Do You Know What This Is—Part Deux?

I'll start off by telling you—it's an iron. Now my mother's generation knew what an iron was. Every Monday morning she did the wash. Unless it was raining cats and dogs and she couldn't hang up the wash on the line in the garden. In that case it was often hung up to dry around the fire. I am pretty sure that over the years the washing was done in various "machines", including pans of boiling water and it wasn't until after I left home that we got something resembling a washing machine. There really was no way to expand our tiny kitchen. Lunch (our main meal) consisted of leftovers from our big Sunday lunch—nasty if it had been lamb, so greasy.   In the afternoon, out came the ironing board and the iron and she went to work. Sometimes I helped her. We ironed sheets and dish towels—well, just about everything. Everything was  cotton, but we had never been allowed to change our clothes with the frequency of the modern child, so I never remember this job lasting past tea-time. That's how I learned to iron. We watched "Look Back in Anger" not too long ago. Strange to watch the rebellious products of a disaffected generation ironing shirts.

For over fifty years I have ironed. I was led to believe that university chairs needed ironed shirts (though I met a Vice President in our local library one evening and he told me he spent every Sunday afternoon ironing his own shirts). I drew the line at towels and dishtowels. This is a brand new, unused iron. My former iron had begun to drip brown pools of water, but even worse, the steam was burning my arm. Of course, I am going to use it, but I am apprehensive. Every new appliance gets more and more complicated. There was an enormous choice, so I pretty much chose this one because I thought the purple was pretty. Will I be able to follow the instructions? I still can't work the car we bought six months ago. Will this iron talk to me? Worse still,  will it beam my location up to the N.S.A. so that some contractor seeking asylum in Ecuador knows where I am am what color my underwear is?

One thing is sure, I know it is not a good idea to give cotton garments as gifts to some of my grand children. A couple of my daughters are proficient with an iron, but at least one, and I am talking to you, Liz, don't know one end of an iron from another.

Which leads me to wonder about my grandchildren and great-grandchildren. I guess there is nothing wrong about being crumpled. Or is there?