Ironing Out The Wrinkles

Yesterday I took a seat on a wooden block at the ironing shed as I waited for Ben's shirts to be ironed. These are my observations.

The iron-man's work place reminds me of a grandfathers work-shed in the back yard where all the garden tools are kept. One room, four walls of wood, and a flat-laying tin roof with small gutters to spill the water down the sides during the rains. In the shed-sized room, there is a pile of already-ironed clothing stacked against one wall. With his back pressed to this stack of clothing the iron-man works. A metal desk is the "ironing board" and stained Goofy bed-sheets lay across the metal desk.

His iron must weigh several lbs. Every time he lifts it, his arm muscles strain against the weight. Half-way through the job, the coals locked inside the iron, get cold. He refuels. Walking to the back of the shed, he leans over and dumps out the old coals. Fresh firey-red coals that simmer in their own heat replace the old stale ones. He squeezes back behind the metal desk and resumes his job.

A little girl in a party-red dress with white frills walks hand in hand with her father. She sings him a song and doesn't seem to notice the gravel under her bare feet. Two men chop bamboo poles with an aged axed under scaffolding. An elderly man asks me where I'm from, if I have children, and how much tickets to America cost. I give vague, but polite answers.

The ironing is done and I pay my "brother" the amount I own him--10 cents for 5 shirts. This errand only took 20 minutes out of my day. But sitting with local life is worth a million. And I can't get enough of that reality.