Flop Bott: Ironing

How often do we forget that the simple things that we have are the diamonds of our lives?

I drove to friend's house today to share dinner. Lyndee and Jean are connected intimately with Haiti, Jean is from there. He came to America to attend BYU-I and graduated in Engineering. AFter the earthquake and I recalled their connection, I called to see if they were affected.

Jean shared that his mother, age 76, is a few miles from the epicenter and thankfully they have a well on their property. We set up a dinner date to eat Haitian food and talk.

I ate amazing black bean syrup poured over sticky white rice topped with legumes (a mix of vegetables like cabbage and broccolic so finely chopped it melted in your mouth) mixed in with mouth watering shredded pork. (why did I not ask if I could bring some home?)

I mentioned to, Jean, that my friend's father, who visited Haiti, was very impressed with how the people clean themselves up for church on Sundays. Despite living in tents, the lack of water and health care, they come to church looking REALLY sharp.

As I stuffed a fried platana in my mouth, Jean told me that it is because of their French background. That no matter what, they iron their clothes and keep themselves immaculately clean and always have.

The message Care's father wanted her to teach the girls at camp this year was this; that despite not having the "conveniences" of home they can still take care of themselves and look comely.

Jean talked about Saturdays being the day the family worked really hard to get things cleaned up for Sunday. Their clothes pressed and ready to go.

Wow. I throw the ironing board up right before church and pray the iron is hot enough. Actually I mainly opt for the none iron outfit.

It really made me stop and re-commit to some things like ironing.

"Ironing" actually is part of my genes as well. And I don't think I have any french blood cursing through my veins. My Great Grandma Vera Smith loved crisp white sheets and pillow cases. After hours of washing, ironing and making beds, she would look back on her work and say: "Look at that bed. Isn't that the nicest made bed you have ever seen?"

Truly her work was art.

I can remember the sight of canned peaches catching the sunlight streaming through the window, as big fleshy colored halved moons of fruit glimmered in glass jars on her counter top. The clear jars polished with a white tea towel by Grandma, like they were diamonds. They tasted even better.

I can picture Grandma in a floral print house dress washing dishes by hand in the kitchen, her stark white hair against that beautiful white porcelien skin. She lived to 102. The hard work ethic she gleaned as a daughter of 16 children raised on a farm no doubt played part in her long life.

Grandma in the Nurshing home..