Hanging out the laundry to dry in the hot sun. That’s a thing a retired woman has time to do. And savor. String out the line, drape the sheets, clip on the wooden clothespins. Listen to the cheeping nuthatches scolding that you’ve interrupted their breakfast. Imagine yourself as a part of a long long line of women caring for the small details of the home.
Tell you what, though. A few summers ago, I rhapsodized on this subject to my mother. She snorted and rattled off her memories–winter mornings on the prairie in southern Alberta, hanging out the wet clothes, hands red and frigid; or running out in a mean whipping wind, fighting to keep shirts and dresses from flying off, or rescuing nicely dried sheets from a sudden squall.
Adding her sharp memories to my own odd joy in the task seems right just now. A year ago, I was with her as she was getting ready to leave us. It was lovely. And hard. She was delicate, yet tough as the Alberta roses she adored. And we all miss her.
Photo by Susan Palmer
Susan Palmer's Exquisite Now 
Leave a comment