“Well, she’s gone completely nuts,” my Great Aunt Beulah said to Corinne Gentry as they left Lumpkins Restaurant last Thursday evening. “My sister Victoria has lost all her marbles.”

“You mean just like that she up and made such a drastic decision?” Mrs. Gentry asked.

“Just like that. But she’s always been a little on the wild side. I went over to take her some pickled beets yesterday and she meets me at the door wearin’ a dress that looked like it had been crammed into a pill box for the past six months. She looked like one of those homeless people you see on TV pushin’ a grocery cart and sleepin’ in a cardboard box.”

“What on earth?” Mrs. Gentry responded.

“I asked her if she was ill,” Aunt Beulah continued. “She said no and then proceeded to tell me that she was sick and tired of ironing. Went on to say she’d been ironing for more than 60 years and was through with it all.”

“Oh, Beulah,” Mrs. Gentry said. “What about her Sunday clothes? She wouldn’t think about going to church in wrinkled clothes would she?”

“Lord, I hope not. I’d hate to see her showin’ up Sunday mornin’ lookin’ like Margaret Eppenhour’s Shar-pei.”

“What would the Women’s Baptist League think?”

“Exactly,” Aunt Beulah said. “We’ll just have to pray about it. This is a very pressing issue.”

Personally, I don’t really blame my Great Aunt Victoria for breaking the chains that bind her to the ironing board. How many of you out there truly enjoy ironing clothes? The love of ironing died with the last episode of “Leave it to Beaver.”

Actually, none of us are very good at it. It’s a dying art and an art form I don’t think too many of us appreciate. First of all, the act of setting up the ironing board can be quite an ordeal. Not only does it require an area the size of Fashion Square Mall, but also the sound of setting it up makes fingernails down a chalkboard sound like a Strauss waltz. It’s screaming out in agony.

And then the ironing board cover never fits as snug as it should and usually slips and slides until the thin foam pad beneath is revealed. It is always pleasant when a hot electric iron singes the thin foam padding and releases deadly toxic fumes.

You then plug in the iron, prop it up on the ironing board, and wait impatiently as it heats up; intermittently tapping the bottom of it with a finger dampened with a touch to your tongue. When the perfect temperature is reached, it’s time to iron the garment.

Whether it’s a shirt or a pair of khakis, the application of starch is necessary if you wish to reach professional cleaning perfection. Just remember that spray starch adds another wonderful dimension to ironing. If you purchase a can of spray starch that describes the product as being “uncloggable,” has an “anti-clog” mechanism built in, or promises “no more clogging,” you can count on the starch clogging several times during the application process. I’m not sure how they continue to advertise such falsehoods. Lawsuits must be pending.

When the board is up, the iron is hot, and the starch has been sprayed on the garment, the actual ironing process can begin. The most common errors involve double and triple creases down the front and backs of trousers, sleeves whose creases are slanted, skewed collars, and of course, the ultimate burned imprint of the iron’s base on the back or front of a shirt.

Only once have I scored a perfect 10 in the ironing event. After completing the task of ironing a dress shirt, I slipped it on, only to have one of the buttons pop off and drop to the floor. I was not a happy camper. I removed the shirt and put it aside where all my hard work soon became wrinkled once more.

Who came up with ironing in the first place? Obviously it was someone who had too much time on his or her hands. Why should a few wrinkles diminish your chances for a job promotion, or make others think less of you, or make you look less intelligent. Lieutenant Columbo wore a wrinkled overcoat in every episode and he never failed to solve the most complex of crimes. I say Aunt Victoria’s right. What are a few wrinkles? 

I stopped by my aunt’s yesterday and picked up a jar of her famous Brunswick stew.

She met me at the door in a wrinkled housedress and sensible shoes. She had a Soap Opera Digest in one hand and a Diet Pepsi in the other.

“Well come on in,” she motioned. “I got a jar of Brunswick stew with your name on it.”

I went on to tell her that we supported her in her non-ironing crusade.

“Thank you, but you and Scarlett will have to iron a while longer,” she said to me. “Your Great Aunt Victoria here is almost 80 years old. I’ve earned the right to be a little wrinkled.”

Oh, well. I guess it is back to the old ironing board for the rest of us.