Of all domestic tasks, hanging the laundry is the one that brings me the most satisfaction. It's the pure physicality of the job, I think, along with it's irresistable attraction to the senses. First there's the lugging of the basket of wet laundry up the steps and out the door. Then there they are when hung: Clean and bright, like coloured flags in the wind, all in order, sheets with sheets, big towels, then smaller ones, and finally the wash cloths. And no perfumed fabric softener can compare with the smell of laundry freshly dried in the pristine Yukon air.
My home is on an old Canadian Air Force base, and each house once had a grey painted wooden stoop to reach the clotheslines-on-pulleys that ran from the front of the house to a big iron T-post at the edge of the street. There are a few of us who still use our front-door-to-street clotheslines, but more and more they are disappearing, strung instead in the backyard, or maybe disappearing altogether as the electric clothes dryer permanently takes their place, and children grow up never smelling fresh air dried clothing.
Yes, this is a recycled post. Old, but slightly revised text; new photo. What can I say? I love line-drying the laundry.
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, clothes lines