Mama always had a clothesline wherever we lived. So did everyone else we knew. As soon as my arms could reach the line, hanging out the clothes became one of my chores. I didn’t mind it. The wet clothes smelled good and it was fun to make a tunnel by stretching the sheets over two lines. After all the other clothes were hung out, I could run through the sheet tunnel. Hanging clothes out in the winter could be tricky but usually, even on our coldest days, there was enough sun to dry them.
I did hate the pants stretcher, though. Someone invented a contraption that fit down in wet jeans and other pants to stretch them as they dried. Theoretically, this made them easier to iron. Practically, it took longer to get the stretcher in the jeans than it would have taken to iron them wrinkles and all.
There was an order to hanging out clothes. Every family had their own method and children learned to follow the patterns laid down by their mothers. No more than two socks to a clothespin. Underwear hangs from the waist. Link the clothes together with a shared clothespin. Pants hang from the waist as do skirts. Don’t pin red things to white things in case they fade. Hang colored things inside out so the sun won’t fade them. Don’t let anything touch the ground. Sometimes clotheslines would sag and a pole prop would be needed to follow this rule.
Bringing the clothes in was never as much fun for me as hanging them out partly because I hated to fold them. The clothes pins went back in the little bag that hung on the line. The sheets and towels, a little stiff, smelled of the sun. My children insisted that clothes dried at Grandma’s house also had a faint whiff of cow manure but I think they were prejudiced. City kids, they grew up with a dryer and wanted soft sheets and towels not stiff ones.
And now I have a clothes line again. Two metal poles built by my father long ago stand guard at the back of the house. Placement was crucial. The lines needed to be far enough away from the horse fence so curious equines couldn’t reach and nibble on clothes. Clotheslines are in again, a green alternative to power hungry dryers and I am a part of the avant guard. All things old are made new again sooner or later. Mini skirts and clotheslines...
It is hard to be uppity when all the kids on the school bus see your underwear hanging out on the line... humility is an under rated virtue. And, all the neighbors clothes flapping in the breeze gave us kids a chance to see everybody’s laundry (and underwear). Somehow clotheslines brought us together as a community. Driving by Miz Barnes house as she was hanging out clothes, we waved and listened to the adult conversation about her boys and their farm. Washing days varied from family to family but the sight of wash hanging out seemed to start conversations about relationships and families.
I need a clothesline for my soul, a place in the sun to hang out all the stuff I am working on. Hanging out on the line, others can see what is going on with me. This blog is my spiritual clothesline in many ways. I don’t always hang things out neatly but they flap in the breezes of your responses. Good church is another place where I can hang out some of my laundry to dry. I look around and see other clotheslines full of soul work. We could all use some clothesline time... hanging up and out, bringing in the laundry, seeing what is going on with our neighbors and friends, standing in the outdoors away from appliances that need repairmen.
Wouldn’t you know it? The first day with my new clothesline and it is cloudy and rainy. I will have to wait until tomorrow to hang out my laundry. Oh, well. Patience is another virtue I need to learn.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
With one voice...
I woke up suddenly to the sound of Barney’s song in the wee hours of the morning. He began his solo under our bedroom window and progressed around the house. I got up, went out on the porch and called him to me. The night was beautiful with clear skies and starlight so I sat awhile in silence with Barney beside me as we listened to the canine chorus singing. I could hear Leisa’s dogs, dogs from the next road over, dogs from the hills and valleys all around the farm, each singing their part in the Night Time Song of Dog. After awhile I went in and lay in bed slipstream thinking about voices and song.
Three grandsons were with us this weekend while their mother attended a high school reunion. Their voices began at 6:30 in the morning and stopped at bedtime. Sometimes they spoke separately but often, like Barney, they sang along with the chorus. A statement by one of them would lead to an accompanying riff from the other two. The ripple effect could be soothing if the decibel level was low or startling if there was disagreement or excitement in the choir.
Sunday morning I was called up to play the piano for worship. Miss Winnie, our 87 year old pianist, is ill and unable to play. The first hymn was “Soon and Very Soon” by Andrae Crouch, a hymn I love to sing but had never played before. It became apparent that what was written in the hymnal was not the way the congregation was used to singing it. We made it through somehow and I threw up my arms in relief to the laughter of the congregation. Thank God for the voices that knew the way it was supposed to be sung, who carried me along even when I played the wrong notes.
Morning time is quieter now as the birds are leaving for warmer winter homes. We wake to quiet stillness broken by the hum of crickets, not birdsong. There is a change in the choir loft as the season of autumn approaches. Different voices have begun to sing as another great cycle of change comes to Sabbath Rest Farm.
I reflect on the different voices I have had during my life... the voice of a daughter, a wife, a mother’s voice, a grandmother’s voice, the descant of a teacher, singing the song of a farmer or a deacon. Whatever the shape of the notes or the words, my prayer is that my voice will honor the One who gave me songs to sing. And if I stumble through an unfamiliar rhythm or my voice cracks on the high notes, I want to be fully present to the moment and belting it out.
Today I will sing the song of the farmer as I spray the cows for flies and feed them hay. When mama and I go to visit Margaret in the hospital, I will be singing as a friend and neighbor. As I pick up the truck from the repair shop, I will sing the song of the helper. In my heart I am singing a lullaby for Rowan and his parents, a lullaby of joy and thanksgiving as well as a prayer for sleep for them all. None of these songs are solos. Like Barney, I sing along with a choir. And I am grateful for all the voices and songs that lift me up. Thanks be to God.
Three grandsons were with us this weekend while their mother attended a high school reunion. Their voices began at 6:30 in the morning and stopped at bedtime. Sometimes they spoke separately but often, like Barney, they sang along with the chorus. A statement by one of them would lead to an accompanying riff from the other two. The ripple effect could be soothing if the decibel level was low or startling if there was disagreement or excitement in the choir.
Sunday morning I was called up to play the piano for worship. Miss Winnie, our 87 year old pianist, is ill and unable to play. The first hymn was “Soon and Very Soon” by Andrae Crouch, a hymn I love to sing but had never played before. It became apparent that what was written in the hymnal was not the way the congregation was used to singing it. We made it through somehow and I threw up my arms in relief to the laughter of the congregation. Thank God for the voices that knew the way it was supposed to be sung, who carried me along even when I played the wrong notes.
Morning time is quieter now as the birds are leaving for warmer winter homes. We wake to quiet stillness broken by the hum of crickets, not birdsong. There is a change in the choir loft as the season of autumn approaches. Different voices have begun to sing as another great cycle of change comes to Sabbath Rest Farm.
I reflect on the different voices I have had during my life... the voice of a daughter, a wife, a mother’s voice, a grandmother’s voice, the descant of a teacher, singing the song of a farmer or a deacon. Whatever the shape of the notes or the words, my prayer is that my voice will honor the One who gave me songs to sing. And if I stumble through an unfamiliar rhythm or my voice cracks on the high notes, I want to be fully present to the moment and belting it out.
Today I will sing the song of the farmer as I spray the cows for flies and feed them hay. When mama and I go to visit Margaret in the hospital, I will be singing as a friend and neighbor. As I pick up the truck from the repair shop, I will sing the song of the helper. In my heart I am singing a lullaby for Rowan and his parents, a lullaby of joy and thanksgiving as well as a prayer for sleep for them all. None of these songs are solos. Like Barney, I sing along with a choir. And I am grateful for all the voices and songs that lift me up. Thanks be to God.
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