Putting laundry out on the clothesline today might’ve been a fool’s errand — thunderstorms of unspecified time and duration were in the forecast. Yet the day was so clear, the blue of the skies so deep, the cottony clouds so billowy that I didn’t care.
A little past noon, I started pinning the laundry to the clothesline. I’d done my whites — undershirts, socks, some work shirts, some khakis, some shorts.
I’d walked out into the backyard, still soggy from last night’s storms, in my bare feet, leaving impressions of toes and heels in the yard as I went.
Twenty minutes later, black clouds had moved in and had blotted out the blue sky.
I went inside and grabbed my car keys, I needed to put up the windows on the Beetle and close the sunroof. I managed to do this just in time; as I closed the car door, the skies opened up.
I didn’t bother trying to save the laundry. “Let it get even more wet,” said I to myself. “Water never hurt anything, and if it rains all day and I have to let the laundry hang all night, then that’s what I’ll do.”
I did, however, walk out into the middle of the back yard, still barefoot, because I eschew shoes at every opportunity. The muddy rainwater squished around my toes.
And then, I spread my arms wide, looked up into the sky, and like Andy Dufresqne in The Shawshank Redemption, I let the rain wash over me.
It was a heavy rain and a cold rain.
I stood there, arms outstretched, for several minutes, until my arms grew tired and the rain slacked off.
If the neighbors watched, if they wondered what had come over me, I didn’t really care.
The black clouds were gone within ten minutes. The laundry was dry by six o’clock.
I love the smell of laundry from the line. It smells so… fresh. 🙂