There is something country about a clothesline, perhaps even old-fashioned; it makes me love it. It used to be located in everyone’s backyard, town, or country, but as progress would have it, a clothesline slowly disappeared from most yards; why keep such a distasteful eyesore?
To see clothes hanging out on the line is a picture of a slower time; a time when neighbors could visit while hanging out the wash or the quiet essence would surround when a bird found its perch on the end while you pin blankets, pants, and towels one by one.
I saw clothes drying at the barn on my friend’s house line. She told me how much she loved it because it was how her grandmother dried clothes, and still did.
I can remember when Dad put up Mom’s clothesline. Mom was thrilled to bring the clothes off the line. The towels would be stiff as a board, and the pants could walk by themselves, yet she was so proud of the fresh air smell, which I thought had a dingy smell to it.
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I decided this Mother’s Day was the perfect time to ask again for my clothesline; the years were ticking. I walked into the shop one day to gather some of my pots for flowers when I saw the wood frames for both ends of my clothesline. Chuck had already built them both. All that was left was setting the posts and stringing the wire on the hill behind the house so I could see clothes drying on the line out my kitchen window.
Intense storms came through the area, knocking down many trees, blocking roads, and creating a lot of flooding. When the storms had passed, we went out to survey any damage to our property. Next to our shop sits an old wooden shed where I keep essentials for the fire pit down by the creek. This area is open and surrounded by woods, with a path that disappears through the trees. It’s the path we frequent during cooler months. It winds back into the woods following the creek. Sitting by a crackling fire with the creek trickling on is high society for me. Smores and hotdogs toasted on the end of a stick that smears all over little faces make for a beautiful summer evening.
Looking out behind the shop, we saw an enormous fallen tree. The creek had risen and had gotten the roots so wet that it collapsed. It was laid directly between the shed and the shop when it fell—never hitting the lean-to attached out behind the shop nor damaging anything else. It lay less than an itch from the shop. Our younger dogs have their kennels in the shop, where they are locked up each evening. If this tree had fallen the way it should have, it would have fallen directly on them. Only the finger of God could have placed it without any damage.
Later that day, Chuck was at the picnic table changing his chainsaw blade. I could hear him talking to Tyson, telling him all about what he was doing. In the background, I saw my unfinished clothesline lying on the shop floor. Without uttering a word, I knew that, like other things, my clothesline would have to wait. We had three major trees down, and woodcutting was going to take precedence. I pouted over what I wanted and was disappointed that something always seemed to get in the way.
He worked steadily without being rattled. He knew one sawblade at a time would get the job done. We all worked alongside him until the little branches became bigger than the girls could carry, and Tyson’s cries became louder than I could ignore.
It didn’t make it by Mother’s Day, but soon after, I saw him dragging the frames up the hill and digging holes for the posts. Looking down at the ground, I saw the wire lying beside the posts, “You thought I needed lime green wire,” I said with a hint of sarcasm. He looked up at me, sweat dripping over his eyes, “The girls said you had to have green because it is your favorite color. If you don’t like it, you can get some you like.” I quickly stated, “I like it just fine.“
Once the posts were set, he steadily pulled the wire through the small pulley with sweaty hands. I watched him continue to work with the sun beating down on him. Knowing all he does to keep our home glued together, I decided right then and there that I would proudly take the extra steps up the hill to hang clothes out on the line every day that I possibly could and would not make another comment about the wire color. It was perfect.
Days passed, and I was washing dishes. Looking out my kitchen window, I saw the clothes drying on the line. To some, this is a waste of time. But being outside and feeling the warm breeze on my face seems like the perfect excuse to hang clothes on the line.
Tucking the comforter around my kids, I took a deep smell and said, like my mother did, “Smell the fresh air – and fabric softener.“
I know one day the lines will sag from all the weight that has hung through the years. But remembering the time and sacrifice it took to see clothes out on the line will bring a smile to my face.
Cleanse me, and I will be clean. Wash me, and I will be made whiter than snow. Psalms 51:7
