The Day My Beloved Iron Died
There are some tools in a maker’s life that become more than just objects. They become companions, quiet keepers of stories, and steady hands in the background of every creation. For me, that companion was my old Safeway SW180 iron.
Moments in motion — the rhythm of shaping, pressing, and creating.
It had already lived a full life before I claimed it. My mum had used it daily in her home, and when we returned to South Africa after two years in the UK, I decided to pass her my newer iron and take hers for my millinery work. It wasn’t shiny or modern, but it fit into my hand as though it had always belonged there. A little knob at the top, easily flicked with my thumb to switch between steam and dry, became second nature. Even when it got stuck after hours of hard work, a quick twist back and forth was all it needed to carry on.
That iron was with me every day for fourteen years. Together we shaped straws and felts, smoothed fabrics pulled from storage, and turned ideas into wearable art. It travelled with me across continents — from South Africa to New Zealand, and eventually to Australia.
It fell, it clattered, it hissed, but it always carried on. Sometimes the water inside would dry to a crust and rattle loose in fragments, and I would simply tap it against the bench, clear it out, and keep going. Resilient. Reliable. Relentless.
But it wasn’t just a tool. It was a connection to my mum — she had used it long before I did — and it carried with it the comfort of memory. On hot days we sweated together. On cold nights its warmth and steam felt like company, whispering in the stillness of the workroom. I loved the sound of the steam escaping, almost like a sigh of encouragement when the hours grew long.
The faithful iron that helped bring countless pieces to life — before its final bow.
I thought I had lost it a few times before, when it faltered and fell silent. But each time it came back to life — until one July evening in 2025.
This time it didn’t. I left it overnight, convinced it would revive itself in the morning. It didn’t. My husband opened it up and confirmed what my heart already knew: the years of moisture and heat had corroded its insides. Tiny pieces of metal that had kept it alive had rusted away. There was no repair, no second chance. My beloved iron had reached its end.
I didn’t expect to feel such sadness over an old appliance. But grief comes in many forms, and this was a farewell to more than steel and steam. It was saying goodbye to a witness of my journey, one of the first tools I ever owned as a milliner, and a link back to where I began.
A new iron now stands in its place on my workbench. It works well enough, though we are still strangers to each other. Perhaps in time we’ll find our rhythm. For now, I keep the memory of the Safeway close — a reminder that even the simplest tools can hold extraordinary meaning.
In its life, my iron taught me this: sometimes the things we rely on most are not the ones that shine, but the ones that endure — quietly, faithfully, and without asking for praise. And when it comes time to let go, we honour them not by forgetting, but by carrying their lessons forward into what we create next.
"Even the smallest tools can leave the biggest mark on our journey."
“What we once enjoyed and deeply loved we can never lose,
for all that we love deeply becomes a part of us.”
~ Helen Keller