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Seasons on the clothes line.
by Cheryl Eggers
"When are you going to get a dryer?" I smile and shrug, "We have one. I just don't use it." I like hanging clothes on the line. I enjoy the few minutes alone, I think, pray, and remember. I love the smells, the fragrence of the seasons in the laundry.
Hanging the clothes - Summer
Summer is alive with sounds, the meadowlarks singing across the fence in the valley, whiring wings of grasshoppers and grass rippling in the wind. Wildflowers bloom profusely making our valley a patchwork quilt of vibrant colors.
Summer, the clothes line is fuller because clothes get dirty faster as children run and play outside. Looking across the valley at the horses running the pasture, racing with the wind, "A strom must be on it's way", I say to myself. I almost miss the charcoal stain on my daughter's shorts, put there by fingers blackened with marshmellow goo.
Stargazing
Back on a perfect evening in the month of August we built a fire at the fire ring in the back yard and invited family over for supper. The evening wore on, children ran and played, and adults sat relaxing around the fire, laughing and talking, discussing nothing and everything. Waiting, darkness fell, and we called the children to us and lay back to see who could spot the first star. Anticipation grew, the adults watched, spotted many stars, but kept quiet, and gently encouraged the children to look above. Taking little hands in ours to point, guiding eyes to the sky, so softly, "Did you look over there, just above the trees?"
Waiting.
Children's eyes grew with wonder as they began to pick out the newly emerging points of light. We lay there for a while, but soon the children one by one, almost like the stars had appeared, popped up and then wandered away.
Adults went back to watching the fire, softly speaking, pausing now and then to look at the sky above, and darkness slowly, steadily, grew. Finally the dark took over and the children once again emerged from the distance ready to find loving arms and snuggle down in the warm circle of light from the campfire. It was time now for blankets, songs, and perfectly, and not so perfectly, roasted marshmellows, slightly burned fingers to be kissed and made better, giggles, and tickles.
As little eyes began to droop, we once again lay back on now dew covered grass to gaze at the stars. "Oh, Mommy, where did they all come from? How many are there?" Then magically, wonderfully, the show began, shooting stars! Moving so quickly that little eyes couldn't find them. Now the adults became the children, eagerly awaiting the next burst of pinpoint light that went flying across the heavens. "Did you see that one? That makes five for me, what you have only seen two?" Adults laughing and bragging like children over their great accomplishments. Gradually we settled down, children snuggled close, hands tucked in ours, wrapped closely in blankets, each one deep in the night, the stars and their own thoughts.
Children fell asleep, lost in the stars and the night, close to the warmth of the fire, surrounded by parents love, and as the last little one struggled to keep eyes open, she whispered, "Mommy, someday I want to know all of the stars, can you teach me?" I looked down at eyes sparkling in the firelight, and gazed at the most precious star of all, my daughter.
Hanging the clothes - Autumn
Autumn and it becomes harder to get the laundry dry. Days are becoming shorter and I must watch for days that are still left over from summer. Sweaters are brought out and long pants are added. But there is still that occasional day that is a last gift of summer, breeze gentle and sun warm. I stop, hand halted in mid-air as I watch the bubblebee searching for a late blooming flowers. Gently he darts among the grass. I glance down and sigh, unhook the clothes pin and drop the jeans back into the basket, "Grass stain" I think, "This is going to need some more work."
Tall grass
I can hear the mower. My husband's new 'toy", an 18.5 h.p.Yard Machine with an 48 inch cut. "Now I can really cut grass!" he exclaimed. My daughter and I watch as he goes round and round. Standing at the window, her hand slips into mine and as I look down into her little face, my heart takes me back to the last days of summer. It was a beautiful evening, the sun slipping beyond the hill, crickets begin calling as the wind dies away for the night...I smile sadly and remember a time that will never come again.
There I am, standing at the kitchen window, I can just see three little heads bobbing and waving through the grass. It is tall now at the end of summer and has turned shades of rust and gold. I didn't mow my little bit of country, at least not beyond the area immediately surrounding the house. "Aren't you afraid of snakes?" No, not really, there have never been rattlers on this side of our little creek. They live on the other side and don't like to cross water, or bridges it seems. "Are you putting in a lawn?" the neighbors query. I am sure to them it looks unkempt, but that is not true, God created it just as it is, a beautiful meadow. I love our space. Through the summer the field grows fragrant with wild flowers. The sky shimmers with butterflies and pollen on the warm summer days. But the real reason I love this meadow is those three small heads.
I remember my childhood, the wonder of exploring, finding hidden worlds that grownups never saw. The forest, a mere quarter acre of trees below my grandfathers house, that was to me and my sister a vast unexplored wilderness. Here we set up small bowers to accommodate our vivid imaginations. One summer it was a hospital,
nursing struggling kittens and receiving more scratches than we were able to heal. Other times it became a pioneer village, complete with stores, blacksmith shops, and houses.
