The author’s grandmother wanted the world to see her husband not as an aging farmer with false teeth but exactly as she did.
EVEN THOUGH my grandfather, whom I called Papaw, was a farmer, my mamaw would iron his work clothes every day. Mamaw mixed up her own starch in a glass Coke bottle topped with a metal cap that had a multitude of holes in it, like a saltshaker. She would sprinkle Papaw’s pants with the starch, hang them over a chair for a few minutes so they could dry a bit, and then apply the heat of the iron to them.
Because I watched her do this through my childhood, I figured every old woman in the world did it. But as the years passed, I began to question this practice. Why in the world did Papaw need his work clothes ironed? Most days, he never saw anyone but me and maybe a few other crusty farmers.
One day when I was about 13, I asked Mamaw about it. I wanted to know why she thought it necessary to invest time and effort to press clothes that were rarely seen and would be filthy in just a short time.
Her reply was as sweet a sentiment as I have ever heard.
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