Mother, Mouse, Cat and Dog

The Dangers of Ironing

By Noel Laflin

2-19-02



I have never cared for ironing.

The plain truth is, I detest it.

The thought of burnt fingertips, funny creases in obvious places, and unruly long sleeves will put me in a sour mood each time I am forced to deal with wrinkled garments.

But piled up it had, the laundry that is.  The clothes had gained such height that I now faced the inevitable.  I finally found myself forced to go in search of the old wooden ironing board stashed away in the upstairs closet one evening. 

“I hate ironing,” I mumbled for the umpteenth time.  “How the hell did mom do this all her life?” I wondered. 

Remembrances of her standing in front of an ironing board, very similar to the one, which now resided within my home, came to mind with a flourish.  Shirts, pants, blouses, neckerchiefs, handkerchiefs, pillowcases, Brownie, Cub and Boy Scout uniforms, as well as bed sheets were all put under the pressing of her strong arms.  I recall the faded brown burn on the inside of her right arm, a reminder of a passing hot iron from years before.

“Did it hurt, mom?” I had asked one day.

“Like the dickens,” she replied.  “Got too close, I guess.  Put some oleo on it as soon as it happened, though, and stopped the pain.  Oleomargarine works every time,” she insisted. 

“Ironing does have its dangers,” she mused, absently touching the old scar.

Long forgotten conversations from my boyhood home danced about in memory.  There was mom going about this weekly chore - radio playing in the background and me lying on the bed watching her press - watching her create neat, creased order out of wrinkled chaos. I envision ever so vividly the steam rising from damp cloth as the heavy iron pressed hard into the fabric of my father’s shirt.  I can see her still, expertly skirting the buttons.  I can hear the hiss of steam coming from the black and stainless steel iron when it was tilted back in place as she realigned the pant leg on the narrow end of the board, lining up the crease.  I remember, as if it were yesterday, the smell of dampness meeting heat when the old iron was put to task again.  I can hear, once more, the shaking of the sprinkler-corked soda pop bottle now filled with water, baptizing white cotton sheets.  I recall the clunk, clunk, clunk, as the iron hit the board.

“Damn, where is that thing?” The old memories quickly faded.  I had reached the spare room closet and could not find the accursed ironing board.  It’s counterpart, the iron, was already plugged in, warming up down in the kitchen. Shirts and pants were piled high on the table. I could never bring myself to tackle bed sheets.  Saw no sense in that.  Never did tell mom, though.

I brushed various articles aside and looked to the rear of the closet.  Not there either.

Sliding the door closed I went to the other end and peered within.

“Ah, ha!” I whispered. Serving secret duty as a coat rack, the dreaded board stood erect in the far corner.  I removed this instrument of torture and flipped it over in a horizontal position, for easier carrying down the stairs.

That’s when we made eye contact.

A small gray field mouse was nesting in the slipcover and padding on the bottom of the ironing board.  He or she had gathered up quite a bit of the excess cotton and brought it all to one end of the board, making what looked to be a very cozy mouse house.

“Well, damn!” I muttered in amazement.   “You don’t use something for a month or two and half-pint squatters soon take over.  What do you know, Joe?” I asked my newly found freeloading tenant. 

The small, black, beady eyes locked onto mine.  Messier or Madame Mouse looked as if he or she had just been awakened from a fine nap. Well, at least the little guy or gal was putting the damn board to some good use.  The rodent was now frozen in place, as was I.

“What to do, what to do?” I wondered to no one in particular, except the mouse.

I had not been aware of mice in my place up until now.  Having a cat around, as I always did, freed me from ever giving much thought to rodent questions of this sort.

“The cat!” I cried, looking about quickly for the black and white tabby.  Her name was Omen.  She would assume this new find in the ironing board to be a good omen indeed, if she caught wind of it. 

The cat was not in sight, however - good omen for the mouse, perhaps.

“What to do, what to do, Joe?” I asked once more.  I needed a plan. 

I had always been rather fond of mice, even wild ones, such as this.  I perceived them to be the underdogs in life, the little guys just trying to make a go of things.  I had pet mice as a kid and tolerated the families of field mice that took over our shabby summer quarters at Scout camp.  The mattresses at Camp Ahwahnee were so infested with mice that you sometimes could feel them beneath your prone body as they ran up and down their padded mouse paths within the bed itself as you tired to sleep.  They made nests in your boots, clothes and footlocker, if they could find a way in.  They stole your food, chewed holes in your last clean pair of socks and kept you up half the night scampering about the staff cabins.  They were there first I figured.  I was only a summer guest.  It was only a temporary sharing of quarters.  I would not trap them, as others did.

