When I was younger we lived in the perfect home. Perfect for an inquisitive tom boy like me. Although the inside of the house was small, the rooms oddly laid out and the windows warped with time, this house was the perfect space for me to grow up in.

My mom has always been something of a neat freak, cleaning constantly. The biggest difference between the two of us is that she prefers cleanliness with clutter, but I have always preferred zero clutter and impeccable cleanliness. This may be a difference in personality, but this difference was nonexistent when it came to hanging clothes out to dry.

When we first moved into this little house in the middle of nowhere, located on five lush acres, one of which we always mowed with a push mower, there were these perfectly spaced trees. While some would have hung a hammock or something similar, my mom and I hung a clothes line. Every week, we would wash all of the sheets and comforters in the house and hang them out to dry, allowing the smells of summer to mix with the fabric softener to make the comforter smell like the outdoors, the good part of the outdoors, had been blown inside.

In Salvador Dahli’s painting, there is a clock hanging on a dead tree that seems to be growing out of a desk. You can see all the numbers on the clock and the waves give it the appearance of something being blown by the wind. It brings back all those memories of living at home and hanging all the bedding out to dry every weekend.

Unfortunately, just like the tree is hollow, so are those memories. We have long since moved from that house into a new one. Even the newness on the current house is wearing off and my mom and stepdad are building a new one. Someone else is hanging clothes out to dry on our old clothesline, or maybe that clothesline doesn’t even exist any more.

Times have changed, and we have moved on. Part of me wonders if that is what this clock, hanging like sheets on the line on a dead, hollow tree is referring to. The times keep going, and we keep wishing for parts of the past.

– Posted using BlogPress from my iPad


When I was younger we lived in the perfect home. Perfect for an inquisitive tom boy like me. Although the inside of the house was small, the rooms oddly laid out and the windows warped with time, this house was the perfect space for me to grow up in.

My mom has always been something of a neat freak, cleaning constantly. The biggest difference between the two of us is that she prefers cleanliness with clutter, but I have always preferred zero clutter and impeccable cleanliness. This may be a difference in personality, but this difference was nonexistent when it came to hanging clothes out to dry.

When we first moved into this little house in the middle of nowhere, located on five lush acres, one of which we always mowed with a push mower, there were these perfectly spaced trees. While some would have hung a hammock or something similar, my mom and I hung a clothes line. Every week, we would wash all of the sheets and comforters in the house and hang them out to dry, allowing the smells of summer to mix with the fabric softener to make the comforter smell like the outdoors, the good part of the outdoors, had been blown inside.

In Salvador Dahli’s painting, there is a clock hanging on a dead tree that seems to be growing out of a desk. You can see all the numbers on the clock and the waves give it the appearance of something being blown by the wind. It brings back all those memories of living at home and hanging all the bedding out to dry every weekend.

Unfortunately, just like the tree is hollow, so are those memories. We have long since moved from that house into a new one. Even the newness on the current house is wearing off and my mom and stepdad are building a new one. Someone else is hanging clothes out to dry on our old clothesline, or maybe that clothesline doesn’t even exist any more.

Times have changed, and we have moved on. Part of me wonders if that is what this clock, hanging like sheets on the line on a dead, hollow tree is referring to. The times keep going, and we keep wishing for parts of the past.

– Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

%d bloggers like this: