I visited my mother in the Midwest recently, and by 7 a.m. she had her clotheslines full of towels and bedding from the weekend’s company. I love a line-dried towel. Forget those expensive exfoliants—a rough, line-dried towel removes dead skin. My mother sings as she hangs clothes: “. . . la da, dee, dee, da da.” A song stored in her subconscious emerges, but not all the words. There’s rhythm at the clothesline. With the warmth of the morning sun comes the smell of success. Who needs aromatherapy when you’ve got a clothesline?
When I moved from Minnesota to Connecticut the first thing I did was string a clothesline between two backyard trees and hung a load of sheets and towels. It eased my homesickness until I got a call from the local zoning enforcement officer informing me that clotheslines were banned in that community. “Banned?” I said, stunned. “Are clean clothes a controlled substance,” I asked. “No, but they’re unsightly,” he said. One of my neighbors must have complained. It was probably the neighbor to the east, with the 8-feet high by 2-feet wide stone pillars and gold gate marking the entrance to his home. His name was stenciled in gold on one of the pillars. Now that’s unsightly.
But what if I just ignored the ban and kept my clothesline?
I could see myself in lock-up with the drug dealers, car thieves and a few former governors.
“What are you in for?” the meth dealer asks.
“Laundry,” I say.
Years later when I moved, I looked for a town with clotheslines. And there are many in my neighborhood. My neighbor to the north has one of those clotheslines like you see in Paris—on a pulley. It’s attached to the house right near her back door. She hangs a few shirts, cranks those out, hangs some more, then cranks in more unused clothesline and adds more clothes. The pulley squeaks with each crank. Even though I cannot see her clothesline, the number of squeaks corresponds to the number of loads of laundry. Most mornings she’s squeaky clean by 8:30. Her clothespin bag hangs next to the back door too. One spring she called over the hedge for me to come see the nest a Carolina wren had made in it. She didn’t have the heart to relocate the family, so I loaned her some extra clothespins until she could reclaim her clothespin bag.
When a young family bought her home, I figured the first thing they’d get rid of was the clothesline. But it’s in use—daily. Right now two pairs of little pants, a tiny sweater and four little socks are lined up. And I see a look on the mother’s face, not unlike the one I saw on my grandmother’s face and my mother’s and so many other women as they hung their love on the line.