I love a clothesline----shaking out a shirt, figuring out which way to hang it, snipping on a clothes pin to one corner, then the next, bending over to pick out the next item to hang. Sometimes I arrange all of the like items together, sometimes not. In this picture, all of Jon's underwear is hung in a row, discreetly toward the back of the line so it's not as visible from the street. After all, we do live in town. Who knows what sorts of delicate sensibilities might be driving or walking by. Then there's the sensual delight of the smell of freshly dried clothes----that scent of steeped-in sunshine. Of course, there are the proverbial sun-dried sheets and pillowcases that not only titillate the sense of smell but of touch, too----smooth, crisp, line-dried sheets as an aid to more restful sleep. Towels hung on a clothesline are, perhaps, an acquired taste----stepping from a tub and using their rough texture to dry off is somewhat akin to using a loofa to wash with. Add to this the pleasure of feeling a bit less weighted down by one's connection to the power grid and the big metal monster that churns out dry clothes for a price, and using a clothesline becomes another freeing moment in a sunny day.
