Of all domestic tasks, hanging the laundry is the one that brings me the most satisfaction. First there’s the lugging of the basket of heavy, wet laundry up the steps and out the door. I like using my muscles and that uses every one of them. And then, there they are, hanging clean and bright, like coloured flags in the wind, all in order, sheets with sheets, big towels, then smaller ones, and finally the wash cloths. No perfumed fabric softener can compare with the smell of laundry freshly dried in the pristine Yukon air.

My home is on an old Canadian Air Force base, and each house once had a grey painted wooden stoop to reach the clotheslines-on-pulleys that ran from the front of the house to a big iron T-post at the edge of the street. There are a few of us who still use our front-door-to-street clotheslines, but more and more they are disappearing, strung in the backyard instead, or maybe disappearing altogether as the electric clothes dryer permanently takes its place, and children grow up never smelling fresh air dried clothing.

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