I was born and raised in New York City. In a 5 room apartment on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. We lived on the 4th floor of a 5 story walk up building built in the late 1800’s. Complete with brownstone stoop. And grand mahogany entry doors.
Before my mother married my father, she was a couture dressmaker. And after she married my father and became a wife and stupendous mother, she made all the clothes for me and my sister. As well as herself.
We were a well dressed family promenading the streets of New York City on a Sunday. Walking to grandma’s house for Sunday lunch.
My mother was a wonderful homemaker. And ironing was a big event in her life.
There were my father’s dress white shirts to starch. And iron. To perfection.
As well as her clothes. And my sister’s. And mine as well.
On ironing day, the ironing board stood in our big kitchen. A kitchen big enough for me to ride my tricycle in on a rainy day.
And although steam irons weren’t available yet, I can still smell the vapour rising out of the damp clothes. Which had been sprinkled with water the night before. And rolled up. And put into a pillowcase to ‘mellow’ overnight.
Then there was the smell of the melting beeswax candles she kept rolled up in a pad at the end of her board. To make her iron glide more smoothly. And to keep the bottom of the iron clean.
She lightly passed the hot iron over the wad of beeswax. And the fragrance of the softly melting candle wax permeated the kitchen.
By the way. Using a hot iron with beeswax is an art form. I tried it. And all I got was melted wax all over my ironing board cover. I was far too heavy handed!
To be honest, on ironing day, her kitchen was a fun place to be.
Just me. And my mom!
One day I asked her if I could iron too.
She said she’d think about it.
I kept pestering her. Because to me, it seemed that ironing made her happy. And I wanted to be happy with her.
One day she said she was ready to teach me how to iron.
She pulled the step stool that I stood on to reach the kitchen sink over to her ironing board. And asked me to stand on it.
To make sure I was tall enough to reach the top of the board.
We started with a cold iron. And one of my dad’s handkerchiefs.
She taught me how to glide the iron back and forth. How to hold the handkerchief taut so I ironed it without wrinkles. How to fold it into quarters.
After a few dry runs, she turned the heat onto low.
And standing by my side, with one arm out ready to prevent me from burning myself, I ironed my first handkerchief.
I became so good at it, I gleefully became the ‘Handkerchief Girl’. Buoyed by the knowledge that my father waxed lyrical about how fab his handkerchiefs looked.
And my older sister, in absolute astonishment and amazement, thought I needed my head examined!
I was ironing my own clothes by the time I was 8 years old.
And have been ironing ever since.
To me ironing isn’t a chore.
It’s a quiet time to give my mind a rest away from my busy business.
And to think about how glorious whatever I’m ironing is going to look once I’m finished.
We’re all different. And have different perspectives about how we spend our time. For me, ironing is time well spent.
How did you learn how to iron? I’d love to know. Email me at the bottom of this post.
~Carol Jones, Ironing Diva❤
PS. Ironing really is the gateway to luxury!
PPS. I am not only an Ironing Diva. But as one friend says, I am ‘The Queen’ when it comes to ironing.
I Am The Purveyor Of The Tantrum Free Fitz Like A Glove™ Ironing Board Cover And Other Goodies
Made with love and care in RURAL Australia by men and women who have a disability.
It’s not for everyone.
But it’s definitely for you if you’re fussy about the cover you iron on.
And if you love to support Australian made.
And want to put something back into the community when you make a purchase.
The Fitz Like A Glove™ Ironing Board Cover cover has more than 350,000 customers in 29 countries. Because it lives up to its name. It ‘Fitz Like A Glove™’ every time you iron.
And these are the ‘Other Goodies’
The share button is at the end of this post.
Have a question? Email me at the bottom of this post.
Or phone me, Carol Jones, in rural Australia on 02 63 588 511.
Photos of my rural property are courtesy of me, Ironing Diva – who is also known as Paddock Paparazzi – and taken at sunrise every morning.
Dusky Woodswallow Fledglings. Out For A Walk.
PS. And I have a fabulous newsletter ‘A Smidgen Of Gossip’. This is what a subscriber says about it. “Carol. Just had some time to read it and found that it is, as with everything you do, rather wonderful. A great read. W” You can subscribe to it by clicking this link. It’s FREE! This is not a lifetime commitment. You can Unsubscribe at any time. Don’t miss out. Click this link now!
Willie Wagtail. Nesting.