I was swinging on my tire swing in the backyard, because that is what bored 10-year-old boys do on a summer afternoon. It wasn’t my first choice. I had already made a long loop around Hickory Circle and discovered to my dismay that all of my friends were indisposed; they had either gone shopping with their parents or were engaged in an undesirable chore like cutting the grass.
After an unsuccessful attempt to locate and harass my little sister for sport, I found my way into our backyard, which was unlike anyone else’s on the block. It had a pitch from top to bottom. It was a good idea to walk in our backyard wearing shoes, because there was nary a blade of grass — just rocks and an occasional rogue weed. An assortment of large oak and hickory trees kept it almost exclusively in the shade, except for a sliver near the far end where dad planted his garden. At the foot of the brick steps was a well-used rusty swing set I had outgrown, and a homemade wooden cage where I kept chipmunks. At the foot of a small dogwood in the center of the yard was the final resting place of Buck, my beloved boxer.
If you weaved your way uphill, you came upon an old army surplus hammock where I spent some of my summer evenings with a flashlight and a cache of comics. Nearby, my tire swing hung from a scaly bark hickory tree, so near our house that I could touch the eaves with my feet. And close by, exposed to that sliver of sunshine, was the family clothesline.
In 1963, dryers were becoming more common in suburbia, but by no means did everybody own one. We didn’t, which meant that almost every day my mom would make her way from our back porch to the clothesline with a basket of wet laundry in tow.
It was a ritual. She began at the highest point of the line, folding a wet sheet over the metal wire, holding it in place with several wooden clothes pins she fished from her apron pocket. From there, she worked her way down the 50 foot strand, the articles got smaller. There were no bras or panties; instead, her “unmentionables” were dried on a wooden rack in the basement, far from prying eyes. On the other hand, mine and dad’s tidy-whiteys were proudly displayed for everyone to see. Once she was finished, it reminded me of flags on a ship, fluttering in the breeze. The long-sleeve shirts appeared to be waving to an unseen friend.
It was also a social event. If Mrs. Reynolds, our next-door neighbor, was hanging her laundry, it was a safe bet that she and mom would take a few minutes to “catch up” on family events, or discuss the latest episode of “As The World Turns.”
Later in the day, the process was repeated in reverse, and in a few minutes, mother headed back in the house with a basket full of clothes freshly dried by Mother Nature.
As you might expect, scientists have done a bit of research on clothes that are dried outside, which says that they smell better due to sunlight-activated chemical reactions that create aldehydes and ketones, whatever those are. This produces a fresh scent. The sun also kills bacteria and the wind dissipates odors. But a 10-year-old didn’t care about all of that. All I cared about was how wonderful our clothes smelled once they had been washed and hung out to dry. All the dryer sheets in the world can’t even come close.
The next year Dad bought a dryer, and almost immediately the clothesline became a relic of an earlier time. Now, instead of an outdoor trip to dry our clothes, we headed to our musty basement.
I didn’t realize it at the time, but I do now. The modern convenience of the dryer undoubtedly made our life easier, but something else was lost.
Those summer afternoons, the smell of sun-dried sheets, Mom chatting over the fence, the steady swish of my tire swing, were more than just part of my childhood. They were lessons in simplicity, in slowing down, in finding joy in the ordinary.
Sometimes, I take a towel from our washer and hang it over a chair on my deck. When it’s dry, I’ll smell it and catch a whiff of laundry fresh from the line. Suddenly, I’m ten years old again, swinging on my tire in the backyard, watching those colorful flags of family life flapping gently in the breeze.
Joe Hobby is a standup comedian, a syndicated columnist, and a long-time writer for Jay Leno. He’s a member of Cullman Electric Cooperative and is very happy now that he can use Sprout from his little place on Smith Lake. Contact him at [email protected].
