Ironing

I have a word to say to those of you who may have never set your hand to the gentle art of ironing. And the word is, simply enough, "Don't do it."

Ironing is a terrible job, far more complicated than it seems to be at first glance, and not at all worth the trouble it takes. I know. I tried it myself a few days ago. It was not a pleasant experience. First, you have to get an iron. Actually, the getting of the thing was easy enough. All one needs to do is walk into the store, and there they are, lined up on the shelf in gleaming rows. It was the work of a moment to pick one up, say the magic words, ("Charge it") and head for home, reeling with visions of sartorial splendor. No more the rumpled unkempt wrinkles of the careless celibate. From now on it was to be smooth shirts and crisp creases, the total well-turned-out look that is so much the mark of the jet set these days.

It was with the eager confidence of one who sees only better things ahead, then, that I tackled the instruction booklet. Step one: plug in the iron. They didn't specify exactly into what the iron should be plugged, but as one well schooled in logical thought, I just assumed they meant the wall socket. As it happened, I was right. That was the last time that morning.

Step two: "Of what material is the clothing to be ironed made? (see chart on faceplate of iron)." Again, no real problem here. Clearly the clothing to be ironed, a pair of pants, was made of cloth. But then a small cloud on the horizon. Following the instructions to check the list on the faceplate of the iron, I could see no correlation whatever between the two. The list was made up of words like "Acrilan... Creslan... Orlon... Dacron... (I thought that was a city in Ohio) Kodel... Trevira..." But nowhere did it say, simply, "cloth."

A closer look at the machine itself brought to light an array of buttons, dials and levers that made the cockpit of a 747 Stratocruiser look like a Tonka Toy. They were all variously labeled PermP... WI... Cot... Lin..." The only words I recognized at all were "Off" and "Warm." I was pretty sure that "Off" would probably be the least productive setting of the lot, so I flicked the lever to warm, laid the pants out on the kitchen counter, and went at it.

Some twenty minutes later it dawned on me that I was making no progress whatever. The crease was not crisp, the wrinkles were still rumpled. Some adjustment had to be made. I took another look at the controls. Way on the far end of the dial was the setting, "WL." It seemed a safe bet that that stood for something like "wrinkles, lousy." Well, if ever wrinkles were that, these were them. Over goes the lever, and back to work.

When you think of the word "melt," you do not often associate it with pants. Snowmen, ice cream cones, M & M's, yes, but not pants. Take it from me, they melt. Unfortunately, when I laid the pants out on the kitchen counter, I failed to notice a rather large coffee stain just under the right leg. By the time I did notice the stain, it had been permanently welded into that same right leg. Obviously, I had the blasted thing too hot.

Now, what cools things down? Water. The instructions had made provisions for just such a turn of events. It was clearly time to turn to steam power. I had been told by the salesman not to use tap water in the iron. Which was fine, except that the only other liquid in the house was Dr. Pepper, and altar wine. Being reluctant to waste the latter, I turned to the former.

The results were spectacular. The stuff spat and fizzed like one of those model volcanoes you see at the school Science Fair. The conclusion was that brown steam added nothing to the pant's appearance. After some further experimentation, aided by language I thought I had forgotten as a sophomore in college, I finally found a mix of heat and moisture that seemed to work. But by then, all the joy was out of the thing. I found myself saying things like, "That wrinkle isn't so bad after all.... What's the matter with rumpled clothes anyway? . . . Lot's of famous people didn't have ironed pants."

Well, the point of all of this is a simple one. Most of the time, for most people, it's the little things in life that pose the greater challenge. Virtue is seldom the stuff of which legends are made. Most of the time a truly Christian morality is simply a matter of getting through the day as gently as possible. Courage, even heroism has little to do with storming San Juan Hill or countering the threat of Godless Communism. Rather it has everything to do with responding patiently and lovingly to noisy kids, impatient customers, recalcitrant machinery, and housework... endless, boring, numbing housework. Most of the time it's the stubbed toe, not the broken back that calls for the best in us.

And it is by responding with the best that we have that we are saved. God, after all, calls us with the best that He has. So, it's all worth the effort. It's all worth doing. All, that is, except ironing. The next time that urge strikes me, I plan to lie down till it goes away.

From 1980 through 1982, Father Sandell served as Chaplain to the Bishop O'Reilly Council No. 3918,Grafton, North Dakota Chapter of the Knights of Columbus. "Scattered Thoughts" is a collection of essays based on columns originally written for the Chaplain's Corner, section of the Council's monthly newsletter.