Last Monday morning was especially blue – but not for the usual gloomy reasons.

My routine road trip to Erie for a doctor’s appointment was particularly eye-opening… and captivating.

It was ten a.m. as I drove toward Sugar Grove, home to many Amish families. On the way into town, I passed three separate Amish buggies driving toward Warren. One of the young men waved and I returned his friendly gesture.

Heading northwest out of Sugar Grove for Highway 86, I always pass a dozen or so Amish farms. It’s the reason I choose Wellman Road over its parallel route about a mile away. I love the farmhouses, barns, and the many outbuildings that grace the rolling hillsides.

But wait! What’s this? It was a huge line of blue and white laundry. Of course! It was Monday. It was only the first yard of maybe a dozen homes with long lines of blue shirts, pants, and skirts that lay ahead. Every Amish house was identifiable by its chock-full clotheslines.

I slowed down to admire the work, the neatness, and the meticulous arrangement of the laundry. Although I seriously considered stopping to take a few pictures with my phone, I remembered that the Amish prefer not to be photographed. If a member of the household came outdoors, I didn’t want to be near their front yard, clicking away. So, with no traffic behind me, I slowed to 5 mph, and drank in the refined geometry of their clotheslines.

All the blue clothes were hung by size, from the littlest tyke up to Dad. Tiny toddler shirts, little boy shirts, bigger boy shirts, and then Dad, Dad, Dad. Next the pants, hung from Dad size on down, down, down, with a few overalls at the small end. The blue skirts and tops were also hung by size, followed by a large batch of white aprons. At one house, the white aprons melded into a long line of sheets and pillowcases.

I sat there thinking about not only the labor of washing all those clothes manually, but taking the time to sort them into sizes as they were hung. At the next house, two full laundry lines swagged high, high up into a pair of trees. The pulley system sent the smallest sizes up above the cleared branches, and it raised old memories for me.

Back in the dark ages, before modern dryers, our apartment clothesline ran from a second-floor hall window to the pear tree across the yard. I remember vividly carrying the wet-heavy laundry basket, sometimes dragging it through the hallway from the kitchen to the window. To make it easier for me, Mom sorted our clothes by type as they came through the final wringer into the laundry basket.

Standing on a stool, I lowered the upper window, hanging our clothes on the pulley line, beginning with our underwear. The bras and panties were small and light, better to push the furthest distance. Mom instructed, “You know, it would look neater if you hung all your panties together and then all of mine.” I never questioned why. My undershirts came next. Homespun, almost forgotten memories.

On Monday, I smiled, looking high up into the tree at the Amish lady’s pulley line. The little white clothes were flapping at the top, descending gradually into the long line of blue. And all of it, the heavily-laden line had to be tugged and yanked into place. I could almost feel it in my arms.

By the time I arrived on the highway, my thoughts were consumed with the Amish women’s workday, the physicality of running a home with many children and many tummies wanting three meals a day. Plus, laundry Mondays lurked after every Sabbath.

Six hours later, on my return trip, things had changed. Dry laundry had been taken in at half the houses. A few had more lines filled and one had taken in the family’s clothes and replaced them with sheets, sheets, sheets, and more white socks than I had ever seen in one place.

As I headed over the last hill, small groups of Amish children were walking home from school hugging the side of the road. A cluster of five little straw-hatted boys in blue hopped and swung and jumped together, laughing. And they waved. Three bonneted girls, almost teenagers, walked sedately, engrossed in their chitchat. A hundred feet further along four littler girls giggled their way home.

That’s when I realized that the bonnets must be dried inside. I hadn’t seen one on any clotheslines that morning.

Always filled with respect for our gentle blue-clad neighbors, I especially enjoyed my round-trip day through their Busti neighborhood. It’s hard to think about the long blue lines of their laundry day without admiring smiles.

I definitely need to schedule more doctor appointments on Mondays.

Marcy O’Brien writes from Warren, Pennsylvania.