a couple of hours when he finally gets around to it. He hauls out all the the equipment (mysterious things like a rather spindly looking contraption he lays the clothes on; a hissing electrical gadget that spits steam and water and takes skin off the fingers of the unwary; a fold-away hanging frame which he rapidly fills with smartly pressed shirts and the like). It’s quite a production. He turns on some classical music, and the air conditioner if the ambient temperature is above 20 degrees Celsius. And then he works his way through the task at a speed that astounds and impresses me … and he smiles while he’s doing it. Which reminds me that in my thirties, my dislike of ironing caused me to say that I hated ironing and I hated babysitting other peoples’ children. But if I was offered a choice, I would take on a basket of crumpled clothes. That was before I knew the delights of grandchildren. Now it’s different ❤

Pressing in Prague

Last time I watched the MOTH embark on the ritual I reflected on ironing memories. One that sprang to mind was the MOTH ironing in various places we’ve holidayed – sometimes on tiny, table top ironing boards (designed for doll clothes surely), occasionally with tiny and not-so-useful irons, often ironing at the last minute as we’re ready to go out somewhere. Which made for some interesting photos, tastefully framed but which aren’t allowed to grace this blog 😉 He’s become an expert on fabric integrity and construction quality of linen and clothing, complaining loudly about the standard of some pillow cases I recently bought.

When we returned home to Australia last year, it was a bit like setting up your first flat when you leave home: we had to buy so many basic items, including a new iron and ironing board. I handed over to the MOTH all responsibility for choosing these items, since he would be using them and I wouldn’t (insert smug smile here). He chose an iron that was appropriately heavy, nicely balanced and with a good steam performance (so I’m told). The board had to be sufficiently adjustable to reach a comfortable height for his 183cm frame. And after a couple of months of using it, I was sent on a mission to find a new, more padded cover for said board, as the original just didn’t measure up to the MOTH’s exacting standards.

Whilst searching for the right cover, I was reminded of the first ironing board I bought, when I was 17 years old and just moving out of home for the first time. I was working for a company specialising in exhaust systems and got a staff discount on a Hills ironing board, which was pretty high-falutin’ for the times (Hills made exhaust systems back then, as well as ironing boards, clothes hoists and swing sets, amongst other things). I think I paid the princely sum of thiry-odd dollars for it, which was a LOT of money back then, but a big discount off the retail price and it really was a Rolls-Royce kind of ironing board. In fact that purchase ultimately lasted me almost forty years, which made it amazing value in the end.

As we packed up the house in Manila last year, I reluctantly decided to part with the board that had been part of my life for so long, and which had followed me on my nomadic wanderings for close to four decades. It was a tough call as it was still quite serviceable. Just that a couple of the rubber stoppers on the feet had long since fallen off and the frame was showing a rust spot or two. In a moment devoid of sentiment, I decided that we would move it on. When I set it aside for disposal our lovely maid Retchel, who had had an almost daily relationship with the ironing board over the eight and a bit years of our time there, asked if she could take it. So although the board and I have now parted company, I’m comforted to know that it’s still providing useful service and probably will for a long time to come. With such a great return on investment, I certainly can’t be accused of being economically frivolous or consumeristic (is that another word I’ve invented today?)

Over the years, that Hills ironing board wore a variety of colourful covers. Beginning with its original 1970s lime-green and bronzey-brown floral, it paraded through checks and spots, paisleys and stripes. In Manila, Carmen the sewing lady came to the house on a regular basis and, given the heavy use the ironing board got, a recurrent task for her every year or so was to make a new cover – our maids ironed tea towels, sheets and all manner of things that wouldn’t even get a whiff of the iron these days!! When we lived on the island of Pohnpei in the Federated States of Micronesia, standard attire for the guys was a pair of jeans or shorts and an “island” shirt – what we would refer to as a Hawaiian shirt, brightly hued and flowered. While we were there, I made dozens of them for the MOTH and for Jake and ended up with lots of usable sized remnants in a riot of blooming colours. These remnants came in handy for all kinds of projects to keep Carmen occupied, including making aprons and shorts for the maids, covers for appliances and covers for the ironing board. The MOTH was completely miffed when he arrived home from work one evening and observed the latest ironing board cover had been made from a remnant of one of his shirts. He complained loudly that it just wasn’t on to expect a bloke to wear a shirt that had a matching ironing board cover and, true to his word he never wore that particular shirt again.

The young girl who bought that ironing board couldn’t possibly have foreseen how long it would be part of her life, nor how far they would travel together. And she would have laughed out loud if you’d told her that in what seems like the blink of an eye, she’d be retired and watching the MOTH carrying out the familiar task while she dreamed of spending time with grandchildren. Grandchildren!! Where does forty years go when you’re busy living life?