a small space
by Jodie Gonzalez
A gauzy curtain divides the miniature room from the rest of the space. A converted garage, if truth be told, but now a space that is predominantly my domain. It was an incredibly important room in the design of this forever home - a part of the laundry room that would help turn this domestic task into more of a joy and conceal the hideous water heater standing guard in the corner.
My design included a long closet rod for hanging damp clothes from the dryer. A dedicated opponent of ironing, this technique allows all of those “wrinkle-free” clothes to fulfill their destiny and absolve me from my ironing days. But as a novice seamstress, I knew the importance of my iron for prepping material for the machine and included a sneaky little station for accomplishing this infrequent task. Thanks to Ikea and a quick Amazon search, I created a drop-down ironing table with a heat resistant pad, perfect for ironing small items - and maybe a shirt, if necessary. The final remodeling plans included a powerful light and an outlet placed just above the table top for ease.
Without a working sewing machine for many months, there was little use for my magical table. It remained flat against the wall, lonely as a young girl at the school dance. Until one day Danya pulled out her Girl Scout sash and a stack of patches ready for their day to shine. My young daughter marveled at the ingenious design of the pop-up table and helped to lay out the sparkling silver mat. Together we reviewed the instructions to ensure the patches were affixed properly. The smell of the iron as it heated up reminded me of days long past, ironing David’s shirts on a long board in front of the television in that house on Poinciana. She was giddy with excitement, a horse ready to gallop through the pasture.
“But first we need to lay them out exactly like you want them on the sash.” One by one we laid the images like puzzle pieces on the brown fabric, switching them around until we had the perfect fit. Her eyes grew wide as the loud click of the iron indicated it was heated to the proper temperature and we could begin the process. Meticulously I moved from patch to patch, lifting the old tea towel from the surface to check my work.
“It’s working” I whisper low, into her shining face, eager to learn of the progress. When at last the final patch was securely fastened to the sash, Danya stood as if a queen awaiting her crown. I gingerly lifted the bejeweled fabric over her head and placed it on her shoulder. She was now a real Girl Scout.