Friday, February 27, 2009

Daisy Duck

   A little too often Daisy Duck will throw up her wing hands, purse swinging and face red, squawk-quacking  like all get out.  She's excitable.
   It isn't an attractive mannerism. It doesn't make her look smart or urbane or mysterious.  I wish I could (honestly) say that I do not resemble Daisy in the least.   If I had to go Disney, I would rather be Cinderella.  She's contained and forgiving.  Even mysteriously so.  She is beautiful.  Besides, she has all those good-seamstress little mouse friends.  
   Cinderella gets a very pretty dress and a fairy godmother and also the prince.  Daisy gets Donald,  purse and shoes always second in fanciness to Minnie's,  and a bad headache because of all that flapping commotion.
    Actually, I did get a prince.  My life should be perfect.  And it would be too, if I could just tone down my public squack-quacking. 

Wednesday, February 25, 2009

Ironing

Most people don’t iron any more. There are dry cleaners on every corner, an array of no-iron fabrics, and –as is my case – the untroubled willingness to wear wrinkly clothing. These have combined to make ironing a forgotten chore, a lost art.

My mother and father both ironed. Dad ironed in morning chaos. Breakfast was being made, spilled, and eaten. Kids bumbled about in unfocused preparation for school before the bus honked outside. In this confusion Dad often opened the ironing board to iron his pants before work. He called it ‘pressing his trousers’. Dad pressed his trousers and he pressed his dollars. Dad liked nice crisp bills. His ironing money was one of several entertaining features of Dad’s morning ironing.
Mom’s ironing was less colorful. She was a serene ironer, often unconsciously humming. Mom ironed at a different time of day, when rambunctious offspring were less likely to trip over the chord and bring down the board and iron. Dad was a stand-up ironer but Mom opened the board halfway and positioned a chair beside it. That was the first step in the ritual. She spread Dad’s shirts on the dining table one by one. She sprinkled each with water and then rolled it up. When she had all the shirts rolled into moist balls, and arranged on the end of the ironing board, she started ironing.

Once I was standing beside the dining table, almost tall enough to see over the top. My noisy sister and brothers were quiet. Napping perhaps. Mom was ironing and a small propeller plane was stirring up the air outside. It was a profoundly peaceful moment. Both prop planes and ironing seem peaceful to me to this day.
The ironing scene was a little different in our next house. We moved to the Quonset hut when I was in 2nd grade, just before the Christmas play. That house had marvelous details. The drawers in the counter between the kitchen and dining room, for instance, went all the way through. You could open them from either room. There was a hook in the fireplace that swung out, so you could hang an iron pot over the fire. If you had an iron pot. The kitchen had a split Dutch door. There were built-in closet shelves that we climbed up into and a round coat closet and a built-in bed in the living room.
This fascinating house had a fascinating ironing board. Open a closet and pull down the board. It was a Murphy bed ironing board!
Honestly, I think a 2nd grader is too young to iron, but all during my childhood my mother mistook me for an adult. I was allowed the privilege of ironing on the Murphy bed ironing board.
It’s no surprise that I burnt myself. It happened during a tricky maneuver between buttons. The side of the iron caught me. For many years I carried a trapezoidal burn scar on my forearm. Mom continued to iron in the Quonset hut but I didn’t have the same enthusiasm for it.

I have no recollection of any ironing activity in our next house, a wonderful one in San Gabriel California. I’ve plenty of interesting laundry memories, but I think Mom must have ironed when we were in school.
Mom ironed a few years later in Manhattan Beach California. I know because it annoyed me. I was a teenager by that time. Ironing seemed a form of gender subjugation. While I tried my best to tear away the chains of repression strangling my poor mother, she just smiled and hummed and ironed my father’s work shirts. I pushed her to stand up for her rights. She set the iron up so it wouldn’t burn the board and mildly reproved me. “Your father indulges my idiosyncratic preferences,” she told me. “And I’m glad to indulge his.” So that was that. An interesting lesson in harmonious marital dynamics was there if I’d been receptive.
I ventured off to college and set up a life of my own. Ironing wasn’t involved.
My parents and younger siblings moved again. They bought a house in a NY suburb. Inexplicably this house had a heavy-duty chain suspended from the ceiling in the dining room. It could support weight. My grown brothers swung on that chain, kicking off from the fireplace wall out into the room. It was fun. I did it too.

Time had passed but my mother was still happy to indulge my father’s idiosyncratic preferences. She’d set up the ironing board at half height by that chain and settle herself in a dining chair. As she finished each shirt, she put it on a hanger and hung it on a link of the chain. Mom ironed and hummed until finally the whole mound of moist shirt balls was gone and a chain full of freshly ironed shirts hung ready for the closet.

End note:
My mother doesn’t iron anymore. My father died more than 15 years ago and now Mom wears no-iron garments. I don’t know anyone who irons.
I’m on a mission. Let’s not let ironing slip from our racial memory. I encourage all to contribute anecdotes and interesting ironing facts as comments.

Monday, February 23, 2009

Animals - part 1

The birds were all atwitter this morning. Not just twitter, but ooot-oo, her-up, and coydoy. I think they were celebrating. Snow's gone.
A young woman, visiting recently from Spain, was enchanted with the plentiful birds and squirrels in the U.S.
Squirrels? I thought they were ubiquitous.
Then I remembered a trip to California. In Sacramento my mother and siblings and I spent a long time in a public park waiting for my father to reemerge from some bookstore or other. We couldn't believe it. There were real, live squirrels in this park!
My brothers and I ran after some. Even my baby sister toddled along in optimistic pursuit. Those wily little creatures scampered off, ever just beyond reach, but that's not the point. The point is that we saw squirrels, running wild. We were thrilled.
My early childhood unfolded in woodlands outside of Portland, Oregon. Apparently squirrels don't live there. I don't remember any, that's for sure. I don't remember any wildlife. Just those sheep.
The Meekers kept sheep. The sheep were as tall as I was and much bulkier. I didn't like them. Sometimes they crowded up against the wire fence between our properties and I had to notice them when I skipped down the dirt path into the woods to swing on the monkey vines or play some other game. The sheep were always dusty and always munching grass.
My mother loved that house. She loved the woods behind it and the mountainous vista all around and Portland down in the valley, often submerged under a silvery fog lake.
Mom thought it would be a good idea to get a burro for us kids. We could ride it and feed it hay. I think she even proposed names for the burro.
Even though there weren't squirrels, there were birds in those woods. Kildeer is the Oregon state bird. I made a hansome paper mache replica of a kildeer but never actually saw one.
I did see lots of other birds and a goodly number of those giant garden slugs that inch along in the early morning hours and leave a shimmery trail of slime.
But birds, slugs, the Meeker's sheep and the prospective burro were all I knew of Oregon wildlife.

Sunday, February 22, 2009

Big Shell

Back when I was in high school, the district built a brand new auditorium. The roof was shaped like a giant sea shell. What's the name of those shells that spread out like a fan?
That high school isn't far from LAX. Planes, taking off, swooped first over the Pacific Ocean so that if they crashed during take-off the heavily populated land below would not have human life and property smashed to smithereens. This was a needless precaution really. Planes don't crash much. But the safety route does afford passengers a wonderful view of Balboa's Pacific. If they know where to look, they can also see the gigantic seashell roof of my high school's auditorium.