Ironing Hankies & Other Important Tasks

It must have been a summer Tuesday morning when I was about nine years old, because the ironing board was in use. Mom washed clothes every Monday, and on Tuesday, pretty much every Tuesday, she ironed. The basket that had been full of wrinkly clean clothes lay almost empty by the open window from which a gentle breeze and nice daylight entered the room.  Shirts, pants, skirts and dresses, now on hangers, were freshly pressed and ready to be taken upstairs to bedroom closets. The only items left to iron were Dad's white square handkerchiefs. With a quick movement, Mom turned and looked at me with intensity, almost as if she were seeing me for the first time. My two older sisters must have been busy elsewhere, because Mom evaluated me quickly and determined today was the day I'd learn to iron hankies. 

Our ironing board was built into and folded out of the kitchen wall when in use, and had a cabinet style door that closed when the iron was put away. Its location in the kitchen and height couldn't be changed, so Mom quickly pulled the kitchen stool right up next to the ironing board. Then she assessed the length of the heavy iron's electrical cord as she knew my left handedness would make a long cord important. Then she said, "Karen, hop up here, I'm going to teach you to iron Dad's hankies!" I beamed because this was an important task. It was not dusting, folding clothes, wiping dishes, vacuuming, or sweeping, but ironing! Only the big girls and Mom ironed. Today was my day.

To begin, Mom demonstrated how to lay the hankie out, press it to the corners, squirt a bit of water as needed, fold it just like Dad liked, and set it aside. Then she reminded me to be extra careful with the very hot iron and always stand the iron up when not in use. After watching me work for a few minutes she went on to other duties. I was on my own.

After I'd ironed a couple of hankies and set them in a neat pile, my older brother came blasting into the kitchen for a drink of water. He had the cool responsibility of working outside or in the farm shop with Dad. His jobs were without fail more exciting than any job in the house in my opinion, but roles in our home were clearly defined and I was a girl. His work was outside, with Dad, and very important. Being the youngest of three sisters, I felt all my jobs was dull, menial, and inferior except for ironing. 

When Rob noticed that I was ironing, he decided to walk his thirteen year old self over and supervise my work, while he noisily glugged down a couple glasses of cold water. He probably saw my satisfied smile and determined I was rather proud to have this new and important task. As the older sibling, he cockily stood there observing and then remarked. "Looks like you're putting in more wrinkles than you're taking out." Naturally, I was offended and hurt. I believed I was doing a great job and declared that certainly he couldn't do it better. After all, he was a boy. He then announced that there isn't a job anywhere that a girl can do better than a boy. This caused me great concern, and a desire to defend all womenkind, so I proudly stated that girls can SEW better than boys, to which he replied, "No they can't, in fact, a man invented the sewing machine!" I had no response. He strutted back outside. 

With a very small burn on my arm, and newly deflated feelings (thanks to my brother) the hankies were ironed. When Mom came back to check on me she said I'd done good work, thanked me for ironing, and gave me an appreciative smile and loving hug. She said, "Dad will be proud of you too." 

Recently I was cleaning our master bedroom closet and found Tom's mostly ignored (since retirement) white plain and monogramed hankies in a pile high up on the top shelf. I washed them up, and while ironing each one, I remembered that sunny summer day, those conversations and the intense emotions in great detail. My lessons leaned include remembering that it is important to accept new challenges and ignore those who doubt you. Kind words and belief in someone can build them up. Although men and women are different, there are few things a woman can't do. Of the enormous number of things women can do, many are done better by women than by anyone, male or female. 

Happy New Year!

 

The skies are a perfect blue and feature random splotches of fluffy white clouds on this first day of January 2025. The wind is blowing just enough to sway the bare tree branches and add to the chill on this 49 degree day. Tom and I are recovering after a week long bout of some winter flu bug I picked up on my football game travels to Fargo. (We won! Beat South Dakota State University in the semifinals  28-21!) The fireplace feels delightful as do the incrementally longer days and confidence in our improving health as we welcome 2025. 

 

My first recollection of a new year celebration involves new year’s eve with my siblings at home on the farm; it might have been 1967. Our parents were out celebrating that evening with their friends, but before they left, we learned that our kid party at home would include sloppy joes, potato chips, onion dip, and to drink…. 7-Up! Our oldest sibling, Laurie, was officially in charge, but Robert, only a year and a half younger, had his own ideas of who was the leader of our little pack of four. As supper time approached and we got hungry, he deferred and Laurie responsibly took the lead.

