A case of clothesline deja vu

    Herb and I were doing a bit of traveling this week and drove through a tiny town that we seldom visit when we saw something I’d not witnessed in years. Three houses in a row sported clotheslines in their side yards. Like a billowed sea the shirts and sheets and pillowcases flapped in the September breeze and I got a sudden attack of déjà vu.
    I can’t recall a single clothesline still in existence in Coonridge, a town that once proudly showed its underwear to the world every Monday morning. A young friend in Sunday School class complained of the slowness of her energy-saving electric dryer last week and those of who once clamped wooden clothespins between our teeth could only sigh with the wisdom of recognition, having lived in the days when washing took at entire day and rain could completely ruin a Monday morning’s work.

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