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I have been out hanging up laundry on the clothes line, remembering my Grandma Martha and the stories about how her clothesline was the tidiest and most organized in all of Eudora, Kansas. The German orderliness in her lined up the four pairs of overalls, the three stair-stepped pairs of Don, Paul and Dee and then Grandpa Bert’s. Next came the Sunday white shirts and trousers. When I was a little girl spending my summer days with her, I helped hang up the sheets and towels, and here I am now, in Spain, pinning up shirts and shorts and little girl socks with the village ladies.

A clothes dryer is a rarity here. It is much more common to see everyone’s laundry strung out the window, across the balcony, along the roof-top terrace line. Supposedly it is only for two weeks in the winter when it becomes a problem and you have wet clothes. Mostly the sun beats down and dries them in no time. The girls miss the softness of their clothes out of the dryer; Scott and I are enjoying the fresh smell and crispness to ours.

The washing machine too is a whole new process. The shortest cycle here must be about 47 minutes. Don’t dare choose the one for whites with hot water and various soakings as it may be tomorrow before they stop washing. I remind myself it’s all part of slowing down. The longer cycles I suppose give me more time to write and ponder life and remember my days with Grandma.