Only in Woolwich…

Laundry hung out on a clothesline is truly one of my favourite things. I grew up with the terminology for it being “wash on the wash line”. When I see the wash on the line, I see a homey-ness that I find centering. Calming. It catches my eye and imagination wherever I see it. Recently though, I upped the ante (or lowered, depending on one’s perspective) and used the wash line for sleuthing.

Several years back, I hired a young, single woman from nearby to help me with some deep-cleaning. She quietly but affably went about her given tasks. We became friends in a loose kind of way and had some meaningful conversations. Life took her to new endeavours, but whenever we met in the community, we always liked a bit of a chat.

Then I heard she had gotten married and moved to a farm. I would drive past the farm quite regularly on my “gathering” route, and eventually I started watching that clothesline for diapers. Time passed and no diapers on the line. I started feeling bad for her (big, big assumptions on my part). But I continued to watch the line.

One bright Monday morning, I headed out to gather and drove past her farm. And there it was – a wash line hung with white diapers. On my way back, I pulled off to take a picture of the diapers from afar to send to my daughter as she too had become invested in the story. As I took my photo, I saw those telltale diapers being pulled, tug – pause – tug, towards the house. It occurred to me that I could pop in and say hi. Would that be neighbourly or over-stepping? I opted for neighbourly and drove in her lane.

A stroller sat on the sidewalk just out from the kitchen porch. A car seat at the new mama’s feet as she unpinned little sleepers from the line. She looked out, guarded, as I parked my car, but her countenance warmed when she recognized me. I walked up to the porch, and she picked up her little one and immediately handed her off to me. I slipped on my mask and nestled the baby in my arms, all my gramma senses enlivened. We chatted the changes that come with being a parent and whether or not the baby is contented and/or fussy. The sweet wee one, wearing a soft print dress made for her by her Gramma, drifted off to sleep in the crook of my arm.

It turns out the little one’s parents had been together on the farm for less than a year. It would appear that my sense of time had warped.

To celebrate this wee arrival, I knit a soft pink bonnet for her and dropped it off to their farm. Maybe someday, it too will be hung on the line amongst the flapping diapers.