No keen sense of smell is required to discern fragrances of various seasons of the year. The novice must, however, take time to inhale deeply and savor nature’s perfume as it finds its way through the senses. The lingering pleasure of remembered scents provided by Mother Earth enables one to find an unexpected joy in washday.

However, the purity of the neighborhood is an important factor in the identification of distinct seasonal differences. Provided there are no interferences from hog pens, cow pastures and goats, the resulting scent is a pleasing one.

The aroma of sheets hung outside in summer’s hot sunshine is often infused with the sweet fragrance of purple wisteria and honeysuckle winding its way along the barbed wire fence or through the branches of a tree powerless to stop its ascent.

Autumn’s earthy, unmistakable pungent, woodsy smell of smoldering embers from a distant fire provides its own distinctive aroma and lures one to stroll leisurely along tree-lined lanes laden with leaves once clinging to familiar branches and spend the afternoon absorbing the beauty of the changing season. Fall is too soon swept away by a teeth-chattering blue norther, cleansing the air of stale impurities and providing a pleasurable clean and pure perfume.

Spring boisterously announces its arrival with flashes of lightning and rolling, rumbling thunder to offer a welcome respite from the cold winter winds with refreshing showers and a scent of early blossoms pushing their way through the re-awakening earth to remind the world that life will go on. Each season has its own magic blend of perfume to infuse in laundry merrily dancing in the breeze.

Before the days of new-fangled dryers, women struggled in the cold, brisk north wind to hang clothes on the line, clothespins deep in the pockets of an apron tied snugly around the waist, a few clipped securely to the bodice of their blouse. The clothespin bag hooked over the line sometime lost its battle with the wind and lay useless on the ground with its wooden clips scattered about.

An occasional garment escaped from the confines of the basket when a playful gust of wind lifted it across an uncharted path. Once retrieved, it was shaken firmly of its offending dirt and dead grass and returned to steaming sudsy water in the black iron wash pot, still hot from the smoking ashes of the fire beneath it to force repentance for its escape and experience again the cleansing process of a stern scrubbing on the rub board and poking of a laundry stick.

The wind was not the only adversary while hanging out clothes. Vagabond yellow jackets built their nests in the secret confines of exposed open ends on iron clothesline poles and were poised for the attack on any unwary trespasser. With clothes laden arms extended, sweat from the chore’s labor tantalizing the wasps, the target was an easy one. The yellow-striped attacker succeeded before the victim could shield herself from the searing pain. A few carefully aimed dashes of kerosene or coal oil would discourage the construction of their architecturally perfect summer home until the next family of yellow jackets came looking for prime real estate.

Red ants were sneaky outdoor varmints with alert sentinels looking for a foot to sting, their big all-seeing eyes ever searching for the next victim. Ant hills were kept under control in the broom-swept yard, but being the nomadic little critters they were, they staked out their claim to a spot under cover of darkness and lay in wait for toes to crawl between, leaving their foot-stomping, foot-slapping coal of fire greeting.

Honeybees were a threat during the spring and were not selective about where they might set up residence, sometimes finding a hole under the eave of a house to incubate their unwelcome family in a network of honeycomb. A spy for the bee colony seemed to take delight in finding a victim to intimidate and discourage from nearing their new digs. A patch of wet chewing tobacco eased many a bee-sting’s searing welt.

When I married, I left the country home I’d known all my life and moved to “town.” Within two years my husband and I were having our first home built. My father insisted that I must have a clothesline. Didn’t he understand that I lived in “town” now? I observed none of my neighbors had strings of wire across their yard. They were things of the past, much like wood-burning stoves, black and white televisions, ice picks and flat irons.

Mild objections were over ruled and the clothesline was included as part of the back yard’s landscape. It was quite handsome, as clothesline go. There were three wires attached to sturdy iron T-shaped poles well camouflaged with black paint and set securely in cement. Wires greeted the sun and the poles were hiding in trees. A can of pressurized wasp killer was at hand. All was well. An occasional neighbor asked if it was all right if they hung sheets on my lines.