Chapter 1: The Clothesline Dance

What would I give to hear the sweet song of the little bird one more time?

This reminiscence is dedicated to Agnes Louis, who hangs clothes on a clothesline. How many people still do that these days? I vividly remember my mother mastering the art of hanging laundry. It was less about routine and more like a graceful dance. She had a little bag of clothespins hanging from the pulley, always within reach, and the wash basket was perfectly positioned for her to grab items with ease. Each time she pushed the freshly hung clothes into the air, the pulley let out a distinctive squeak, reminiscent of a scene from a Disney movie.

While she lacked bluebirds for company, the local mockingbirds mimicked the sound of the pulley, creating a unique melody in our backyard. My mother, with her beauty and grace, had a voice that could enchant anyone, even if we, her children, often groaned when she started singing one of her favorite hymns. Now, I long to hear her rendition of "His Eye is on the Sparrow" just one more time.

Before her struggle with alcohol began, she was a wonderful mother. By the time her drinking worsened, we had switched to an electric dryer, and my siblings and I were already managing our own meals and laundry. None of us had the chance to learn her rhythmic clothesline dance. Our father was absent from domestic responsibilities, yet he was indispensable in providing for us, working tirelessly at his machine shop to ensure we had food and clothes. We rarely interacted with him; he was more of a looming presence than a hands-on parent.

The situation changed drastically with the divorce. By then, we were mostly grown and out of the house. During the lead-up to the divorce, he openly cheated on my mother. Thankfully, she had managed to get sober enough to resume her household duties. Yet, he would come home and taunt her with references to his new life, pushing her back toward her old habits. That cruelty remains unforgivable in my eyes.

Yet, perhaps I have forgiven him. I worked alongside him and learned the trade that eventually led me to a fulfilling career in manufacturing engineering. The shop ultimately failed, but now that he has passed, I find myself reflecting on his past cruelty. Forgiveness and forgetting are not the same, and I often wonder what his thought process was. Why would he choose to hurt her further when he had already abandoned her? After the divorce, my mother spiraled down to rock bottom, but she managed to rebuild her life and even led A.A. meetings. Unfortunately, complications from her illness cut her life short.

Who even uses clotheslines in this modern era? Maybe the environmentally conscious among us. It's amusing how people tout their eco-friendliness while relying on electric dryers when a natural solar option is available right outside. Like many, I cling to my electric dryer. I can relate to Dostoevsky’s underground man: “Let the world go to ruin, but I will keep my electric dryer.”

After the divorce, my father used clotheslines even in winter, relishing the idea of hanging wet jeans outside in the cold. With the sun's help, they would freeze and then dry through sublimation. His passion for science is where I found my own interest. He believed my affinity for the machinist trade was a genetic gift from him.

He even defended controversial theories against my objections, claiming, “It’s gotten a few politically correct reviews.” Ironically, I remember him vehemently speaking against racism during my childhood. Could exposure to his views have shaped my own beliefs? Is racism somehow genetic? If so, why am I not waving a Confederate flag?

In church, I often begin a hymn and remember it was one of my mother’s favorites. From my position in the choir, I observe the acolytes and feel a pang of regret for not taking on that role when I had the chance. It would have brought her immense joy. She had encouraged me to do so, but I scoffed at the idea. Now, that opportunity is lost forever.

As for my father, I have been critical of him, but his love for science has deeply influenced me. He beamed with pride when I earned my engineering degree, though circumstances kept him from attending my graduation. Instead, I presented him with an award I received, even though he hesitated to accept it, calling it "too precious." I insisted that this would allow me to share a piece of that moment with him.

Both my parents have passed on, yet as I write this, I find myself holding back tears. Memory is intricate and layered. While I cannot forget my father’s cruelty toward my mother, I also remember my own small wounds inflicted during childhood.

Chapter 2: Reflections on Loss

The first video, "Little Bird, Little Bird Music Video Performed by Elizabeth Mitchell," captures the essence of childhood memories and the gentle call of nature, evoking nostalgia and warmth.

The second video, "Little Bird, Little Bird - Elizabeth Mitchell," beautifully illustrates the connection between family and memory through the tender imagery of birds and song.