 

We gobbled up our party food to our hearts delight and since cleaning the kitchen was routine and expected, I’m sure we did. We played Wahoo, listened to 45’s on the hi-fi and danced around the living room which was our idea of a party. At some point, we must have become unsure if our party plans were sufficient for this auspicious night and Robert got an idea. 

 

Although I credit Robert for dreaming up the plan, it might have been Laurie or Pam. Apparently we needed confetti to toss wildly into the air to welcome 1967 at the stroke of midnight! Our parents probably provided noisy horns to blow or streamers to throw, but we didn’t have confetti. We did have a number of huge well-worn Christmas catalogs though and we soon discovered that the glossy pages, when torn into miniscule pieces, made magical confetti! I’m not sure why we were so motivated, but with four of us working we cut and tore confetti with energy. When midnight arrived on the east coast and the ball in Time’s Square dropped, we watched and waited. Perfect, we had another hour to work. 

 

With short snack breaks for more 7-up and chips and fewer and fewer catalogs to shred, the midnight hour approached in the Central Time Zone. Bowls full of confetti were staged strategically around our feet in the living room as the moment approached so each of us could grab and throw them high into the air at the appointed time. The bigger bowls were nearer to the older kids, but as the youngest, I was proudly responsible for a bowl or two too. 

 

I believe Robert used his brand new water resistant, self-winding, luminous hands wrist watch for our midnight count down. On his cue and with added screams of “Happy New Year!” we threw all the confetti as high as we could. The room was filled with colorful confetti! Our hair, our shirts, our eyelashes, the furniture, the rugs, the coffee table and all the lamps were covered with a fabulous blizzard of billions of little paper bits. It was so beautiful in our eyes, but soon it settled and we recognized a minor dilemma. We needed to clean this mess up before Mom and Dad got home.

We swept, dusted and vacuumed up as much of the confetti as quickly as we could that night. We were pretty confident that we had done a good enough job but Mom saw the evidence right away the next day. She questioned us about our confetti escapades in disbelief. Many weeks later I clearly recall Mom up on a step stool cleaning lots of confetti out of the flush mounted ceiling lamp fixtures in the living room. I watched as she shook her head in amazement that her kids would spend time creating that much confetti to throw high in the air on New Year's Eve. I think she also smiled a little. 

Blessings still outweigh the Challenges

I woke with a start; I was being kicked in my bed! Coming to instant awareness, I realized it was Tom kicking me hard under the covers. In disbelief I yelled, "Tom, stop it!" His kicks landed directly on my left leg and although I was only kicked for a moment, it hurt! Tom woke up when I yelled at him to stop and became aware that he had been kicking me. He asked if I was ok and then explained details of a nightmare where I was kicking him, so in this dream, he was fighting back. He explained the dream was like a black cloud or ghost over his head and that I was kicking him! He claimed he was defending himself (in his dream) and apologized a number of times. He went back to sleep right away, I didn't. By the morning, after a mostly sleepless night, I was worried and scared. 

Why would this happen? He was sleeping. Is he capable of doing it again? Punching me? What about the weapons we have in our house? Would he reach for a gun or bat and use it in his sleep? I pondered these unthinkable thoughts on Sunday morning while my left leg ached from the thrashing it took in the night. I was hurt, mad, and scared. I showered and got ready for church. He walked the dog super early and got ready for his mid-morning nap. He asked me how I was feeling and apologized again. I told him my left leg hurt and I was very concerned. I expressed my thoughts about this kicking happening again, or maybe something worse. I told him I was scared, we argued, and I walked out the door for church at 8:20 am. 

We're getting older and there are issues we face, but we will face them together and do whatever we must. Tom is serious about his health and fending off the aging process. He rides his bike on his stationary trainer every day, with very few exceptions. He eats very healthy and documents all his food intake. He enjoys his bourbon, scotch, whiskey and wine, but rarely in excess. He's lean, strong and weighs nearly the same as when we got married. I can't claim that. But, I'm back on a "live it" style diet, walking everyday and much more motivated than I've been in ages. It's Sober October too, so there aren't any wine calories to report in my food diary. We know what to do, I just need to do it.

Later. on Sunday afternoon, I researched why someone would strike out in their sleep and found an illness called REM sleep behavior disorder. Although I sent Tom three links describing this disorder he didn't check them out. This restless (or should I say combative) sleeping is probably the least of our worries and I can happily say, of the issues we face, the blessings still outweigh the challenges. 

