I have left this personal essay in tact, just as I wrote it, about a "non-event" that occurred almost sixteen years ago in 2007. Back then, I was sixty-seven years old and the grandmother of a one-year-old, a pre-schooler, and a grade-schooler. My husband was alive and we lived in our Lake Forest Park home. Oh, how my existence has changed since then! And yet . . . it still contains a basic truth about my life.
ARMS of ALUMINUM, ARMS of FLESH
I’m crazy about my recently acquired clothesline. It’s the central-pole type, the kind you use while standing in one place and twirling it to reach the next empty line. Loosely categorized as compact and portable, its arms fold up like an umbrella that’s blown inside-out, making it look like an oddly shaped lightening rod or radio antenna when it’s not in use. Then, when it’s needed, a snap of its latch brings it cascading down to enfold the grateful laundress—me—in its aluminum and rope arms.
My husband reminded me this morning, as I joyfully bounced into the kitchen after a bout of hanging sheets outside, that forty years ago I was equally thrilled to get my first electric clothes-dryer. With three children at the time—two in cloth diapers and one who’d graduated to nighttime-only diapers—I was hanging up laundry year-round, in wet weather and dry. Four or five times a week I cajoled the children into accompanying me either into the yard or down the cellar stairs where they played and I worked, snapping clothespins as efficiently as an assembly worker. In the summer our clothes smelled wonderful; in the winter they were just stiff, brittle garments, towels as scratchy as sandpaper and socks resizing themselves in the hold of capricious fasteners. When we had finally managed to save enough money for an electric dryer, I felt giddy from its precious by-product—newly acquired time.
My “new” umbrella-style clothesline originally belonged to our son who has moved to Canada with his wife and baby. He had planned to consign it to a thrift shop along with myriad household encumbrances, but when I expressed interest in it, he offered it to me as though it were a bowl of potato chips. “You want it? Help yourself.” As I drove it to my house, I planned where to situate it, much like I would if I had just purchased a new shrub. What corner of the yard would be most convenient for hauling laundry baskets? Which was the sunniest spot?
Since its installation, my hubby and I are sleeping like babies between line-dried sheets, our nostrils drinking in the scent of linens hung outside. That fragrance—sunshine-drench—is unmistakable and inimitable, no matter how hard detergent and room-freshener manufacturers try to create it artificially. When the rainy season sets in for good, we will resort to the electric dryer, but until then I am hunting down things to launder like a madwoman, just so I can hang them outside to dry. The cool edge of autumn air, the warmth of direct sunlight, and the fluttering of maple leaves combine with this utilitarian task to make me feel inexplicably happy.