The Iron Age

He Said, She Said — 8

It was the age of the iron when you still actually ironed your clothes
–Does anybody do that any more?
She was at great pains to find everything because she had forgotten where things were kept.

She said Where is the ironing board?
He said Prob’ly where you keep it.
She said Oh very funny. Where is that?
He said In the kitchen closet, you know, with the brooms and mops.
She said Where’s that?
He said The one next to the fridge.
She said This one? Oh, here it is. Why didn’t you say so?

She struggled to stand the ironing board on its legs. He swept out of his easy chair, where he’d been working on a new poem, and helped her set it up.

She looked around. She spotted the laundry basket of clean clothes she’d dragged into the kitchen. She studied it. Then she pulled out a sheet. After some struggling – He stood back and watched, having explained to their children earlier that she needed as much freedom as possible to do things herself, “So she won’t forget.”

She fought the sheet until she got it draped more or less flat across the ironing board.

She said Now what?

He waited. Then he made ironing motions.

She said Well, where is it?
He said In the closet. Oh, so sorry, you can’t reach that shelf. Sorry.

He reached up and took the iron down. He helped her fill it with water at the kitchen sink, the very reason she did the ironing in the kitchen.

They were set. But wait.

She said Where is the…the…you know…the rain thing

She made shaking motions as if shaking salt on a large steak.

He said Oh. Yes. The sprinkler
She said YES!

He rummaged around the top shelf of the kitchen closet and brought out a the ginger ale bottle with the sprinkler spout corked into it. He had to pull out the cork so she could fill the bottle with water, then push it back into place.

Finally, she began ironing. He stood there as if mesmerized by the repetitive motions. She ironed, she sprinkled, she maneuvered the sheet into an unironed place, ironed, sprinkled, ironed…

He said Why would you want to?
She said Want to what?
He said Iron the sheets?
She said So it’s nice and neat and pretty to look at
He said Who would look at your sheets?
She said I would, you would
He said But they won’t stay ironed
She said Of course not
He said So what’s the point?

She aimed the hot flat of the iron in his direction and gave it a mock stab at him. He winced.

He said Ouch! My ego is singed
She said Good. Serves you right.

She struggled to maneuver the sheet over the ironing board to get at every part of it.

He said Here. Let me help you—
She said No. I’m not helpless.

But she did solicit his help to fold the more-or-less-ironed sheet into a neat square.

She said Well, don’t just stand there.  Help me.
He said Okay, okay.

He grabbed at the sheet as she waved it across the room as if billowing it over the bed. He missed grabbing it and the sheet floated to the floor, at her feet. When he bent over to get a grip on it, his hand brushed her ankle.

She gave him a “well-deserved” slap on the wrist.

She said Behave yourself.
He said, Yes Ma’am.

And he grinned at her. She made a mock moue.

She pulled an undershirt out of the basket and proceeded to iron that. That, too, was very neatly folded and put aside. She continued on, on her own now, having found her rhythm. Her motions became automatic.

He said I suppose you iron the socks too, do you?
She said How else do you put them on?

He shrugged: I shoulda known.

Oh, the iron-y!
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