My mother died in 2010 after a dreadful fight with Parkinson's disease and dementia. She was the strongest and most selfless person I've ever known, and I miss her terribly.
Fortunately, she left behind relics from her too-short life, small rituals that reflect her spirit. In perpetuating those rituals, I feel that I'm honoring her and, in a strange way, that I'm preserving her essence on Earth.
One such practice was hang-drying our clothes. Throughout her life, my mother dutifully deployed a clothesline or drying rack, and I just naturally have kept the tradition going. It's easy, saves money and reduces greenhouse gases.
And it keeps me connected with my mom.
Arlys Carlson Warren began life during the Great Depression, one of four children born to a welder and a schoolteacher. After the stock market crashed, her father was laid off at the naval shipyard in Bremerton, Wash., and for a while, there weren't many potatoes to put in the pot.
Like other American families, the Carlsons slowly rebounded, and out of their adversity came a strong allegiance to thrift. That ethic _ blending fiscal frugality with the practice of never tossing out what might be put to another use _ defined my upbringing, and I honor it as best I can today.
When I was a kid, however, my appreciation of thrift had not yet taken hold. In fact, I found it downright annoying. Saturdays often were spent at Goodwill, where my mother devoted hours to combing dusty bins for random treasures as well as clothes for me and my siblings.
Even on vacation, our family rarely passed a garage sale without popping in for a look, just in case an irresistible lamp shade or soup pot or other gem might be lurking there for a pittance.
Although both of my parents worked and we were solidly middle class, there hovered around us the sense that if we could make do with less _ a smaller, more efficient car, less heat in the winter, a handmade gift rather than something store-bought _ then by all means we should.
Hang-drying our laundry was an emblem of this "small-is-beautiful" life. Although we lived in a foggy climate, my mother religiously draped our clothes on lines and racks outside or in a musty, oversized closet that housed the water heater. Sometimes it took days for our sweatshirts to dry, but she persevered, and we kids rolled our eyes as she described the energy we saved by idling our shiny Maytag dryer.
In many households, those time-saving dryers caused the once-ubiquitous clothesline to fall out of favor beginning in the 1960s. But, thanks to global warming, that's changing now. Unlike a solar panel or a Tesla, a clothesline is a carbon-free item everyone can afford. It cuts energy costs by reducing reliance on dryers, the gas guzzlers of home appliances, and _ bonus! _ prolongs the life of your clothes.
The clothesline never disappeared from our yard, but as my mom's Parkinson's disease progressed, my father took over their household chores, laundry included. Dad was a conservationist too, but I always suspected he continued hang-drying socks, skivvies and other clothes as a tribute to my mom, one small way to deal with his grief during her decline.
In my own home, meanwhile, acceptance of hang-drying came grudgingly. Our two daughters griped about skinny jeans as stiff as plexiglass tubes, and nobody liked the sandpaper towels.
But priorities change.
Not long ago, we went to visit our younger daughter at her college southeast of Los Angeles. As I approached her dorm, I saw something colorful hanging from the railing outside her second-floor room _ her bedsheets.
"You know, Mom," she explained earnestly, "dryers use a lot of energy. This is one way I can help conserve."
Amen to that.
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