We have moved our laundry line about
three times. I've even hired a local teenager to do the digging up of
the posts. It's been beside the house, behind the shed and now is in
my garden, of all places. It's always been something to hide. A
necessary, utilitarian part of our existence, but also somewhat of an
embarrassment.
But I'm beginning to think of it
differently. I may even decide to move it again, maybe right back
where it started, next to the house near the back door. Yes, you can
see the clothes waving in the wind when you drive up, but today I
realized that there is a certain tactile, homey feeling about
stepping outside with a heavy basket of wet clothes. Each of those
clothespins are placed by my hands. I get to smell the fresh, wet
fabric, plus the sunshine and breezes to do all the work and it's
totally free! All of these things are good, but the best reason of
all is that the whole process reminds me of my grandmother. She used
to hang all of her clothes, sheets, heavy towels and throw rugs from
the kitchen, even when she had a perfectly good dryer right next to
the washing machine. Hanging my own things gives me a chance to visit
those memories of Gram again. I think she'd be proud of my wash line,
so I can be proud of it too.
So If you stop by the farm to pick up
an order, you may see some things whipping in the breeze as you drive
up. Don't worry, I'll get them down before it rains, and if I don't,
those sheets never smelled so good.
