Little white puffs of richly scented vapor float up to the
ceiling as the iron sizzles across my daddy’s frozen shirts. My mama goes back and forth to the Frigidaire
pulling one extra-large white cotton shirt after another out of the freezer,
sprinkles them with water from a soda bottle and uses her heavy iron to flatten
out the wrinkled rough cotton resulting in a smooth warm shine.
It is Wednesday – ironing day – on a hot summer afternoon at our house. The steam from the iron smells clean, the real kind of clean, the clean that comes from Duz washing powder and hot water and hanging for mere minutes on the clothes line in the blistering Mississippi summer heat. We drink orange juice every morning from tiny juice glasses etched in a 22k gold wheat pattern that come free in every box of Duz. We have a complete set.
I am lying down for an afternoon nap with my little sister and baby brother. I’m 5 years old, much too old for a nap, but mama says I have to rest with my siblings so that they will nap. If I am real still and quiet, I can get up and color or play Barbies while the younger kids sleep. I am in the middle. The cream of the Oreo, with my baby brother’s crib pushed up next to the bed that I share with my little sister. Andy is sprawled out across his crib in only a diaper, his chubby cheeks slightly pink from the heat. I am holding his hand through the bars of the crib, which I do every night to keep him from fussing before he finally drops off to sleep a few hours before he is wide awake again, ready for a bottle and a diaper change.
My little sister,
Gail, is on the other side, face turned away from me, with her thick blond curls spilling
over her pillow and onto mine. She talks a lot, even in her sleep, and she
laughs out loud in her dreams. I count the buttons down the back of her favorite top, slightly touching each button and starting all over when I get to the
bottom. The buttons are pearly and tiny and she needs help getting into the blouse she wants to wear every day. I
count the buttons until I get to 20, then I look toward the foot of the bed at
mama to see if I can get up now.
I see my mama dressed in petal pushers and a sleeveless blouse much like Gail's. She absent-mindedly licks her finger and quickly touches the iron to make sure it is still hot enough. The transistor radio sits on top of the chest of drawers, watching as my mama softly sings along with Johnny Cash’s big, gravelly voice. Ring of Fire.
She goes about her work quickly, efficiently, like she does everything, occasionally glancing over at us checking to see how much more quiet time she has before we are awake and she will have arguments to negotiate, boo boos to kiss and supper to finish
I hear her flip flops as she hurries from bedroom to kitchen to get another shirt and check on the pot of pinto beans that have been cooking since early morning. Wednesday – it is not only ironing day, but also fried chicken, pinto beans and mashed potatoes-for-supper day. Wednesdays are busy for her, but she smiles at secret thoughts I know nothing about and sings and pops her Double Mint gum and she is happy.
We are all in the same room on this summer day because our
room – the one I share with my sister and my baby brother – is the only room
with an air conditioner. It’s a window
unit that cools our bedroom and my mama and daddy’s room across the hall. We have air conditioning because doctors assure
my parents that the cool air will help my asthmatic sister breathe better. It does.
I don’t know why this hot summer day climbs to the top of the
mountain of my memories so often and so clearly. Maybe
because on this day, I thought my baby brother would always reach out for me when
he needed comforting. I thought my
sister would always breathe easy and sleep peacefully. That my mother would be secure in the
knowledge that her children are all safe and within arm's reach of her. I thought my daddy would always be walking
through the door in crisp white shirts ironed with love by his wife. I believed all Wednesdays would bring chores
and fried chicken. That mamas always sang while they ironed and smelled of
minty gum and Evening in Paris perfume. I
thought that if I was still and quiet, my brother and sister would always be beside me and I could get up and play and know that they
would be joining me shortly.
I have learned that summers end. Children grow up. Move away.
Live their lives. Face their
demons and sometimes lose their battles. Daddys don’t always walk through doors
at the end of the day and mamas don’t forever feel safe and secure. I now know that every minute in time is
unique, singular and precious.
Just like the wheat pattern that is etched into those
little Duz juice glasses, this day – this ordinary summer day - will
be etched into my memories forever.
Unique, singular and precious.
