A few years back, I entered a 5K running event hosted in a town adjacent to where I grew up. On the day of the event, I left early enough to give me some free time to stop at a few places I haven't been to in many, many years.

Traveling north on the Garden State Parkway, I exited and made my way to my first stop, The Garwood Rest, a town tavern where my dad took me for my first legal beer when I turned seventeen.

After one Guinness draft, I began walking along streets near my former home. Off in the distance, I heard a faint, familiar sound.

"What is that?" I said looking around.

It sounded like the chirp of a tiny bird in the spring. But now that summer was in full bloom they all must've grown and flown the nest.

I heard it again. and decided to seek it out. I knew the sound well though I hadn't heard it in decades. When I turned the corner, the sound became more pronounced.

Standing on a back porch of a house was an older woman hanging clothes. The sound that echoed through my mind a clothesline on two pulleys. Throughout my neighborhood and other places where I have lived these last few decades, I cannot remember seeing anyone hanging their clothes. Even my wife has forgone that old tradition.

The house was on the corner, and I casually walked along the fence that bordered her property. I had to say something, but what? I wanted to share my thoughts with someone still connected to a piece of my past.

"Hi! Hello! How are you?" I asked.

"Just fine, thank you," she replied continuing to hang clothes.

"I once lived around here. Actually two blocks down. I was taking a walk around the old neighborhood."

"That's nice. I moved here five years ago when my daughter got sick with cancer," she replied.

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. When I walked nearer to your house, I..."

"My daughter's house." She corrected me.

"Right. Sorry. As I approached your daughter's house, I heard this familiar sound, but couldn't put my finger on it. Then I saw you hanging your clothes on the clothesline. It brought back memories."

"I've used one all of my life," she said. "My children bought me a dryer years ago. The only time I used it was when the temperatures got too cold for me to stand outside. Then I sold it when I moved here."

"Understood. My mother always hung her wash outside. I can still picture the clothespin holder she had. It looked like a small apron. It would rip, she'd sew it. If it ripped again, she'd sew it again, and again."

"Was hers like this?" she asked holding hers up.

I nodded in amazement. "Why do you still use the clothesline? Wouldn't the dryer be easier for you?"

She walked down the steps of her porch. Every step, an effort for her aged body.

"It's what I learned growing up," she said. "My mother learned from her mother who learned from hers. I'm carrying the tradition. She told me every day is new. So new it's nothing like yesterday and no way near tomorrow."

I was absorbed by her old school philosophy, gentle manner and well rooted upbringing as she continued.

"She wanted us to head into each new day clean and fresh like the day itself. What better way than with clothes hung outside for all to see and cleansed by the light of the sun?"

She paused for a moment, looked toward the sun and than started to laugh. "Look, they can even see my underwear! Now that's being open."

"I believe you are right," I said. "Thanks for the life lesson."

"You are welcome. I must get back to my laundry," she said as she walked back up the steps.

I walked away only to hear that chirping sound. The sound of memories. Memories of the good old days.