....the exact, official, indicator of Spring. Is it indeed the vernal equinox; the position of earth and sun? Or is it instead the somewhat mystically interwoven ties between the full moon, Passover and Easter? Should we rely upon the daring of a testy old groundhog? Or is the gallant Robin, faithfully returning to a bare and wind blown land, a more suitable harbinger?

Back in my childhood years Spring traditionally began the first day Mom could finally hang the wash out to dry. It would be a nice day, of course. Warm in the sun yet with a cool wind sweeping the gossamer clouds across a pale blue sky, stirring the stark, leafless branches of the trees and reminding us that winter was not quite altogether departed.

Mom would have gotten up early that morning, while the sky was still a steely gray against the sunrise, and run the washer non-stop. By the time my brother and I had come downstairs, eaten breakfast and pulled on our mud boots there'd be any number of baskets, wet and waiting, to be hauled outside. We'd do that, working as a team. And after Mom got the clothespin apron we would all hang up the laundry together.

As always the sheets went first; their huge lengths of snowy white cotton still warmly damp and heavy. All winter long they had been hibernating in the deep drawers of the upstairs bureau while we favored the warmer flannel bedding. But now they once again resumed their rightful place of importance as Mom swung them over taut clothesline after taut clothesline until they formed thick white halls across our yard.

And that's when the true magic of the day began. Mom never received much help from us after the sheets were up. No, we were too distracted, too entranced by our imaginations. Those rows of cotton sheets, with very little effort, became new and exciting places; the snow Queen's somber palace in faraway Narnia. Or, as the brisk wind caught their right angle corners and set them flying, billowing up and whipping fine sprays of clean water into our faces, they became the great canvas sails on a pirate ship bound for distant lands, in search of exotic treasure.

We'd chase each other back and forth through them, ducking under and around, running this way and that until our boots were caked with mud and our faces were flushed with laughter and the sting of the cold wind. And all the while Mom would stand there, pretty as a picture, with her bun tugged loose by the wind and her skirt hugging her knees. She'd diligently carry on with the laundry, finishing off the bedding and starting on the shirts and dresses and my brother's little pajamas with the feet.

Eventually we'd tire of our games and she'd have hung up all the clean clothes there were and then it was off with the boots and into the house. Our afternoon routine commenced with very little thought of the laundry outside. Rather it was left to the devices of the sun and the wind until Dad came home from work and helped to bring it all in.

Then the house was filled with the distinctive and aromatic fragrance of the outdoors. Unforgettable in it's uniqueness, evocative in it's familiarity, it's the scent detergents are supposed to mimic but never do. Clean and fresh and new, like a deep breath, it filled the whole entire house with a renewed sense of vitality. And days later, when Mom tucked me into bed between the chilly layers of those same sheets and my brother slept snuggled up in those same foot-ed pajamas the smell would still be there. Sweet and comforting, like a lullaby it whispered promises of green grass and gentle rains and returning song birds. Promises of Spring.

I'd fall asleep remembering that perfect 'first laundry day' and dream of all the others that were yet to come.