Motoring through the country side in my families’ monstrous, blue-green vehicle, I glance at the twenty foot lines displaying the Amish, monotone garb. Finally, in my own back lawn, I eye the permanent drying lines. In a surge of interest, I ventured out to the green wire with my damp laundry. Securing the fabric pieces with clothes pins, I remember reading Little House on the Prairie about the adventures of Laura Ingalls. And embedded in my head, along with the fond yearnings to travel in my own covered wagon, was an illustration of linens on a line, rippling in the wind. Ma with a basket and a baby rolling in the tall grass. The more time I spend out here in the country, the more idyllic, childhood images I remember.
I even have little neighbors who live by my lines. A couple birds have found a home in a little box attached to the post.