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Can it be true that we are the last generation to remember the former ubiquitous backyard clothesline?  The one with all its social complexities?

Make no mistake.  There were strict clothesline rules.  First the lines had to be wiped clean with a wet cloth by a housewife who had perfected the art of zinging.  Additionally, to be in true clothes-hanging-esteem, the lines had to as taut as guy wires and the poles as upright as Lady Liberty. Sagging lines were ferociously frowned upon. Once these things were set aright, the clothespin bag was hung and the art of hanging clothes properly began.

There was an unspoken—but very real—competition to see which housewife could hang her laundry first; it being a clear badge of domestic efficiency.  I took this challenge with the utmost seriousness often hanging early in twilight summer mornings and bleak winter sunrises.  My silly honor had to be upheld after all.

Washing was divided by color—whites having priority. And trust me when I say that white had to be white.  Nothing was worse than the dreaded raised eyebrows of the neighbor ladies critiquing a public display of despicable drab.

Headlining this blight were socks that often had to be hand scrubbed on a washboard because the wringer washer didn’t do the job.

Socks were hung one-by-one, and always by the toes, never the tops!  Mine were zealously pinned so they all descended in the same direction, heels to the right.  The precision was such that it could have passed a first sergeant’s inspection.

Every piece of clothing was vigorously shaken to release as many wrinkles as possible.  This cut down on the ironing later, another precisely pesky chore.  Trousers were a special consideration as they were pinned by the cuffs with the legs impeccably folded down the center front and back, the way Mrs. God intended.

Shirts were hung by the hems.  If the husband had a white collar job, then that is exactly what was called for … a white collar!  Oxydol was on every shopping list along with its helpmate, Clorox, a potion as revered as penicillin.  Sheets were a special case.  They also had to be blindingly white. It took devoted practice to hang the folded-in-half double bed sheets … the largest sheets available. Not one single place on the sheet could touch the contaminated ground and it had to be held in place by clothespins so that it hung ramrod straight—never a sag.  I preferred the spring type pin as I thought it was clearly upscale.  I would point out that all this maneuvering was a challenge for shorter housewives.)

Do any of you remember how varied the clothespin bags were?  I think the favorite was the one that looked like a dress for a baby girl.  Mine was much more utilitarian looking because I thought the dress was silly. And it must be noted that it was down right slothful to leave the pins on the line, akin to leaving the Christmas lights up until the 4th of July.  Puleeze.  Soooo tacky.

Usually Monday was wash day.  I, of the more elevated dedication, washed everyday.  Of course there were no disposable diapers as Mr. Pampers was still in vitro. Curity cloth diapers—at least a yard long—were the answer.   I hung them layered in twos, a clothespin pinching the adjoining pairs to save space and pins.

Modest women hung their unmentionables out of sight on the inside lines, sometimes for painful reasons.  Like who wanted everyone to know they wore size 18 panties?  Or even worse, a size 2 cotton bra?  And all laundry had to be brought down in time to prepare dinner which was on the table when hubby walked through the door.  Freshly dried clothes were placed carefully in the laundry basket—not crammed—because as I mentioned before nearly everything had to be ironed. There were no wrinkle resistant fabrics and wearing wrinkled clothes in public was next to ungodliness.

Men’s dress shirts cracked when folded because they had been dipped in liquid starch before drying.  At the first opportunity, the laundry was sprinkled to prepare it for ironing.  I used a Coke bottle with a hole-punched stopper.  Too much water was a mess, too little a waste of time.  Sprinkling was an acquired skill.  All the cottons (everything was cotton!) were tightly rolled and tucked back into the laundry basket under a dry clean towel.  It was imperative to iron within a day to avoid mold.  And never underestimate the skill of the ironer.  It took practice and patience and lots of time.  This was often made easier while listening to the radio voices of Arthur Godfrey, Stella Dallas, Ma Perkins or Our Gal Sunday.

It is vital that you understand how important proper laundry hanging was to the prestige of the housewife. It was, indeed, a  semaphore announcing to the neighbors each family’s news. For example, fancy sheets meant that visitors were in town, miniature infant clothes announced the arrival of a baby, illness was evidenced by extra sheets and pajamas, and pretty tablecloths publicized a family get-together.  An empty clothesline bragged the family could afford a vacation.

It begs the question of what secrets now lie within the steely innards and lint traps of today’s churning appliances?  Is their muted droning trying to tell us something?