I was just ironing the cloth napkins for the Bird's Nest, when I realized the B&B napkins and tablecloths are probably the only ironing I do today. Not so in the 60's when there was actually a day set aside for ironing. I ironed the babys' clothes, my clothes, shirts for my IBM husband, a white shirt fresh for each day. There was no spray starch, so you "sprinkled" the clothes with water first, keeping them in the refrigerator to stay damp in the summer heat. Ironing was a part of life. I learned how to iron by ironing my father's handkerchiefs, first flat, then doubling over, and over until a small white square was done. My father took a clean hankie every day. I remember my sister Maureen telling me that her boyfriend was taught to always carry two handerchiefs (he learned this at dance class) in case a girl ever needed to use one. I guess it was manners to hand her a fresh one! Any way, ironing was, as I said a part of life. My Aunt Muriel knew how to iron. She would set up the ironing board, this was not easy in the old days. They were a wooden contraption, that you had to get just right or it would collapse in the middle of a delicate job. So, she would set up the board, heat up the iron and pour herself a glass of wine. In the 60's drinking was also a part of life. No one thought anything of drinking in the afternoon, or even pouring a little glass while you stuffed the turkey in the early morning hours. My Aunt was from Montreal, spoke French, was very sophisticated, so I too would sometimes pour a glass of wine while I ironed. You be surprised how it helped. Grandma Burky did laundry for people to bring in some money during the Depression. She taught my sister Barbara and me how to iron a man's shirt. Her ironing board was just the board, no legs. She would balance it on the dining room table and a corner shelf. Anyway, she showed us how you do the collar and the cuffs first. Then the arms, then the left side, right side and last the back. She would fold the whole thing up and I swear it looked like it came out of the dry cleaners. My mother did not have my Grandma's skill or the desire. Her way of ironing was unique. She would start by laying a sheet over the board. On top of this she would put other flat items, a tablecloth, pillow cases, a skirt, kitchen towels, etc. She would keep piling on the items and then finally, on the top do a kid's shirt, or a pair of kids' pants. I guess she thought this was efficiency. My father did his own ironing (do you wonder why?) Every night he would iron his pants for the next day's work. He did it completely different than Bucky. He would lay just the pants on the board. Then he would test the iron, over and over again, until it was just the right temperature. Carefully arranging the pants legs to get the seam exactly in the center, he would iron them using a damp cloth and sometimes I remember him laying a newspaper over the seam first. You know, writing this I almost miss ironing. It was a meditation, taking items from the laundry basket, ironing them, folding them, putting them in neat piles to later go in the proper drawers, until the basket was empty, ready for next week. A lost task. A lost art. Like the dinosaur, someday, there won't even be irons.

I thought of Aunt Lillian yesterday. I was picking wild grape leaves to stuff and I remembered the first time I had them at her house and how she shared her recipe with me. This is the only time of the year when you can use the wild grapes leaves, in a few days they will be too big and too rough to eat. But right now they are perfect. You pick the ones with leaves that are divided into threes, make a filling of rice, fresh mint, scallions, spices and an egg and cook them for a few minutes in chicken broth. Easy, good for you and delicious. I used to have the kids help me pick the leaves. Paul was a worry wart and would say, "Don't touch that - it's poison ivy." No, its not, I would tell him, continuing to pick the leaves. "Leaves of three, let it be," he advised. I would show him how these leaves were growing on the grape vines, therefore they were safe. But he never really believed me. It was this time of the year too when we would go "steal" rhubarb from our neighbor's yard. Actually, Bob Barrett had told me to take all I wanted, they didn't use it. But I liked the story of Rapunzel, where she asks her husband to steal the rhubarb, he gets caught, and the witch gets their baby. Anyway, we would sneak into the Barrett's yard, I would pull out a knife and start cutting the rhubarb, showing the kids how you never, never even take the leaves, they are too poisonous, and I would discard them in to the weeds. "How can the leaves be poison and the stems are ok to eat?" questioned Paul, a look of disbelief on his face. That's just the way the plant is, I would answer and take home the rhubarb to make Strawberry Rhubarb pie. The kids never liked that either, probably thought I was trying to poison them, but in later years it has become the favorite of all my pies to them. Another memory came to me today, as I picked the Lily of the Valley (they are early this year). My grandmother carried that flower as a bride on Memorial Day and there is still the wedding picture of her and Poppy, and the dried flowers are part of the frame. Lilies of the Valley are tricky to pick, you don't pick them, or cut them, you tug on them gently until they are released from the pip. Poppy showed me how to do this when I was a kid. There was a patch of them in their yard, and their scent still is one of my favorite smells. So, spring is here, Aunt Lillian's tradition continues, Poppy's picking lesson is remembered and I need somebody to go with me to steal rhubarb.

Last week we were at a party. It was unusually warm for April, and we were all sitting outside, except for Solomon and Zack, in the house playing with their games. Then from inside someone was playing the piano, a haunting Eastern melody, like a harem dancer would be swaying to. "Who's playing the piano?" I asked, looking around the guests to see who was missing. "It's Jer - Jer is playing the piano." Now I never knew he could play the piano. He's always played a guitar, I think Maria started him on lessons as an early teen and he is usually never seen without the instrument. Hearing Jer play the piano made me recall conversations Ria and I had had many times. Jer was NOT her son, the babies had been mixed up, and she had Todd Rundgren's son. Yes, back in 1980 when Maria had Jer there was one other baby in the Rhinebeck nursery. Maria and I were standing outside the nursery window, looking at Jer when this young, thin woman, wearing a shortie nightgown and holding a radio to her ear, joined us, dancing and moving to the music in her ear. "Look at her, Ma", Ria moaned. "She just gave birth and she looks like she's at a rock concert. Nobody would know she just pushed out a kid, not like me". Maria could have been on a poster for Post Partum Support. Back in her room, Maria explained to me that that was Todd Rundgren's girlfriend. Todd Rundgren of "Hello, It's Me". Oh yeah, I always liked that song. Years went by and I had forgotten Maria's partner in the Maternity Ward. Then when Jer was about 3 and he was dancing crazy to music, Maria brought it up. "Ma, I think I got the wrong baby, I think I got Todd's baby." This was repeated many times over the years, usually when she was having some problems with Jer. "He's going back to his father and that Playboy girlfriend of his." Anyway, after listening to Jer playing the piano, I thought I would look up what had happened to Todd's son who had been born at the same time as Jer. His name is Rex and he is playing baseball for the Dodgers Team A in Vegas. Now, that's a surprise. Last year Regina played softball and she was pretty good at it...and then I read that her real brother Rex is playing ball. Maria you might have been right.