I've noticed in more than a few press photos of towns destroyed by the Black Saturday fires, the upright and charred remains of the hills hoist. The outline clearly marking that here, here is a spot someone used to stand with a basket of wet washing and hang it out to dry. Perhaps looking towards the bush and the birds and animals that lived there, taking in the scents of a damp morning. That this person would come and gather the washing in again. Maybe in winter it wasn't even dry yet and had to be spread in front of the fire or heater to dry.
I find this one particularly poignant. All around is utter devastation. As we all know now, it was savage. And yet here is a basket of plastic pegs. Apparently unscathed. A basket of ordinary plastic pegs. I hope the people here are OK. And that this place will one day soon know the numbing routine of domestic life with it's boredom and pleasure. Although I can't imagine that any washing hung out here would stay clean and non-gritty. Not yet.
