A Many-Splendored Thing
MacGregor invited me to lunch, and I'm getting ready to go. First, what to wear? I decide a skirt will look the nicest. Therefore, out comes the iron. As I'm spraying the Niagra starch and running the iron of course many associations come up.
Denny used to go upstairs after dinner every Sunday night and iron his pants and shirts for the whole work week. I am not an ironer, and he would chide me for failing to fill the steam iron. Well, steam ironing is after my time, which is 1950s Missouri when you dampened and used a regular iron.
I could go on and on about ironing--which is a bit boring which is why I don't do it so much. But down here I have no choice, everything is for summer and you look really rumpled if you don't and then you might embarrass your grandson at lunch.
So the real direction my brain started taking during the flattening of linen was preparing to meet with a boy. I'm going through the same rituals we 1950s girls would do getting ready for the Friday night movie and pizza (which we called pizza pie) or even a dance or something like that. You had to fix your hair, you had to do up your face (which didn't need it then and yields diminishing returns today), you ironed your outfit and made sure your shoes looked nice. Same in college when you're getting ready for the football weekend, with a boy.
Funny such associations re: going over to MacGregor's's elementary school. But I want to look nice, and I feel so complimented to be invited, that my grandson would want me to come over there. Ah, the many permutations of love.
Denny used to go upstairs after dinner every Sunday night and iron his pants and shirts for the whole work week. I am not an ironer, and he would chide me for failing to fill the steam iron. Well, steam ironing is after my time, which is 1950s Missouri when you dampened and used a regular iron.
I could go on and on about ironing--which is a bit boring which is why I don't do it so much. But down here I have no choice, everything is for summer and you look really rumpled if you don't and then you might embarrass your grandson at lunch.
So the real direction my brain started taking during the flattening of linen was preparing to meet with a boy. I'm going through the same rituals we 1950s girls would do getting ready for the Friday night movie and pizza (which we called pizza pie) or even a dance or something like that. You had to fix your hair, you had to do up your face (which didn't need it then and yields diminishing returns today), you ironed your outfit and made sure your shoes looked nice. Same in college when you're getting ready for the football weekend, with a boy.
Funny such associations re: going over to MacGregor's's elementary school. But I want to look nice, and I feel so complimented to be invited, that my grandson would want me to come over there. Ah, the many permutations of love.
posted by Pat at 12:20 PM
3 Comments:
Steam irons were a new-fangled thing as far as my mother was concerned. She had a crochety old iron and a glass bottle, like a soda bottle, with a special top that sprinkled water. And of course, she sent out my father's shirts!
HI, doc bubbles,
I still have an old glass bottle of Misco Pop, with the sprinkler top; only I left it in Amherst.
HI, doc bubbles,
I still have an old glass bottle of Misco Pop, with the sprinkler top; only I left it in Happy Valley.
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