 

Our Bill Andrews Rose

When our landscaping project called for removing trees in our front yard, we planted a rose garden with one yellow rose bush among the red, white and pink roses. The yellow rose didn't thrive like the others. It shamelessly took its sweet time and stubbornly didn't produce roses. We watched and waited for it to bloom for many years, but it didn't.

A few years later we were struggling with the battle Tom's friend Bill Andrews was losing to cancer. While his health declined, we visited, we baked and delivered food, we shared books, cards, and conversations, but he was dying, and our sadness was overwhelming. On Sunday morning June 7th, 2015, Bill's wife called us with the grim news that if we wanted to see Bill one more time, we'd need to be there that day. We set our sights on getting out of the house quickly and driving the hour to Bill's home, where hospice was keeping him comfortable. We wanted to bring something to Bill and Stacy, something meaningful and lovely, something precious and comforting, but we didn't know what. While Tom finished getting ready, I walked to the rose garden and was greeted by one spectacular yellow rose. At that moment, I knew it was meant for Bill and Stacy. I clipped the rose, put it in a small vase and brought it to them as a gift of life in the midst of the sorrow. Now the yellow rose continues to bloom almost always near the time of Bill's death on June 8th. 

Willaim F Andrews was a true American hero and a man of great faith. His Air Force experiences are well documented, and he has been rightly honored in many ways. He was a great friend to Tom and incredible human being. I hope he's always remembered.  We'll always remember Bill and enjoy our Bill Andrews Rose. 

Hi Beautiful!

After a rough weekend and an old argument that resurfaced in our marriage, my husband and I were moving around our house like repelling magnets. When Sunday morning came, I wanted God to fix our troubles and fix me, starting with my heart. I wanted to be reminded how to love, forgive, and reconcile. I knew if I could just get to church, I’d be on the right track. So, I woke early, slipped on the clothes I’d left in a pile the night before along with the previous day's socks and tennis shoes. I ran a comb through my slightly greasy hair, brushed my teeth and cleaned last night’s mascara from around my eyes. I drove to church before 8 am and suddenly, there they were, the whole passel of overzealous, smiling greeters shaking all the church goers' hands too enthusiastically right outside the main entrance. I snickered sarcastically inside and imperceptibly shook my head. I wasn't finding a lot to be happy about and didn't feel like being greeted. Even in my grumpiness, the loud Christian music and the cheerful atmosphere started to soften my heart. I was beginning to feel the positive effects of the environment, but I purposely slipped behind the front door greeters near the main entrance and continued to walk the gauntlet towards the sanctuary reluctantly accepting well-meaning greetings and smiles.  I even shook a few outstretched hands. Inside of me there was deep sadness but inside the church there was palpable joy.  Although I was looking for healing, I was entrenched in my anger and actively resisting joy. But somehow among the many cheerful greeters, there was this one guy. He was maybe my age or a little younger, medium height, not necessarily in peak physical condition, but wearing a huge smile. He saw me coming and in a very ordinary, uncomplicated way, said, “Hi Beautiful!” I laughed out loud! He couldn’t be talking to me.

As I got closer, he reached his hand out to me. I tried to squelch my smirky grin, still amused at his "beautiful" comment. I was un-showered, unfriendly and uninterested in being greeted, but he had a sense of humor. I accepted his handshake and said, “You’re very funny, and thanks, I needed that this morning.” You see I was not and didn't feel beautiful in any capacity, but he was the hand of God reaching out to me. I don’t know who he is and couldn’t pick him out of a lineup, but he offered me exactly what I needed. Old age, marriage challenges, greasy hair, last night’s makeup and clothes, and my bitter attitude didn’t stop the love of God from reaching me this morning through a greeter who dared to say, “Hi Beautiful” to an older woman who felt unlovable and anything but beautiful. He was seeing each person who entered church as a child of God, fearfully and wonderfully made. Psalms 139:14 He was bringing God’s love to the church attendees and reaching people far from God. I’m so grateful.

 

The Ring

While it seemed we were always in a hurry, this particular morning, we were on schedule. Zach was safely in his car seat and our arrival in the drop off line of his 4-year-old pre-school would be right on time. I strapped myself in, started the Honda, put my hands on the steering wheel and prepared to back down the driveway. But something was off. Pausing to think, I looked at my hands and realized my wedding rings and birthstone ring were still on the kitchen windowsill where I left them after scrubbing the sink while our two sons ate breakfast. Andy was a second grader and had already joined his walking group to make his way to second grade at Orange Hunt Elementary School three blocks up the hill. Tom had left early that morning for the Johns’ Hopkins School of Advanced International Studies where he was working on his PhD. I needed to go get my rings.

