I put out a laundry line this summer. It reminds me of Italy, where we had a laundry line outside our house in the mountains above Umbertide, in Umbria, for six weeks in 1988. So long ago, and we always vowed we'd go back.

Our house here is like that house. Secluded. Like the writer's retreat we always wanted. Except we have to keep it up, of course. A big job.

But it's worth it. Every day brings something wonderful. I mean it.

The other day I was out on the deck that overlooks the stream. I looked up at a noise I heard below: a fawn standing on the rocks in the middle of the stream. His ears perked up when he saw me. We looked at each other for a moment or two. Then I said hello, which I immediately regretted because it frightened him away. He ran up the hill on the other side, into the woods. It made me laugh.

Today, after a rain last night, raindrops hanging on the laundry line to dry.

The laundry line makes me happy. I put out the sheets and towels. It saves energy because I'm not using the dryer. The sheets and towels blow in the wind when there is a wind, and dry in the sunshine. They smell like summer. We didn't have a laundry line when I was a child, but somehow it reminds me of my childhood. Just the 1950s, I suppose. So much simpler, we always think.

That's why we moved here. To simplify. It's taken us almost seven years, but I think we've done it. I love summer.