Memories of a clothesline

Memories of a clothesline

My grandmother's clotheslines bisected a postage-stamp size backyard behind her 1920s bungalow in the shadow of Roanoke's Mill Mountain.

I'm told that I looked forward to laundry days as a child visiting her home. I'd watch her fill a large wicker basket with wet clothes out of the washer in the basement, then follow her outside to "help" hang them.

The first thing she'd do was take a clean cloth and wipe off the lines, walking the entire length back and forth a few times. I'd haul out the metal clothespin bucket and, for some inexplicable reason, sit down in the grass and clip the pins all around the rim like a little army of wooden soldiers.

As she hung sheets, towels and clothes, I'd decide whether to hand her a wooden spring-pin or the unhinged tubular type with the round flat head.

There are stories of housewives who hung their unmentionables on a center line hidden discreetly behind outside rows of sheets and towels. I guess my grandmother lacked clothesline modesty -- she let it all hang out in plain view, even her rather sizable granny panties.

When she was finished, I always ran through the wet clothes to get a few cold slaps on a hot day.

When I was growing up, every home we lived in had a clothesline. My mom still has one. She runs outside when she hears it start to rain and says things under her breath when she discovers a bird has flown over and left a deposit on freshly dried laundry.

When my family visits her, we sleep on sweet, crisp sheets and dry ourselves with slightly rough towels.

Contact Julie Young at (804) 649-6732 or .