I was looking at some old photographs today and came across a picture of me in a Twist shirt. I guess I was about 9 years old, judging from the Rose Hair Oil glistening on my temples and that debonair twirl on my forehead. That would have been about 1960, when chubby Chubby Checker’s “Twist” hit the record charts and started the “Twist Craze” that swept the nation. I looked good in that shirt and often wore it to school.
This was long before permanent press, but I never went to school with a wrinkle in my clothes. Momma washed out blue jeans daily and starched them with Faultless Starch. After they came out of the old Maytag ringer washing machine, mom would then put them in pants creasers and hang them to dry behind the Warm Morning coal stove.
Pants creasers were rectangular wire-like devices that you shoved down the legs of pants, and when the starched britches dried, they would stand up by themselves. She still had to iron the top part, but the legs had creases that would cut your finger. Being a mother must be a tough job. There are so many things they do that go unnoticed and unappreciated. Dad didn’t spend much time in school when he was a kid so the jobs he had never paid that much. We had the basics, but mom paid for all the extra stuff we enjoyed. She washed and ironed clothes for folks in Dora and saved the money to buy Christmas presents and to buy us the “extras.”
She started washing for one of the prominent businessmen in the area, and the first time he came to pick up his white shirts he said, “This shirt is luminous.”
My mom looked at the shirt in horror.
“I’m so sorry, I can wash it again,” she said apologetically.
“No, no, you misunderstood me, I don’t think the shirt was this clean when I bought it,” he said, smiling. I had to look the word up because I didn’t know what it meant, either. Like most moms, she worked very hard in those days. And like most kids, I don’t remember ever thanking her for all she did for me. Mother has had a lot of serious health problems the last few years and now lives with my sister. My younger sister and I rotate weekends sitting with her to give my older sister a little break.
Last week was my Saturday, and as we sat watching “Who Wants to Be a Millionaire,” I asked mom if she remembered the Twist shirt.
“Naw, I don’t remember much anymore,” she said.
When I asked if she remembered how she paid for it, she made an ironing motion with her hands and smiled. We talked for a while about those days and I told her thanks for all she did for me. She smiled again, nodded her head, and looked back at her hands. “I was glad I could do it,” she said quietly. I hope mama lives a long time and realizes what a remarkable job she did for us all. I owe her so much. It’s a debt I will never be able to repay. Thanks, mama.
