Lessons from ironing and the joy of dance

It may have been the suddenness of the cold that had made us all shiver so early on this winter. It seemed a little unusual when the temperature dropped from the 70s and 80s down to the 30s and 40s just overnight with snow on the hilltops, but maybe we shouldn’t have been surprised since nothing is seen as “normal” around here.

Nonetheless, we all shivered in our shoes and couldn’t seem to get warm, at least that’s the way it was for me.

Regretfully, and maybe a little provoked in having to turn up the heat and use my precious costly fuel, I turned on the furnace, wrapped up in a blanket and sat down to pout. At least I’m sure it was that whiny little girl with whom my sister Betty had little patience who was sitting in that chair, shivering in spite of the wrappings.

Dragging out the ironing board, setting it up, filling the iron with water so I would have spray, plugging in the iron to heat while I gathered together the wrinkled clothing from the basket, I was finally ready to do the job that my mother had long ago advised me would help. Already I was beginning to warm up and after a few pieces had been smoothed with the hot iron, hung on hangers and looking so fresh and clean, it dawned on me that it was enjoyable to see them hanging there. Not only was I warm in body, but warm in my mind and satisfied with the job I was doing. Not only that, but I was enjoying it. Imagine that.

While at the task, it took me back to my childhood when my mother first let me try my hand at Dad’s hankies, then tea towels, doilies and pillowslips. As I graduated from one to the other and finally to shirts, blouses and skirts, I had a great sense of accomplishment. No more sitting on a chair, wrapped in a blanket and whining about being cold, as though I could do nothing to change the situation but maybe my mother could if I cried around about it long enough.

Funny, she didn’t fall for it, but gave me some sage advice to iron or sweep the floor to warm up my blood and then went on with her own chores, leaving me to think it over.

What do young women do now about the need or no need to iron their clothing? That thought brought me up to when one of my sons was going to get married and I was helping his bride-to-be with a list of things she would need as a married woman running a household. When I added ironing board and iron to the list, she looked at me curiously and asked, “What is an ironing board?”

Yes, I agree, it is nice to have materials that don’t need ironing or at least no more than a touch-up, but somehow in the transition I wonder if we haven’t lost something very special by losing the training of a child, the satisfaction of a job well done and, of all things, a good way to get warm when the temperatures are dropping into a winter warning.

Thanks, Mom. I took my lesson to heart and thought of you this day, warming not only my body but my soul as well.

*  *  *

I admit it. I was giddy. I hadn’t had that feeling of giddy excitement in 65 years when we used to dance at Zuber Hall at 1419 Washington Ave. It was during the war years — WW II. It seemed like most of the area boys in their late teens were in the military service, some even leaving before graduation from high school.

Our graduation class was small once they were gone so dance partners weren’t so plentiful. Then the cadets came to town. There was nothing for we girls to do but provide the other half of the couple on the dance floor.

So, we dutifully did our part for the war effort as a sort of unspoken U.S.O., standing or sitting on the sidelines of the Zuber east wall waiting to be chosen by the fresh-faced searching eyes coming our way in a dandy uniform. My feet were itching to dance.

Well, sometimes it was to hold out his hand to the pretty girl on either side of me, but once in a while I would be lucky. The boys were polite as they ushered their choices onto the floor and they thanked them kindly as they returned them to their chairs.

The balcony was always filled with eagle-eyed parents, those too young or too old to be on the floor and those who just wanted to watch the action below, but the music from the dance band moved them all to the rhythm of the 1940s.

Most of the bands were formed by local players like Dick Lindsey, Loren Blanchard, Glen Houle, Bill Howell, Don McMasters, Don Jordahl, George Shultz, Alan Mills, Matt Svetich and Lola Mae (Rogers) McManus. I know there were others, but their names fail to come to mind at the moment.

Nonetheless, they all contributed to a fine evening of music that made the feet want to get into action.

I never did get to dance all I wanted, but I was very shy and didn’t stand out much. Still, I watched some of my male cousins choose all around me and wondered why they didn’t realize how much I wanted them to give me a chance. I was young enough not to understand that my older relatives were courting a whole roomful of girls, looking for the perfect one. I just wanted to dance!

When the dances ended for the evening, some of the older couples would stroll homeward or out to eat in a leisurely fashion while (was it Mr. Buell who locked-up?) the dancers and musicians alike drifted away.

Much of the time I would be with my older sister and my parents so, to end the evening of flushed cheeks and youthful energy, my dad and mom took us to China Mary’s Noodle Parlor, upstairs above Ann Johnson’s dress shop and across from the Granada Theatre. That place, in fact that whole block, was eventually consumed by fire, but the memory of steaming bowls of hot noodles, visiting of neighbors in this popular eatery enjoying their Saturday night out remains one of the memories that warm my heart and mind as I visualize it once again.

It was many years later that I experienced that giddy feeling normally reserved for the young. Most of the folks had left when I couldn’t refuse a chance to dance to the music of the LHS Jazz Band. Three handsome gentlemen took pity on my difficulty in sitting still while the band played, and I thank them for that.

The music was so good at mimicking the Big Band era of the ’40s that I almost forgot that it was 65 years ago when I was on the floor as a teenager. My old, aching bones were forgotten in spite of dancing on carpet with rubber-soled shoes. My heart was beating fast with joy and I was a little, but pleasantly, surprised at how quickly it slowed down after I sat down again. If I had had a heart attack then and there, I wouldn’t have cared.

One never knows how you personally might affect another’s life, even in a special moment that you didn’t anticipate. Thank you, LHS Jazz Band and Director Jim Howell as well as those fellows kind enough to ask me to dance.

And, yes, Calvin, old memories do hurt, but sometimes in a wonderful way.

Veteran newspaperwoman Dorothy Swart Fleshman is a La Grande native. Her  column runs every Friday. Reach her by e-mail at This e-mail address is being protected from spam bots, you need JavaScript enabled to view it