I know how that sounds. I'm not about to tell anybody they need to iron. But I have got a red plaid work shirt of my daddy's cut up into twelve pieces right now, and until they go under that iron I cannot tell you what the quilt wants. Flat on the board, seams pressed open, all of a sudden the thing speaks. Before that it's just a pile of cloth and a woman hoping.

Same iron since 1979. It's heavy as a brick, no steam to speak of, and my granddaughter keeps trying to order me one of those little new ones that stand up on their own. No ma'am.

So yes, the board stays up. It stays up so long I've caught myself eating supper off it. My husband has stopped asking about it. He just walks around it like it's furniture, which I suppose it is now.

Ain't nothing wrong with a wrinkled quilt, Lord knows. But there's a difference between a wrinkle that lives in the cloth and a seam you're hiding from yourself.