Meditations While Ironing Easter Linens
March 23, 2016
Yesterday, I channeled a Victorian housemaid. After I got home from my lunch in Appleton, I set my sites on Easter preparations, which included ironing table linens, polishing up some silver, and setting one of three dining tables (the one for adults).
It takes a a very long time for me to iron a 90” table cloth and eight big napkins, so I had lots of time to let my mind wander back to my very first job when I was 12 years old. It was the summer before middle school when I lived in Brookfield. My mother got me a job working for a childless woman in the village (Elm Grove).
This dazzling lady was about 45 years old, impeccably groomed, wildly fashionable, and bigger than life.
Her husband, who I only met once by chance, owned several “Negro Radio Stations” in Milwaukee (they were both Caucasian).
She had a gardener, a cleaning lady, a laundry lady, and me. I still don’t know how to describe my job. Some of my duties:
1) Tell the gardener what type of flowers to cut for the house. (She had a “cutting garden” bigger than my current backyard).
2) Watch her try on outfits she would model for me.
3) Try on outfits she thought would look nice on me (if I was a child hooker, that is).
4) Help her inventory her jewelry and furs more often than necessary (these were stored in a refrigerated closet with a lock like a safe or gun locker).
5) Wash vegetables the gardener would bring to the kitchen door. This was always done in a special sink in the kitchen across from the sink for washing dishes. Why?
6) Tell her about my life and dreams - she had lots of questions.
7) Fetch things so she wouldn’t have to move (e.g., stationery from her desk, cigarettes from her nightstand).
8) Hang out with the laundry woman when the lady wanted privacy or a nap.
9) Go to lunch at fancy restaurants (often after she would dress me up in her clothes and sometimes even style my hair). My mother said the lady was paying me, but I never saw a dollar. My mom assured me she was saving it for my wedding. I repeat, "never saw a dollar."
(Such a weird childhood, I know).
But what triggered this memory was ironing. The gardener, the cleaning lady, and the laundry lady were all African-Americans, the first I ever got to know.
I spent social time only with the laundry lady. She was a big woman with a soft deep voice. She told me her son was a disc jockey at one of the radio stations and had gotten her this job. She was so grateful to have it.
She wore a white uniform every single day. She was like a Master Ironer. I impressed her with my knowledge of sprinkling and refrigerating the clothes. But I only had ironed flat things. She taught me how to do pleats, men’s shirts, slacks, and a multitude of finesse moves with the iron. She was such a happy lady, laughing and having a ball no matter what we were ironing together.
I felt sorry for my employer lady, though. Even at 12 years old, I could tell she was tragic. The classic “poor little rich girl.”
So as I ironed yesterday, I wondered what the heck my mom was thinking setting a 12 year old up in this bizarre situation for the summer. Was she hoping I would aspire to wealth? Was she hoping I would have some insight about happiness, class culture, materialism, or just meet some “negroes?”
Maybe she simply wanted me to learn to iron?
I wish I could ask her, but, regardless of her motives, it was a fascinating (and delicious) summer. After writing this, I’ve decided what to call my first job. I think it is best described as “paid admirer and friend.” What do you think. Fits?
This makes me smile. "Paid Admirer and Friend." That sort of describes ALL my jobs!
P.S. If you are unfamiliar with "cutting gardens," this photo is similar to her cutting garden, but hers was three elevated tiers and the width of their property. I wonder if it's still there.