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The New Iron
by Bruce Gardner
It all started when I knocked the steam iron off the shelf. Those who know me know that I am more than a little clumsy and so knocking things over and dropping things is a daily occurrence. Our old iron had been with us for years but until I plunged it to the floor it worked just fine. Now it lay in assorted pieces held together by strands of its innards. Besides being clumsy I’m not mechanically gifted, so of course I set about repairing the damage. My wife quite happily watched the proceedings, realizing that she would be getting a new iron shortly.
After fiddling with the iron’s assorted parts for half an hour, contemplating how best to apply the duct tape, I decided that a repair job on a hand-held electrical appliance that has a built-in holding tank for water was probably not a good idea. I recycled the whole mess in the kitchen garbage can. Now events got really interesting.
My wife, now needing a new iron, decided to shop first at our town’s flea market. She visits this venerable establishment so often that other customers assume she works there and ask her for help. Sure enough the flea market had three or four irons to choose from and she made her selection--an iron used only on Sundays, never dropped, and with no starch build-up on the business end. So far so good.
While closely examining the irons, my wife happened to notice the particularly fine selection of used couches. Our old couch had long been a sore subject. I liked it just fine because it was longer than I am. My wife felt the old couch was past its prime just because all the springs had been broken by jumping toddlers (our youngest is now sixteen), the cushions were stained by countless pets and snacking kids, and one arm had been proudly initialed by a first grader. The next thing I knew the crafty gentleman who runs the flea market was at my door asking for my help in unloading not only a new couch, but a love seat as well. (Have you ever wondered about that phrase ‘love seat’? It seems to me that a love seat is entirely too short for that sort of thing.) The flea market owner and I wrestled with the monstrous new couch for half an hour as the couch was twice as wide as the front door. With the couch standing on end we twisted and turned and grunted and groaned as we maneuvered it through the doorway, looking like two skinny men trying to dance with one fat lady.
Finally the new couch and love seat were inside and our old couch was outside, safely headed on its way to a new home. Next on the agenda was a rearrangement of the furniture. Abdominal surgeons who wished to avoid a lapse in business invented the sport of furniture rearranging. I know this because not only is furniture heavy, but it is also built in such a way that lifting with your legs is not a possibility while receiving a hernia is. We pushed and shoved and tried the furnishings this way and that. The framed pictures on the walls were moved twice and, with everything in its place, my wife decided that the old, drab paint scheme in the parlor was no match for the lustrous new couch. The walls demanded paint and it now looked like my week-end would not include fishing.
Saturday morning we unloaded the room and my wife agonized for hours over the new paint color. Not that I could actually start painting--oh no--there was lots of plaster patching to do first. For the better part of the day I patched and sanded. As the day wore on I, and everything on the south end of the house, took on a coating of fine, white powder such that it looked as if our house had been next door to an explosion at the flour mill.
When it was time to paint my wife insisted that we mask the woodwork and drape every surface that was not to receive a coat of paint. She has learned from experience that my goal when painting is to get to the end of the job as quickly as possible--a little paint on the wall, a little paint on me, and a little paint on everything else within reach. We managed to apply two coats of lovely butterscotch paint to the walls without serious mishap--I fell off the ladder only once with an open bucket of paint in my hand. Didn’t spill a drop.
By late Sunday evening we were once again flirting with a date with the abdominal surgeon as we moved furniture back into our new parlor and re-hung the pictures. All is in order now it does look good. The new iron is safely stored on its shelf and I tread lightly when in its presence--no need to tempt fate.
I'll be seeing you out there.
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