They were nearly 5 feet tall. Two of them. Connected with four strands of coated wire in 15-foot lengths. Planted in cement below the frost level in the yard of my childhood home. These were my mother’s clothes lines, and she knew them well.
These poles and lines were not the store-bought expandable versions. Dad made these out of iron and welded them into T shapes with a support brace on each side. Nothing was moving these things. I know this because I climbed them most every day and would proudly sit on top. Mom was OK with that, although I knew better than to even think about hanging from the lines.
Mom painted the clothes poles gray, probably every year, as I don’t ever recall seeing rust on them. She had a plastic ice cream pail with a handle that she stored her old wooden clothespins in, and she would carry that bucket out with each load of wet clothes from the washing machine in the basement.
Mom would hang most all of our laundry on those lines to dry. She said she loved the smell of the fresh air on the sun-dried clothes. She might also have been trying to save a few cents by not running the dryer. All I remember is that my size 7 Toughskins were crisp as cardboard, and I would need a few hours of wear to break them in. I also remember Mom instructing me to do the 50-yard dash to get the clothes off the line whenever an unexpected rain shower would arise.
The birds seemed to be attracted to those clothes lines as much as I was, often perching on them and doing their business, which created quite a contrast in color on those freshly painted gray poles. Mom clearly didn’t approve of their behavior. When on the poles, those birds also made good target practice for my brother and me with our BB guns. Mom didn’t approve of that either. Before you criticize us too much, though, you should know that we usually missed. Usually.
One of my childhood chores was to fold the clothes on the line, and this was an easier task than folding clothes out of the dryer due to the aforementioned crispness. Once set, those fold lines weren’t moving. Bed sheets were a trick, though, especially the fitted mattress covers that I still can’t seem to figure out how to fold today.
Jolene and I don’t have clothes lines in our yard, and I don’t know if we would use them if we did. The thought of freshly washed clothes being covered with pollen doesn’t sound pleasant to me or to my olfactory. Oddly, I don’t remember this being a problem in my youth.
Although it is rare, I do occasionally sees clothes hanging outside on lines today. I still have the desire to climb those poles, but, instead, I simply smile.
Have a great week, and thanks for reading.
Shane Goodman
President and Publisher
Big Green Umbrella Media
shane@dmcityview.com
515-953-4822, ext. 305 | 
