Out in the Elements

On a bright, breezy day, I went out to hang a load of laundry on the line. I drop the basket and reach for my first clothespin; as my fingers close on it, I can feel that the spring, its principle mechanism, is worn out. The grip is nearly gone.

I consider the speed with which they age, becoming splinters of their former selves, out here, year round, in the elements. A thrifty housekeeper would tell me to get a clothespin bag. But she doesn’t know what the earwig population is like in Sagaponack. She’s never seen them stream out of damp containment — electrical box covers, irrigation fittings, and, yes, particularly out of clothing removed from “the line.”

I feel the wind against my back, and the T-shirts are buffeted; a dish towel, outstretched like a flag, snaps in the wind. I think of how, as a family, we roughhoused. The snapping sound reminds me of how, by way of demonstration, while drying dishes with my father, he taught us how to use the dish rag as a light weapon.

It was always every man for himself. We had water fights, we had dirt bomb wars, and, when stuck inside for too long, stuffed animals were stockpiled, and many windows were broken. Food was occasionally abused.

My father’s favorite assertion of power was to scoop an enormous helping of mashed potatoes from the pot and ask the victim, often a guest, if he or she wanted any potatoes. Of course they said yes — but when they held out their plate, we’d all lean back a little. My father delivered the payload with lightning speed and force. The potatoes would, on impact, spread to cover most of the plate, and, as family, depending on the splat, we’d generally be able to tell if my father liked this person or not.

I stand at the end of the clothesline, laughing again, at the look on so many faces and the sometimes dramatic recourse they’d take, scraping the potatoes back to a relegated side of the plate.

I’m testing the spring of another eroded pin, wondering if it can hold one sock, which it can. Done — I turn to face the wind and realize that it is a touch damp and, of course, coming from the east. I can’t yet hear the surf, but in a few hours it will be pounding.

As I reenter my house, I catch my own reflection and involuntarily compare my looks to those of the weather-beaten clothespin, forever out in the elements. I study myself briefly and consider the inevitable and erosive forces upon that clothespin. They play upon and wear down my surfaces, too

Which makes me laugh again.