On-Line Pioneers

By Jeanne Moseley

The true talent of balancing a clothes basket on your right hip isn't something we see much of these days. But when I was growing up, it was commonplace. Dryers were considered a luxury, even in suburbia back in the 1950s, so a trek to the backyard clothesline was part of everyday life.

No matter how many jobs a woman had, hanging clothes was one of them. And when it came to helping moms, no one volunteered for that duty. I mean, it was physically demanding. Nothing ever seemed heavier to me than wet sheets and towels. Thank goodness no one had king-sized beds back then.

And life often revolved around the clothesline. If we were in town and dark clouds moved in, we'd scurry home as if to save the laundry from irrevocable harm. If it ever started to rain, woe be unto anyone who got in the way of a woman headed for her clothesline.

I also think it was the only therapy most women experienced during that era. Without Oprah, clothesline chatter was about the only means for personal sharing and psychological exploration. It's no coincidence that the clotheslines were all in a row together in our neighborhood. This was a deliberate design for long hours of soul sharing among my mother and her friends.

We also had little privacy. Nowadays, if your favorite garment looks a little ragged, it's alright. Chances are no one will ever know. But I recall, with great embarrassment, seeing an array of my personal undergarments hanging in the backyard for all to see. Adolescents today are spared such humiliation.

As I write about these experiences, the vision of my mother and her friend, Anita, keeps coming into view. Mother is wearing a plaid shirtwaist dress with a white, rounded collar. Both these women also worked outside the home, and if their husbands had paid any attention at all, they would have been threatened by the words shared across the clothesline.

On my back porch are six nails, each with a clothespin attached. It's here where I perpetuate the clothesline ritual from time to time. While there's no one but my cats to listen, I still find myself with things to say as I clip the garments neatly in place.

Times change. Memories, thank goodness, never do.

Copyright ©2000 Jeanne Moseley