My good iron gave out Tuesday morning, middle of a seam, just quit on me. So I pulled out the old one that come from the church basement when they cleaned it out, heavy as a brick, cord wrapped in electric tape. That thing gets hotter than my new one ever did. I had to learn it all over again, how it sits, when to lift it.

Been working on a strip quilt for my youngest grandboy who's going off to Tuskegee in the fall. Reds and that deep indigo, some cloth from his daddy's old work shirts cut in there. He don't know that part yet. His mama does.

Anyway. There's something to an old iron. It don't have a light on it, don't beep, don't shut itself off on you while you're thinking. You just have to know it. Feels like half the tools I love best are the ones that ask me to pay attention instead of doing the thinking for me.

Might keep it out even after I get a new one. It's ugly as sin but it presses a seam flat as anything.