Saturday, 19 April 2014

Hanging Clothes to Dry

Stains, wrinkles, the life of grime—just a memory, now that I’ve hung my clothes to dry. Anybody can see what’s out there. From left to right, the quick-dry shirt (a tourist special), the Cougars running shirt . . . well never mind. See for yourself!

I’ve got the right day, when even the river seems to lie back and love the sun, which in turn loves my laundry. The last time I had a thrill like this, not counting my last radish and cheddar sandwich, was when a bunch of us were trying to create text and image presentations on an Apple IIe—this was 1981-82 in Nelson, a town about as far up the edge of Kootenay Lake in southeastern B.C. as I am right now above the Tagus in Alfama. I’d worked out a sequence of commands for a screen that would say, in crude early computer font, the supreme joy, over a piece-at-a-time assembly of a primitive car, of perfect motoring. I loved the effect.
So, the supreme joy of hanging clothes to dry, liking the thought of what I get later: my stash of river breeze up the pantlegs and down the sleeves. Re-delicate undies! Never mind later, I like it now, the flag of my undies and socks and the full kit, pinned loosely on the line, as they do it here. A breeze keeps things cool. The sun bides its time. While the clothes hang, I’ll head out for a little dangle in the breeze of my own.

No comments: