It's not significant in any way, I suppose ... but there are some things that never fail to make me quite contented and happy. One such thing is ironing my husband's shirts - especially flannel ones. I revel in the sheer size of them, for one thing. After ironing shirts for a man who stands 6'4" tall, ironing one's own shirts seems like doing a doll's laundry. Maybe that's why I enjoy it so much - maybe I feel small in comparison - and cuddled when handling his shirts. And it's such a dear little task to do for a person, ironing shirts. Oh, well. Whatever it is, I do enjoy it.
The light is nearly gone outside the windows now, and the heavy silent snow that has been falling all day covers everything, and makes the dark fir trees heavy. The fire is burning in the pellet stove, which blows heat into the living room. The old Importance of Being Earnest is on the television, the ironing board is in the middle of the room, and the bearded young giant is playing his guitar upstairs in his room. Soon the husband who belongs to the flannel shirts will come inside, and we'll probably eat multi-grain pancakes with yogurt for dinner tonight. Today, life on the farm is quite nice. I love the feeling of flannel in my hands.