We now live next to a forest, but it is adult size and not a safe place for small adventurers to explore. But this summer the wonderful accident of the great unknown grew wild all around us. Then unable to cut the whole of our acre parcel, I settled for the fifty feet of area immediately surrounding the house, beyond that undefined space the valley grew as it always had. There my children found new games to play. At first they were content to hide until
someone noticed that they were gone. But as the giggles of hidden children, waiting, could be heard in the kitchen where I prepared their lunch, they were able to enjoy their game until I called them into the house to wash for their meal. Soon, they grew tired of merely hiding, and childhood's wonderful imagination took over. Whole houses grew. Rugs made out of blankets, tables out of bits of wood, and pretend food and dishes were fashioned from the plant life all around them.
Now as the sun sinks beyond the forest covered hill, these three were on another mission. They were busy making beautiful jewelry to be proudly shown off at the supper table. Small arms had been extended to receive their treasured piece of masking tape, and now, tape sticky side out, they searched for just the right flower, perfect leaf, and small pinecone that would complete the fragrant bracelet. They would soon come back to my world, a world full of dirty dishes, rooms that needed dusted and the million other details that make up the inside world of our home, but they would come bearing intricately created gifts. For one quiet moment I watched the heads moving along, listening to the singing voices, calling and exclaiming over new found treasures, knowing that soon they would leave this world of fascination and see, as adults do, only the grass that needs to be mowed.
Winter has come and gone, only the memory remains, old grass needs cut to allow the new to grow, just as childhood makes way for the adult world. Tonight, that first star begins to twinkle and my husband turns toward the house with glee, "This machine works great!" he calls. We wave back from the window, nodding, smiling. Small hand still gripping mine my daughter watches him turn the corner, then looks up and sighs, "Mommy now where will we play?"
Hanging the clothes - Winter
Winter has slipped up on me. One day it was warm, laundry snapping in the wind, drying quickly. Now the clothes come in from outside stiff and hard. I have strung a line in the basement near the woodstove to dry them more completely. Clothes now have a faint wood smoke smellthat is somehow comforting on cold winter days. I reach to take down the sweater, feel the warmth from the fire, the softness of the wool, smile at the snowflake pattern of white
upon white, pause, "Is that a hot chocolate stain?"
Snow Angels
There is a full moon tonight. I stand here at the window and watch the light play across the snow. The shadows revealing things long forgotten. There I can see the small hill, a bump really, that the children used as a mountain last summer. Across the yard a shadow moves, softly a deer steps across the snow, headed to the creek for water. We haven't seen as much of the deer this year, they have plenty of food in the high meadows, and our small meadow is not as appealing. Clearly outlined is a small tricycle, they were riding it only last week, now it is a beautiful snow scuplture.
As I watch the angels begin to take shape. The dark outlines of three little bodies and one larger one. I smile and remember.
The baby was asleep, oh how tired he and I were. Together we are struggling to cut two more teeth. He awoke, after a very sleepless night, at 5:30 this morning. Now he was finally asleep. But three small girls were tired of being quiet and while I dozed in the recliner they convinced their Dad that today was a perfect day for a walk. I heard the giggles as they tried to find mittens, boots and hats. Later I found that rather than wake me to help, my darling husband had used pairs of his socks as mittens for each of the girls. They were enthralled, informing me that now they "would never need mittens again!".
I slept on, until the queit woke me and I went to the window to watch. Around and around, sometimes at a run, more often at a sedate walk, my husband had pulled the sled. I could see the path they had followed etched clearly in the snow. Their tracks led out the drive into the forest, "What wonders had they found there?"
I waited for their return, starting the tea pot, preparing the hot chocolate, it was cold today, cold hands would welcome the warmth.. "Did they dress warmly enough? Do they need me?" Irrational thoughts whirled around my head, things only a mother would even consider. The baby stirred, I tiptoed to the window. Ready to queit rowdy children.
Out of the woods came my now snow frosted family, I could hear earnest voices, see the sled stop and everyone examine a new animal track on the snow. My family was home. I waited for their footsteps on the porch while I removed the tea pot from the stove, but they did not come. Going to the window I watched in amazement as they formed a circle and all fell over. Large and small arms and legs rose and fell in sweeping motions, and then oh so carefully, their father rose and cautiously lifted each girl from her white bed. Eyes shining, laughter tinkling, and there on the ground were four perfect angels. They turned towards the house, saw me in the window, waved and called. Jumping up and down they used game show gestures to show me their artwork.
I waved back and motioned them inside. Raised a cup of chocolate and excited squeals could be heard before they even reached the door. They trouped into the living room, eager to tell of the beauty they had found, the fun they had shared. The baby woke and held up small arms, cooing to be picked up, laughing as his daddy's beard touched his cheek, reaching for the snowflakes rapidly melting away.
