Sunday morning we were running late so all seven of us made a mad dash for the Surburban but once we got to the building I saw my 13 year old son for the first time that morning. He had grabbed clothes from his drawer and thrown them on and looked like he had just climbed out from underneath a rock. I was so embarrassed and sadly his hair matched his clothes. It was sticking straight up and out. I was glad when he sat with the youth group. Atleast the visitors didn’t know he was mine I was just waiting for someone to offer me their iron.

Why it is different from cleaning house, I don’t know. It just is.

Peace
Neva

I had to master ironing while in the army. Our uniform had to be crisply pressed. So, I’m the resident “ironer” (if Bush can be the decider, I can be the ironer) in our house. My youngest son (now 14) still loves it when I iron his shirt and hand it to him while it’s still warm. He wraps up in it and smiles. That’s a good trade off–I get the pleasure of his reaction and all I have to do is chase away a few wrinkles. And there’s something about the smell of freshly washed clothes under the heat of the iron, especially when mixed with the scent of starch, that is comforting in the way the odor of fresh bread is comforting.

Ben

I can remember the old coke bottles with a stopper in it that had an aluminum top filled with holes for sprinkling water on an item to be ironed. I iron all my clothes, but nobody could iron a shirt like my mama. Except maybe you, Dee.

for ten of the 18 years that I worked out, I was a presser for Lee jeans and I loved it! I guess you could say the presses that I used were over grown iron’s
those were good days!