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didn’t know it was the blues at the time. I just thought it was what Lovey sang. She didn’t sing about Jesus or heaven or sweet chariots. Her singing wasabout getting up in the morning and dealing with the day. About love and sex and sorrow. About disappointment and not having any money and the roof leaking and jelly rolls and catching the next train for Chicago and finding some man better than the one who never came around anymore anyway.
    I could relate. Oh, could I relate. I was an adolescent. Undersized, oversexed, ugly, skinny, pimply, and lonely. In need of cash, a good time, and a good woman, along with better grades and my own car.
    Sing them blues.
    About the same time that orthodontia, hormones, genes, a burr haircut with ducktails, and a ’37 Chevrolet improved my self-image, Lovey announced to me that it was time for me to learn to iron my own shirts.
    I had no idea what was involved in ironing a shirt, because Lovey ironed alone. Always in the best room of the house—the dining room—where there was lots of light and a good view down the street. Sometimes when I got home from school, she’d just be finishing up—always in a good mood then—singing and talking and laughing to herself.
    But my respect for Lovey was such that if ironing was good enough for her, it was good enough for me.
    Here’s what I learned.
    First, you have to start with good shirts—all heavy white cotton—or you’re wasting your time. Be sureto check the pockets, and shake the shirt to get rid of any lint or loose dirt. Check the buttons to make sure they’re all there in good shape. Then you’ve got to wash right. Wash whites separately—never wash coloreds and whites together. Use a tiny bit of bleach and bluing and starch, so the shirts come out the color of frosted ice. Hang the shirts outside in the sunshine until they are not quite dry. Wrap them in a clean white damp dishtowel and put them in the refrigerator.
    Next, set up your ironing board, making sure the cover is clean and tight, then put it in a right place—where you like to be—where you feel good. Get a cola bottle with a sprinkling head on it and fill the bottle with cold water. Get some hangers. Get your iron—a big, heavy iron—and make sure the bottom is clean. Plug the iron in and set the heat at high. Sit a spell, have a cup of coffee. Don’t hurry.
    Get one shirt at a time out of the refrigerator. Understand from the beginning that you’re going to iron around the shirt three times. The first time is to smooth wrinkles and “set” the shirt. Sprinkle a little water this time on any place that’s not damp. The second time around is to press the shirt dry and sharp. The third time is to tidy the little places and finish the collar and cuffs real stiff.
    Each time, you go around in this order: cuffs (both sides), sleeves, collar (both sides, backside first, ironing away from the points), then the front placket (back side first, top to bottom, stretching the fabric), then allthe way around from front to back, then carefully around the buttons.
    Do it all over again, get the shoulders and high back yoke this time really carefully, the mark of a professional. Make sure the shirt is crisp dry.
    The last time around, you just check to see that you haven’t missed a single wrinkle and that the cuffs and collar are perfectly smooth. Even the finest workman needs to inspect his work critically.
    Carefully, now, you place the shirt on a hanger—button just the top button. Finally, you hang it out in the sunshine to give it a fresh smell. When you’ve done one shirt, sit down, take a little break, have some snuff.
    Never, never hurry—you’ll scorch the shirt and scorch your soul.
    When I complained that this was sure a lot of trouble to go to over a shirt, Lovey explained: “You’ll never regret knowing how to do at least one thing exactly right, and if you don’t do it right the first time, when will you find time to go back and do it over?”
    It