Tomorrow the sun is supposed to warm the earth, and the snow angels will disappear. But when ever the moon is just right and the shadows grow long, I will stand at my window and see once again, my angels, hear in the night time silence the laughter, and smile.
Hanging the clothes - Spring
Spring has come to the hills. I watch the gathering rain clouds, "Will the clothes get dry before I have to bring them in?' I wonder. As I hurry to remove the clothes from the line, I only glance at the valley just beginning to turn green. Quickly, impatiently, I remove the pins. Backing I almost trip over a small figure, bent, head almost touching the ground. "What are you doing?" I question, bending also to see what has a hold on her attention. There close to the ground is a tiny purple flower, so small that only from a distance of a couple feet can it even be seen, but so beautiful in it's simplicity, that it would be a shame to miss. My daughter picks it, and in doing so brushes her fingers in the mud. "Here, mommy, a flower." As she thrusts it into
my full hand the mud wipes off on her brother's clean coveralls. "Dirty again, these coveralls attract mud!" I shake my head.
Dirt
We have an old black and white snapshot of two little boys, sitting in a mud puddle in their underwear, completely covered with the moist dirt. The boys are about three and four. One of the boys has an expression of trepidation, eyes proclaiming, "Someday this is coming back to haunt me, I just know it!" The smaller boy is frozen in time with his hand half raised in greeting, smile on his face, only his teeth and eyes -which are sparkling with mischief - showing clearly through the mud. This little boy is my husband. So I should have suspected, I had no excuse.
We live close to the earth here in the valley. Generations removed from the farms of our ancestors, but still an eternal longing comes in the spring to dig in the soil, to prepare the earth to receive the seeds that produce life. There is no breeze today, the sun is hot for April. Country sounds - usually so loud in the silence - are hidden by the sound of children learning to ride new bicycles, screaming and laughing, the sound of the tiller. My husband's mother and I stand at the edge of the garden plot, watching for the soil to be turned anew, occasionally stepping forward, reaching down to pluck a upturned stone or small rock from the earth. The sun warmed ground is perfect today, dry enough to turn easily, moist enough to work. The first pass is made and my husband and his father walk to the center of the garden, stoop and each lift a handful of the rich brown earth, testing. Two years ago the soil did not pass this test. As the tiller broke the sod the soil was powdery, dry and lifeless. Did the added manure, the added topsoil, the leftover garden produce, and time heal this land?
Breathlessly we wait and watch, children stop, and stand straddling the bikes. Father and son finger the soil, slowly letting it pass between large grease stained hands. Dirt outlines the scars from years of 'fixing', doing the things that 'a guy could' to make things, machines, homes and people work better. Still we, the mothers wait.
My son watches his daddy from my arms, then squirms to be let down. Slowly he crawls over the lumps of earth across the garden plot to sit beside his father. Little face raised he watches in wonder as two generations pick up the earth, sniff, rubbing slowly, softly between strong, gentle fingers, treating the rich soil as a chef would a new and exotic dish. We women, somehow excluded by the moment, listen, chatting softly, ears and hearts attuned to 'our men', "Did you see the sale on bananas at Safeway?" "Yes, good price. Did you decide on the fabric for the curtains? I may have a couple of pieces that would work." Chatting, filling the silence, not really listening. Finally the first word is spoken in the garden "Ashes." "Yep." That was all, but time began again, children rode off on bikes, laughing, singing to the wind, mundane conversation continued in earnest beside the garden. Fathers, concentration now broken, notice the small boy at their feet, and smile.
Then before I could react, before the moment passed beyond memory, the small boy child confidently picks up a hand full of dirt. Then, as generations of men have done before, examines it, experiencing the texture, the smell. My son looks deeply into his father's eyes, and begins slowly chewing, tasting, not sure of either the texture or the taste, but longing to be a part of this age old ritual of preparing the soil. Instinctively knowing that this magical substance must be good, but not sure of the process of discovery. Learning. Quietly father and son communicate with their eyes. Little boy asking, and gently being answered, one word but completely understood, just as only a word was needed between his father and grandfather, simply, softly, deeply, "Yuck." My son stopped in mid-chew. Reached his hand to his mouth and quickly, frantically began digging the dirt from his tongue. Amusement showed in my husbands eyes, Grandpa roared with laughter and went to haul ashes from the pile behind the house.
Time to return to the work. I blanched, running to rescue my son from himself. Having only myself to blame. The soil is in my son's blood, we have the picture to prove it. I have no excuse, only that I did not understand their need to be close to the earth, the longing to feel freshly turned soil between their fingers, the yearning to make it better than it is, the annual wonder of discovery. Only knowing that when all was said and done...my baby had eaten dirt!
Hanging the clothes - Memories
The clothes are folded and ready to go to their assigned spot, into the drawers, or to be mended. My day is not done, but already accumlating in the bathroom is a basket of laundry, another basket of memories.
Cheryl from Old Sawmill Homestead, 2000
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