“In case you end up with a partner who doesn’t know how,” she says, rolling her eyes slightly. “Nobody teaches this anymore.”
It’s the summer of 1988, and I’m just 12 years old, working alongside my mother in the kitchen. We’re both focused on the metallic gray ironing board, where she has set her beige Sunbeam Select-O-Steam to the “cotton” setting, steam bubbling eagerly in preparation. Laid out before us is one of my stepfather’s church shirts—a crisp white, complete with a collared neck and a single breast pocket, resting face down on the board.
With a spritz of starch, she instructs, “Begin with the yoke.” As she glides the iron across the fabric, it transforms, appearing smoother and brighter. “Now it’s your turn,” she says, passing the iron to me. I press down, but some of the fabric bunches beneath the iron. “Cat faces,” she remarks disapprovingly, referring to those unsightly folds on an otherwise pristine shirt.
After a careful second attempt, I smooth out the wrinkles. We meticulously tackle the sleeves, collar, and front and back panels, following her methodical spray-and-spread technique. “Your Aunt Linda swears by dip starch,” she adds, as if I know what that entails. I get a clearer picture, even if it’s a little vague.
Fast forward twenty-five years, and I find myself in my own kitchen each morning, preparing my work shirt for the day ahead. My approach differs significantly from my mother’s. I typically begin with the sleeves, quickly flip it over, and steam the front and back before giving the collar and pocket a fast once-over. If I have starch, I might use it, but if not, it’s no big deal. As long as the wrinkles disappear, I’m satisfied. I suppose it’s a more straightforward, masculine approach, and I can only imagine my mom shaking her head at my method.
While it’s not that I married someone incapable, I’ve developed a secret obsession with achieving a flawlessly smooth shirt before tackling the day’s challenges. Even in an age of “iron-free” and “wrinkle resistant” clothing, I am adamant about ironing my clothes. As I execute what my mother would call “a lick and a promise” on my blue Oxford cloth, I fondly recall her lessons from that wise, rustic kitchen. The world outside may become chaotic, but thanks to Mom’s teachings, my attire will always reflect orderliness.
This article was originally published on May 10, 2015.
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Summary:
In this reflective piece, Mark Thompson shares how his mother instilled in him a passion for ironing, a skill he now practices daily. While his methods differ from hers, the importance of presenting oneself well remains a priority. This personal story highlights the impact of parental lessons and the enduring significance of tradition in a rapidly changing world.