I turned off the car and explained to Zach I was going to run back in the house and get my wedding ring. He said, “Okey Dokey” which was his normal affirmative response at the time. I was back in less than a minute with my rings on my hands and began again to back down the driveway. From the back seat I heard Zach’s sweet little voice say, “Good thing you got your rings, Mommy.” Curious about his thinking on the whole marriage concept I asked, “Why is that honey?” He said, “Without them, people wouldn’t know I was yours!”

At that moment I understood that his concept of marriage and family included permanence, ownership, belonging, safety, security, stability, and love. He wanted to be associated with me and I with him. My heart swelled. His little voice and big heart offered insight into his love for us as his family. That wedding ring connected us all for now and forever.

Just a Half Mile West of the Farm

When our sons were young, we would drive to the farm in North Dakota and spend a couple of weeks living the fabulous farm life each summer. My parents would put us up and we'd enjoy outdoor fun, tractor rides, combine rides, golf cart driving, go cart driving, picnics, family, cousins, reunions, and church. We puddle stomped on rainy days, we rode rafts on the coulee, we made forts in the trees, we walked fields, we packed lunches to take on hikes through the "time tunnel" and tall grass to magical places while our imaginations ran wild. I was inexorably compelled to make the trip each year and we made terrific memories.

My memories started early as a little girl growing up on that farm. My respect for my Dad, Uncle, Grandpas, Brother and other farmers steered me into agriculture as a career. My fascination with the beauty, productivity, and miracle of seeds developing into harvestable crops remains. The chemistry of the soils, the joy of the seasons, the dependence on the weather, the demands of technology, the teamwork, and the intuitive "art of farming" still hold me captive. 

For 25 years, while our family grew, I reserved two weeks in the fall to help with sugar beet harvest on the farm. I'd drive my truck from midnight to noon loading and unloading as many times as I could as a part of the harvest crew. It was invigorating! It was scary, fun, difficult, challenging and magical. Being on the harvest team filled me and thrilled me, and my Mom, who loved the farm even more than me, noticed.

When I'd get off my 12 hour shift at noon, Mom and I would review the progress of the crew and scout the next field that would be harvested paying special attention to the crossings where the large trucks would enter and exit. This was important as I'd be coming back to work in the dark, and loaded trucks on narrow crossings had to be managed with care. Seeing the approaches to the fields in the daylight would help me navigate my loaded semi on those crossings at night. Then Mom and I would drive on and share our stories of our truck driving and farm experiences and we'd grow even closer. One day as we came back to the farm she pointed at the beautiful cottonwood trees just a half mile west of the farm and remarked how appropriate it was that I loved the farm so much. Then her face softened even more, she smiled, almost shyly, and gently shared the following story.

When my parents were 25 years old, they had three little children (Laurie - 4 1/2, Rob - 3, and Pam 2 months) and lived on the Green Farm. They earned the right to live there as the oldest children of George and Johanna Green. They managed the farm along with Dad's sister Carol and her husband Ralph Tucker. They were young, fun and extremely busy. On a pretty evening in late May of 1957, they arranged for a baby sitter and went on their first "date" since bringing their newest baby home. The date plan was actually just a "crop tour" into St. Thomas, ND (6.5 miles away) by way of the fields they were farming, a visit with friends at the American Legion Club, a few adult beverages, and a quiet drive home. They knew that once they got home they'd need to take the baby sitter home, deal with any little ones who might still be up, clean, organize and plan for the next day. They were a little reluctant to hurry right home. The evening was delightful, warm and starry, and one of them had a twinkle in his eye. 

Mom says they stopped the car and threw a blanket onto the soft green grass under the cottonwood trees that rustled in the light evening breeze. They were just a half mile west of the farm. She said they felt like irresponsible kids, smugly delighted with their growing family, the beautiful crops, and the love they shared. She knew she couldn't get pregnant because she was still nursing her 2 month old baby Pamela. But she was wrong.

Nine months later my parents welcomed their fourth child. My sister Pam and I are Irish Twins (no offense intended to the Irish!) and proud of it. All of us kids know we were conceived in love and I appreciate (and am quite amazed) that Mom shared this story with me. 

Someday, I hope someone will toss some of my ashes out... just a half mile west of the farm.