I remember playing amid the bed
sheets hanging from Mom’s clothesline at seven years old, my sister briefly
silhouetted by the morning sun, disappearing before I could tag her. Only the
ghost of a giggle remained to prove she’d been there.
When I was 16, my mother worked on an inpatient psychiatric
unit, a high school equivalency degree enough to quality her to monitor the
residents. One day, when a colleague was on lunch break and late to return, my
mom was left defenseless in the face and fists of a resident who tried to kill
her. With blackened eyes, bruised throat and broken ribs she watched me hang our
laundry under a dazzling sky, me so
desperate to help, so thankful that intervention came in time and she was
returned to us intact, mostly. It was a gift to have her continued guidance as
I moved into adulthood.
I put up a small umbrella clothesline outside our duplex door in
1988 and hung my children’s clothes to dry throughout the summer when they were
one and two-years old. Onesies, wee socks, sleepers, leggings, t-shirts and
sweet teddy bear crib sheets cavorted in the breeze amidst my husband’s work
shirts. These were meditative moments while toddlers napped, and the scent of
line-dried sheets was a comforting welcome when it was time to sleep.
We bought our first house in 1991
and erected a sturdy clothesline behind our garage. It was the site of energy
saving efficiency as well as fantasy borne of blankets slung over the lines to
create forts for my little ones. We’d play beneath the woolly shade imagining
we were dragons or pirates or royalty in a castle.
When we moved to our current home
in 2014, we reverted to the umbrella style clothesline to make the most of a
smaller back yard. One day when I was hanging shirts on the line, my little
neighbor girl asked why I was putting my clothes on a tree. It saddened me to
realize that she would never know the joy of hiding among the sheets or
pretending beneath a blanket lovingly positioned by a parent. I explained that
I was drying my clothes, that I loved the way they smelled when I brought them
in, that I was saving energy by letting the sun and the breeze do the work that
would otherwise fall to the dryer in the basement, that I enjoyed the excuse to
spend a little more time outside. She simply nodded and trotted off to play
with her brother.
February of 2024 was a strange
month in Wisconsin, warm enough for me to hang laundry on the line above
snow-free grass. Dormant plants were tricked by the spring-like weather and
some began to sprout. I carried my laden clothes basket to the back yard, basking
in the 50-degree temperatures and the brilliant sun. I thought of all the times
my mom had hung the laundry to dry, and her mom, and her mom’s mom. My mom was
prevalent in my thoughts that day… She was at her home dying of the cancer that
had spread throughout her body and I was at my home for only a few hours… my
sisters and I were caring for her around the clock and it was my turn for a
brief respite. I thought of her welcoming smile and sparkling eyes as I
retrieved each item from the basket and fixed it with wooden clothespins to the
web shaped lines. My gratitude for all she taught me welled and overflowed as
tears.
She left us a few days later and I’m
thankful she’s no longer suffering. I imagine her watching me hang laundry from
wherever she is, smiling.