Despite their noisy nocturnal habits and thieving ways, I liked them nonetheless.  I could never bear to watch the nature crew feeding captured mice to the rattlesnakes.  The likewise captive diamond back rattlers had to eat too, I guess.  And although it fascinated many a boy to watch a poor mouse being dropped into the thick glass terrarium, freeze in place once he saw the snake and then await his violent death, the kill always sickened me.  The mouse never had a sporting chance, locked in the confines of this see-through prison.  It was always just a matter of time before the snake made its move, opened its mouth, pounced, bit and swallowed the rodent whole.  Unhinging its jaw, the snake could swallow the prey slowly, yet determinedly.  Over time one could watch the lump make its way down the snake’s belly, eventually getting smaller and smaller until fully digested and them eliminated as a furry gray snake turd some days later.  Nope, I just never did take a hankering to that scene. 

So, I looked about for the cat once more.  Not up here, at least.

If I could only make my way down the stairs without spooking Joe here, or alerting the cat, I reasoned, I  just might get the board outside and shake the little one free.  OK, so I had a plan.  But to quote Robert Burns: “The best-laid schemes o’ mice an’ men . . .”

I was halfway down the thirteen steps when I spotted Omen.  Head in the air, she had apparently caught a whiff of what I carried in my arms.  Like Joe, Omen had been asleep too.  Well, she was fully awake now, and off that old couch in a flash.  She bounded for the base of the stairs and stared very intently at my carefully held bundle.  A low growl emanated from the back of her throat.  Her tail whipped the air, back and forth, her green eyes wide and wild looking.  Natural instincts had taken over.

I whispered to Joe to just be cool and not make any sudden moves.  I continued my decent, keeping one foot ready to kick Omen away should she stray any closer.  My small stowaway was frozen in place.  I wondered if it too could smell or at least sense the potential danger awaiting him or her at the foot of the stairs.  Must have.  As I reached the landing and slowly went for the handle of the front door little Joe make a mad dash for freedom. 

Leaping from its snug nest the mouse bounded over my shoulder and landed on the second step.  The cat, seeing her chance, jumped up from where she was poised and flew past my leg.  She over shot her leap, however, and missed her prey.  The mouse, seeing the new danger now so close at hand, turned tail and ran back down the stairs.

By now I had the front door open and motioned stupidly for Joe to head this way, where I intended to block the cat’s pursuit and give the mouse time to hide in the ivy out front.

Poor dumb mouse.  It bypassed the road to freedom and headed to my left, straight for the living room.

Enter the newest player at this point - the dog.

Now Tara was of a smallish breed, a Lhasa Apso, black in color, gentle in disposition.  She weighed no more than twelve pounds, at best.  She was a calm, loving dog and was,  until recently, napping in the dining room. It seems they had all been napping - all but me.  Regardless, with the sudden commotion now happening not more than ten feet away, she awoke from her slumber and spotted the small gray toy-like object speeding her way.  I don’t believe, in her young life, that she had ever seen a mouse up until now.  At  any rate, with unforeseen alertness, she leaped from her bed and joined the race.  Both dog and cat were on a collision course.  One fast moving mouse lay trapped between them.

With Omen now less than a foot from her rapidly moving target, Tara beat her to the punch, opened her little canine mouth and gulped down the surprised mouse in one swift reflex of a move.  Joe was no more.

I stared in disbelief.

The cat stared in disbelief.        

The dog swallowed hard and burped in disbelief.

I must have looked brokenhearted.

The dog looked sheepish and yet proud.

The cat looked downright pissed off.  Glaring at Tara, she slunk off in embarrassment.

Tara lay back down and went to sleep.

I, standing like a dummy with the old wooden ironing board still in hand, recalled my mother’s warning of long ago:  “Ironing does have its dangers."

Damn right, mom.  Just ask the late, great, little Joe.

With that, I proceeded out the open front door, walked to the dumpster and unceremoniously tossed the old ironing board into the trash.

The next day I put on my least wrinkled shirt, loaded the rest in the car and headed off in search of a new best friend.  I found him a short time later in Old El Modena.  His name was  Kevin -  Kevin the drycleaner.

There are some dangers, unforeseen as they may be, that should be avoided at all costs.  Fifty cents a shirt was what it now cost me.  A small price to pay, I thought, as I threw the iron in the dumpster later that day.

It made the most satisfying clunk as the iron hit the board.

And with that - I pressed the issue - nevermore.