Clothesline Memories

A clothesline is one of the best things a back yard can have. You can keep your pools, rock gardens, and landscaped, manicured lawns. None of them can match the contentment and serenity I feel when I see those two metal poles with rope strung between.

Those of us who grew up with a clothesline remember the tapestry of colors and shapes that hung there when we were young. Whipping in the wind like pennants.

Snapping and twisting with each warm breeze. Our lives were on display every washday. All we had to do was look at what was pinned to the clothesline.

There was dad’s favorite shirt, the one he wore after working all day. Mom’s polyester tops all looked the same; the explosions of bright flowers and big round buttons waved warmth from where they hung.

Clothes of varying sizes showed what you and your brothers and sisters had done that week. From fancy church clothes to tattered t-shirts, mom had gathered up your past and washed it clean; next week’s wardrobe was on parade across the clothesline.

There were no secrets when you had a clothesline. News of your Superman Underoos flew through the neighborhood faster than a speeding bullet. The addition of a tiny training bra to the clothesline filled every swing set and tree house with whispers and guffaws.

Holey socks. Mom’s giant “Cross-Your-Heart”, hung for all the world to see. Your dad’s briefs looked as tired and worn as he did each day after work.

But it was okay. The neighbors hung up the same things; you and your friends ignored it all as you played “Tag” and “Red Rover” within peeking distance of the stretched-out nylon and graying cotton.

The sight of sheets on a clothesline was magical to a kid. Temptation clouded your better judgment: you ran toward the line like a charging bull. SMACK! Your face hit the still-damp sheet, and you were lost in a sea of fresh smells wrapped in cotton.

Then, out you flew from the flapping fabric—your arms stretched out, airplane straight, and your hair smooshed back from your head like a horse’s mane.

The rough, nubby feel of damp, stiffening towels against a sweaty, freckled smile is a memory every child should own. You stepped into each one as it hung at face level. Colors—yellow and green and faded pink—streamed past your scrunched up eyes, and the sharp smell of clean was thick in your nostrils.

When the afternoon sunlight faded, it was time to unpin the laundry and fold it back into your home. Mom lugged the basket, toppling-full, across the yard and toward the back door. 

You held the screen open for her, welcoming the snapshot without even realizing what a beautiful picture it would become as the years passed.

The clothesline. Just two posts and a few lines of rope. But it made laundry day a wonderful memory, lasting long after little bodies had outgrown the clothes that hung there. All that joy, right there in your own back yard.

Contact Robin at robingarrisonleach@gmail.com