Joy of ironing
Today I made a couple of tablecloths from lovely scarlet brocade. After patiently straightening and measuring and hemming, I ironed the hems flat.
It brought back memories. First, of the "sad irons" we had when I was a kid. There were two cast iron blades and a handle doohickey that was used to pick them up. When the one you were using cooled, you pulled a lever and dropped that back on the stove, then picked up the other one, by now nicely heated.
I didn't know why they were sad -- but they did have to be heated on top of the wood stove, but the pain of sitting on top of the stove could have done it, I thought. Turns out that sad is a throwback to an older meaning, heavy, which is now obsolete.
As a kid, I loved ironing. But things sometimes went wrong. I remember leaving the iron on a nylon lace trimmed collar too long, and being dismayed when I half melted it. I also remember that one time my little brother's hand somehow got between the heavy iron and the ironing board. Unfortunately for him, I wasn't fast enough to avoid giving him a slight press.
These days, we rarely iron. Many fabrics don't need pressing, and besides, few people feel they have the time for such details. Most clothes can be caught on the fly as they come out of the dryer, and folded or hung up before they have a chance to develop any wrinkles.
The sad irons and holders in the picture are being offered for sale in Coderre, Saskatchewan, as "antiques and collectibles."