I was 10 years old in June 1956 when my family moved from a two-bedroom walk-up apartment in Brownsville, Brooklyn, to what I considered then a fancy, three-bedroom, attached one-family brick house in nearby East Flatbush.

This fancy house had two porches: one in front above a stoop, and the second in the backyard. In addition to the eat-in kitchen, living room and dining room, were a garage, gas stove, refrigerator, a basement with a built-in liquor bar, and a laundry room with a washing machine.

But the biggest draw to the purchase of this house was the outdoor clothesline. My mother never had her own washing machine, so she was thrilled. But she couldn’t contain her true excitement that she was now the proud owner of this amazing drying device.

“What’s better,” I remember her saying, “than clothes smelling like fresh air?”

She’d fill a basket with wet laundry then schlep it upstairs to the backyard to air dry.

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From what I recall, the line was on a wheel connected to a piece of wood on the side of the kitchen window and ran the length of the yard, then attached to a pole. Something called a pulley was also involved.

The job of laundry hanging began, for my mother, at about 7 a.m. Her theory was that the earlier in the day she hung the laundry, the earlier in the day the task would be completed so that the ironing process could begin.

I was always impressed with how my mom mastered the organizational skill of hanging laundry in perfect order. First, she would hang the sheets, pillowcases and towels; next, my father’s underwear; then her housedresses, followed by the rest of the family’s sorted apparel — pants, shirts, blouses, handkerchiefs, socks (only those without holes, because what would the neighbors think?), brassieres and bloomers.

Any other way was just wrong!

To this day, I think there may have been some scientific logic for her methodical approach.

Then there was the art of using clothespins.

As part of her laundry day outfit, my mother tied the clothespin bag around her waist for easy access. It looked, well, weird.

To my 10-year-old mind, the clothespins she used resembled little wooden men. She would simply place the clothespins over the piece of clothing at hand and pressed down until the garment was securely in place on the line. But what amazed me was that she had figured out that one clothespin could be used to hang two pieces together by overlapping one slightly onto the other, leaving more space for more laundry.

My mother’s clothesline also served as a social outlet for her. She’d chat with our next-door neighbor, who had almost the same affinity for air drying clothes. They’d talk about the children, weather, politics and kibitz about the other neighbors.

One day, disaster struck. Just when she was attaching a clothespin to a hankie, the line broke.

After the panic subsided, she calmly called on a neighbor who knew of someone who could fix this mishap. The only problem was that Mr. Handyman wasn’t available until later in the week.

My mother reeled in the clothes that she could salvage and picked up the clothes that had fallen to the ground.

Did I mention the house also came with an indoor drying feature located in the laundry room?

From what I recall, the line was on a wheel connected to a piece of wood …

Well, you know the rest, except, the clothes wouldn’t smell like fresh air!

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