Can’t tell you why I never saw a lot of my Paternal Grandmother, Ethel. She was a Victorian woman born and raised in the part of Dallas known as “The Vineyard” which is roughly where The Crescent is now. Her family was a prominent local family. Her husband was a prominent local family. She lived the life of her patrician upbringing even beyond her means to afford it. And, because I did not see her often, only her most profound impressions on me remain clear.
”I cannot sleep on unironed sheets.” she told me as the mere triflings of an answer to the question, “How are you?” As a child, “Unironed sheets” begged the question of “ironed sheets”. Particularly as it served as a complete and responsible response to my question. We had help at our house. Mae made our beds, did our laundry, and took care of us, but I never once saw her iron a sheet.
Douglas, on the other hand. Douglas was Ethel’s man. He had worked for my grandparents forever. He was tall and broad, an adult so I had no idea of his age. He wore black shoes well-polished, white socks, black creased linen trousers, white shirt, white vest, and a black tie. He smiled all the time while attending to his duties up and down the hall from the kitchen to Grandfather’s room and saying, “Yes, ma’am. Yes, Mrs. Watson. Yes, ma’am.” Bright eyes and a quick step, he was happy doing Ethel’s bidding. He was happy to see my brothers and me, too. He had raised my Dad.
Grandfather had suffered a debilitating stroke before I was born. His illness ate up all of their resources, but, somehow, they were able to continue. Ethel kept up her social calendar. Douglas took care of the house, car, and those who tended the yard. He still found time to hand around my Grandfather from bed, to table, to bath which were ostensibly his primary responsibilities.
I can remember that every morning, Douglas would air out the sheets. If not on the line in the yard, then the space out of the rain on the screen-in porch providing that Ethel was not entertaining a luncheon or tea out there that day. On those occasions and the weather threatened, he used the garage without telling Grandmother. Afterward, he would bring the bedclothes in to the laundry so he could iron them while Granddad napped on his daybed after lunch and before his bath. It was just part of Douglas’ routine. “Ma’am was not going to sleep on unironed sheets.”
It has always remained one of those bizarre little stories about the eccentricities of Grandmother’s that stuck way back in the recesses of my mind, until today.
For Christmas, Dale bought me an absolutely beautiful cotton bathrobe. My other one had been handed down to me from my adoptive father sometime in the ‘80’s. While it did cover valiantly my nudity, the seam across one shoulder had dissolved and the other arm was falling off. The piping had come unstitched, the belt had frayed to about half way around the back.
The new robe has body and shape. It is of that fine, fine herringbone weave in white and deep blue which shimmers to a shade somewhere between periwinkle and cornflower. It has navy blue piping and belt loops low enough to hit my waist rather than cut across my rib-cage as did its predecessor. I loved it right out of the box. The scratch of the sizing did not bother me, because the fit was so comfortable. I guess because something wasn’t always threatening to fall out or rip. The opportunity to throw out the previous rag thrilled Dale.
After the New Year, Dale washed my new robe. It hung on the hanger. I put it on. The belt was twisted, the collar slumped, the pocket edges rolled, and the hem curled. It was hideously uncomfortable and looked like I had draped a Home Depot tarpaulin over my shoulders. In a few moments time with a steam iron and some spray starch, I reminded the fabric of the shape that the tailor had intended. I brought back the fit that I enjoyed Christmas morning.
Have I turned into my Grandmother? Is it hereditary? “I just cannot abide an unironed bathrobe?”
