In the spirit of Father's Day (I know I am a day late!), I wanted to share a wonderful memory of my daddy who passed away in 1993. It isn't the usual warm and fuzzy remembrance, but a simple and funny one that brings a smile to my face.
My daddy used to iron everything that came out of the dryer. And I mean, everything - our t-shirts, underwear and the biggest no-no of them all, my jeans. I was a child of the 80s, and jeans were sacred. I was lucky to own a pair of tight Gloria Vanderbilts with gold stitching and the signature swan on the pockets. They were hot! But they didn't look so hot after my dad took an iron to them and gave them a big fat crease down the middle of each leg.
I'd yell, "Daddy, please don't iron my jeans! I don't want this ugly crease down the middle. All the kids will make fun of me. Understand?"
He'd say, "Hmpff...they look better this way. You want to look wrinkled?!"
"I don't care! Just don't iron them!" I'd retort, grabbing my jeans, furiously trying to rub the creases out.
He would just look at me once, shake his head and mumble something in Ilocano that I couldn't understand (when I think about it now, I believe he called me "crazy").
And wouldn't you know it, my jeans got ironed every single time. And we would have this same conversation, over and over. No matter how many times I argued with him, he would still do it. I don't think he ever wanted to see his daughter out in public with wrinkled jeans. In his younger days, he was such a sharp dresser, and in his old age, he just wanted to enact the same routines to his daughters.
I can still see him sitting there in the family room ironing our clothes. There with our old ironing board, our old Sunbeam iron and his trust-worthy can of starch (that always made my jeans feel extra itchy). All the clothes were freshly pressed, neatly folded and carefully sorted by family member. I miss those creases in my jeans. I miss those silly little arguments. I missed being called crazy. I miss my dad.
I love you, daddy.
