November 10, 2009

I ironed a tablecloth this morning.
As I was doing this I was laughing at myself because I used to be so arrogant about not ironing. I considered it beneath me, too domestic. I had more important things to do. So here I am ironing a table cloth that I inherited from my mother. It is white, heavily embroidered with cross stitch roses. There is cutwork too. And in the cutwork there is crochet. Very fine crochet. As I am ironing this article I'm thinking about the woman who made it. The embroidery is neat and small and even. It looks as good on the reverse as on the front. I have to be careful with the iron because it gets snagged in the openwork and I don't want to damage it. There is puckering because the crochet thread has shrunk a little more than the fabric in the wash and I have to ease it out with the tip of the iron. Doing this causes me to really look at the workmanship, to admire the design, the intricacy and neatness of the stitches. The act of ironing is making me see. I have looked at the stitching as I might look at an object in an art gallery. Even though the creation of this tablecloth was an act of craftmanship rather than creativity the act of ironing has brought me into relationship; with the woman who made it, with my mother who selected and purchased it, with all women who launder and press and select and display their household goods when it comes time for a special dinner celebration.