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.