I like ironing.
It sounds like a mundane task, but let me explain. My grandmother came to our farm when I was very young, and she stayed for a prolonged visit each time she came. She didn’t do a lot of talking; in fact, in my child memory, I have no recall of her speaking at all, which can’t possibly be true, but there it is.
What she did do was organize the pantry, lay out buns to rise on the sofa in the afternoon sunshine, tucking them in like babies, make butterscotch pie with the “butter the size of an egg” recipe instructions and iron everything that had long been waiting for her arrival—my father’s shirts, tea towels, sheets and pillowcases and anything else that looked wrinkled.
The iron seemed to make everything appear brand new, or at the very least, as if it had been granted a fresh start. She set herself up in the dining room with a view of the river. She was short, and perched herself upon a kitchen stool (I blame her for my vertical challenges).
My mother, at five foot three, was the tallest of my grandmother’s daughters, which I don’t think even qualifies to be in the category of “tall”, but I digress. There my grandmother sat on the stool, the ironing board lowered to an ideal height for her. I watched her from under the dining room table in my blanket tent with my pillow and a book. She didn’t speak. She seemed almost in a trance and therein lies the story.
For decades now, we have been advised on the health benefits, both physical and emotional, of meditation. I’ve tried it, but I can’t quite master the ability to silence my body let alone silence my mind, to sit in a state of wakeful slumber. I think there are many activities that could be considered legitimate for acquiring a meditative state—walking, knitting, piano playing, cycling, painting. You will have your own list, and I wonder if said list includes… ironing.
My grandmother, along with my grandfather, raised six daughters while operating the Walter Sutherland General Store in Clandeboye, Man., where they sold groceries, tools, gasoline, livestock feed and, of course, ice cream. The depression hit Manitoba the hardest in the 1930s. In 1936 alone, 14000 prairie farms were abandoned. Farm income was cut by 80 per cent in the province in 1932.
My grandparents kept their community going during this difficult time, extending credit and accepting whatever families could pay, sometimes nothing, for food and other necessities. When my grandfather received a payment, he quickly put that money toward food for those in need. An older cousin of mine recounts the time the Grey Goose bus arrived in Clandeboye to deliver supplies that included a big box of bananas, an unknown food item for most residents. Tucked in amongst the bananas was the body of a huge tarantula spider. People came from all over to catch a sight of it.
I didn’t have the opportunity to meet my grandfather. He died at age 63 on Feb. 21 in 1949, fittingly after a game of curling, a sport he loved. He shook the hands of the winning opponents and then sat down on the edge of the curling ice and took his last breath.
Perhaps that is what silenced my grandmother. Maybe she had said all she had to say. But I like to think that while she ironed, she remembered those difficult days during the depression, the satisfaction of helping others, the determination and grit it took to survive. My grandmother was the oldest of 11 children, eight girls and three boys. Maybe being the oldest required her to do a lot of listening. Or maybe she was waiting for me to ask her a question. I wish I had.
