Iron Man

photo: frank rapp

Paul Kidwell’s father taught him the fine art of ironing. Years later, he’s passed the gift on to his own son.

My son recently had a school presentation for which he needed to wear a shirt and tie, so he asked me to help him smooth out the wrinkles in his rumpled shirt. In the delineation of household chores between my wife and I, ironing clothes lands on my “to-do” list because of my decades of experience. See, I learned to perfect this chore at the hands of my father, who happily wielded the hot iron and passed along his legacy to me nearly forty years ago. It’s a gift for which I am eternally grateful.

My parents were trend-setters for a couple raising kids in the 1960’s, and this led them to bulldoze the walls of accepted gender roles. They didn’t do it to make a point, or because they were particularly enlightened. They did it because they were a couple of middle-class working stiffs with three chirping mouths to feed. That meant that mom and dad worked and did what it took to run a successful household. (As an aside—they done good.)

Dad got home at 4 p.m. from his factory job, so it made sense for him to prepare dinner. Mom’s job was close to the local service station, so when the family car needed an oil change, she brought it in for its regular maintenance. But after watching the mechanics go through their routine a few times, it dawned on her that what they were doing wasn’t terribly hard, and she began changing our car’s oil at home (saving a few bucks in the process).

After dinner, the three boys headed in various directions to work on homework, while our parents got us ready for the next day. That usually meant ironing shirts and pants for the kids and an outfit for mom—a task that was my father’s alone.

I would often watch him manipulate garments around the surfboard-shaped ironing board. He did this with the hands of a surgeon. It was a system of delicate and intricate positioning and an economy of movement, followed by graceful and deft ironing that ultimately erased the creases, crinkles, and crumples. The result was a pristine, blemish-free garment that looked as if it had just stepped out of the finest department store display window. It may have been an old shirt, but in the hands of my father it sparkled like new.

I passed along the tradition of ironing to my son, who will soon be away at college and won’t have the safety net of parents to take care of his needs. As I helped guide his own hands along the seams, button holes, and cuffs of his shirt, I reflected on the lessons that I hoped to impart.

It would be simple if each instruction was only about ironing—or similar activities of basic survival. But teaching a young boy about what type of man to become, and guiding him along the various twists and turns of that route—allowing him to fall, pick himself up, and ultimately learn—is not a job for the weak. Not all problems result in a wrinkle-free resolution, and it’s in these areas that I worry if I’m providing the best guidance. I wonder if I am the right man for the job. Frankly, I have doubts. This kid deserves so much.

I’ve taught him how to roast a chicken, grill a steak, smash garlic with the flat edge of a chef’s knife, and sweat the mashed herb in simmering olive oil. I’ve taught him how to bake coconut cupcakes and brownies and julienne and chiffonade vegetables. I’ve taught him how to tie a bow tie and how to match that tie with a shirt. I’ve taught him about the importance of a well-shined shoe and why he should buy his own tuxedo someday. I’ve taught him the importance of courtesy—it’s the only thing I expect of him; the rest is negotiable. I’ve taught him to throw a knuckleball and spiral and how to shoot a basketball. I’ve taught him to clean his plate, to wash dishes, separate the darks from the whites, and dance the tango, waltz, and meringue. I’ve taught him that it’s okay to cry, which I do when I hug him on his birthday and tell him that I’ll miss him terribly when he leaves college.

I’ve also given him my take on friendship, love, romance, girls, women, men, evil, sex, honesty, integrity, commitment, tardiness, politics, work, the death penalty, sports, cellos, trucks, opera, my love for his mother, my love for him, icing in hockey, the infield fly rule in baseball, and the overtime rules in the NFL.

I’ve tried—and will remain diligent in this effort—to make sure I’ve covered the key parts of Manhood 101. And yet, I know I’ve missed a few things. I hope he’s learned enough from me to recognize that some things he’ll have to learn by himself. After all, he’s on the brink of his own adult journey and needs to smooth out the wrinkles of his own life. As my opportunities for influence wane, and he becomes his own man, I smile (amidst the welling tears) and think of him standing over his own ironing board, teaching his own son about life and pressed shirts.