Chairwoman of the Board

Every evening, after she cleaned up the dinner dishes "her way," my mom would set up the ironing board in the living room. I don't remember -- never really thought about it -- but there must have been grooves in the carpet where she had set up her nightly shop. The position of the ironing board, like most of my mother's routines, was exact and unwavering.

It has always puzzled my mom, my aversion to ironing. She is well aware of my aversion to housework in general, but ironing, for her, was different. It was relaxing, therapeutic, predictable. Same time, same place, every evening. With her back to the mirror hanging on the wall above the upright piano, she would stand under the glow of our rather garish crystal chandelier, her skinny legs poking out from under her house dress, one bony arm holding on to the board as she leaned over it intently. Slap, slide, retract, slap slide retract. A pause so she could lift the garment and turn it, then slap, slide, retract again.

Though I would think I never paid much attention -- I was either chatting with my father or engrossed in some sitcom -- I can see her now so clearly, lifting up each finished item, examining it, folding it up, moving on. Then slap, slide, retract, slap, slight, retract. The background music to our family evenings: relaxing, therapeutic, predictable. For me.

Recently, I've dragged out my own ironing board more than a few times. Not for everything, mind you. Not even close. But I have discovered the miracle of ironing. Not just the immediate gratification of watching wrinkles disappear (ahh, if only face cream worked so well), and not just the startling economic windfall of being able to wear favorite clothing more than once. More than those things, it's the nostalgic assault on my senses. Slap. The rattle of the board's  flimsy legs is so familiar, a sound oddly comforting as it conjures up images of my mother doing her chores, chores that she never viewed as optional. And images of my father, sitting in his favorite chair at the other end of the living room, curls of smoke lifting from the tip of his cigar, his New York Times folded in quarters in front of him as he read it from cover to cover, leaving the crossword for last. Slap, slide retract. Puff, crackle as he shook out the paper to turn the page, fold, puff, flick. The sights and sounds of my childhood, barely noticeable, I thought, but so vivid.

Up until now, I've been doing it in the privacy of my bathroom. (Ironing, perverts.) It just happens to be where I found the long dormant appliance. I am thinking of moving it down to the kitchen, making myself the background noise while my daughter texts with one hand and does her homework with the other. Slap, slide, retract. Tap, tap, tap, the whisper of a page being flipped, the dull clang of her binder rings as they open and close.

Vacuuming? That's not happening. But there's no reason my daughter and I can't just start to iron things out, together.