When I was a child, there were many things in life that I took for granted. Bedding was one of those things. One of the many Saturday morning chores the children performed at our house was to strip the bedding off from our own beds and throw the soiled sheets and pillowcases down the laundry chute that went from the upstairs hallway down through the kitchen on the main floor and ended up in the basement’s laundry room. Then we would go to the linen closet and take out some fresh bedding to put on our beds. At some point during the week the dirty bedding would be washed, dried, folded, and returned to the linen closet, where it would stay until the next Saturday morning.
For the most part we all had unique blankets and bedspreads that we considered “our own personal” bedding, but all of the sheets were plain white cotton percale that seemed to be magically wrinkle-resistant. The sole exception to this was the parent’s sheets, which for some strange reason required ironing every single weekend.
The ironing was a chore that was assigned to me, and I spent almost all day Saturday chained (not literally, but it sure felt like it!) to that hateful ironing board! Every Saturday morning I would be given three laundry baskets full of ironing that needed to be done before I could leave the house. I quickly learned to despise ironing, and made a solemn vow that when I grew up I would never ever buy any item of clothing or bedding that would require ironing!