On the Line

Buy at Walmart

Wet clothing pinned and clipped on lines

Towels and pants on one high end,
Sheets and shirts other end of twines,
Hanging down low as centers bend.

But, in the middle, too shy to publicly fly,

Hangs the underwear, bleached and white.

Playing hide and seek from those near-by,

Wanting oh-so-badly to take flight.

Oh, for a strong wind to play,

Coming across and sweeping away
The blues, the whites, and the gray,
Onto tractor windows, passing this day.

Bras, panties with hearts, boxers brave

Landing square on a farmer's face,

No dignity there is left to save,

Underwear at last has found a place.

Art of the Clothesline

I have had much experience with laundry on the line, years and years of it.  

I wrote this poem with a head full of memories and my mother's commands to hang the underwear in the middle of the second line, out of sight.  "We don't want neighbors to see what we wear." 

 Neighbors?  The nearest lived a half  a mile away.  The lines were behind the house.  But I was obedient. 

If anyone wants to sing the praises of laundry drying on clothesline, go ahead. I will not be agreeing with you. Too many images carrying laundry basket after each other has left me with a desire to never hang clothes out blowing in the wind. Sorry.

This is a repost from 2015 in A-Z Blogfest, U is for Underwear. Dang it, it was entertaining to my brain to toss around.

Revenge of the Halictidae

Ah. Romance in the Laundry Pinterest

Any person who rhapsodizes about hanging laundry in fresh air to dry has never done so in the Midwest, and for seven people in the family.  I would have gladly invited them to spend a week with me on our farm. Also, they have never had to iron that laundry, a sizable chore for many afternoons. 

blueberrybucket.tumblr.com

Given that thought, it is important to confirm a few things that are probably a plus.  Hanging and un-hanging was a peaceful time, for no one bothered me.  If they had, they were pressed into service.  Even though it was stinking hot, being alone for awhile was a pleasant change.

One Wednesday as we prepared to attend Wednesday prayer meeting, I was rushing to take down laundry. It was early dusk and was a rush job: remove clothespin, fold item, place in the bushel basket, and move on very quickly.  Once the folded underwear was distributed, my teenage self had to hurry to get ready.

Some time into the service, my teenage brothers began to squirm and cry out.  Then one by one, each leaped to their feet and ran out the church, screaming.

While this pleased me to no end, this event confused me mightily. Whatever their pain was, it was their due since they were each evil masochistic sub-humans. 

Sweat Bee

  

Later, it was discovered that there were sweat bees in their underpants. Yes, those bees with a short-term sting that hurt like the dickens. They are unusual in that they fly around in early dusk and evening. God bless them.  

I was certainly innocent in this, totally innocent. For some reason, the bees had selected their underpants. Why, I don't know. But, my joy knew no bounds.

I fell asleep with a giggle and a smile. Revenge happens when it is least expected.

These sites are blog posts where the evil masochistic brothers made my life a living hell throughout many years.

God bless you, Marvel Comics


The Easter Bunny Cometh

Hidden from sight

Wet clothing pinned and clipped on lines
Towels and pants on one high end,
Sheets and shirts other end of twines,
Hanging down low as centers bend.

But, in the middle, too shy to publicly fly,

Hangs the underwear, bleached and white.

Playing hide and seek from those near-by,

Wanting oh-so-badly to take flight.

Oh, for a strong wind to play,
Coming across and sweeping away
The blues, the whites, and the gray,
Onto tractor windows, passing this day.

Bras, panties with hearts, boxers brave

Landing square on a farmer's face,

No dignity there is left to save,

Underwear at last has found a place.

I have had much experience with laundry on the line, years and years of it.  

I wrote this poem with a head full of memories and my mother's commands to hang the underwear in the middle of the second line, out of sight.  "We don't want neighbors to see what we wear." 

 Neighbors?  The nearest lived one half  a mile away.  The lines were behind the house.  But I was obedient. 

If anyone wants to sing the praises of laundry drying on clothesline, go ahead. I will not be agreeing with you. Too many memories of laundry basket after each other has left me with a desire to never dry clothes out blowing in the wind. Sorry.

Questions, questions

Source

It is winter here in San Diego, CA.  Supposedly.  It is 83 º F (about 32º C).  Grass is brown, wildfires looming here, etc….

When this occurs, my mind starts casting about for diversion since the brain cannot take the heat and pressure.

Today I am asking questions, and would appreciate any suggested answers.

First question:  Why are men—in general—fascinated with knives and weapons?  And for that matter, what is it about movies with fast cars and big explosions?  What the heck? I realize there are 3 questions here, but go with it.

One of my husband's weaponry

Second:  Why are some women obsessed with shoes?

Source

Third:  Why do people smile involuntarily? I see a baby, a commercial with a baby, a photo of a baby…and I smile.

My grandson

Fourth:  What kind of underwear is worn under skin-tight underwear? Thinking mainly about women, but hey, it goes for men as well.  No photo on this one.  Use your imagination.

Do you have any questions you would like to toss out in print?  Go ahead, use this as your stage.