According to a charming fake biography by a midth-century French cabaret group, Les Quatre Barbus, he had a scientific bent from boyhood, inventing devices to de-pip currants and to muzzle ants, but it was the desperate sight and the faint song of too-light lingerie fluttering perilously on the line that inspired his biggest brainwave.
Time, and the market, were just about ripe for him. Besides, once the nifty little device became common, uses far removed from laundry could be found. When Charles Dickens suffered a seizure, a clothespeg was thrust between his teeth to stop him biting his tongue. Cartoon characters found them a hands-free way of keeping nasty smells at bay. They are now used to keep food fresh and tablecloths flat, clip gels or diffusers to film lights, correct the hang of curtains, hold lit matches longer, squeeze out the last bit of toothpaste from a tube; in short, for so many essential tasks that humans may well wonder how they ever managed without them.
Practical and relatively newfangled they may be; but pegs also carry overtones of ancient mystery. In Britain they were made from two woods, willow and hazel, with magical associations. Americans prefer ash and beech.
Willow is therapeutic, and soothes pain. In many cultures it is a tree of conversation and communion, of secret answers shrouded by leaves beside singing rivers. Its wood has something of the spring of water in it: that same elasticity that allows it to be woven into fences, baskets and traps, and can be sensed when a cricket bat, the finest use of willow, shivers under the ball.
Hazel is watery, too: the favourite wood for dousing. Gypsy pegs had a streaked, rough-hewn look, as if brushed with ash from the open fire, and a little ring of reclaimed tin near the top to hold the wood together. In other ages and places gypsies had been smiths and metalworkers, implying brief spells of settlement; the tin ring was a relic of old trade. In modernising Britain, where they were continually moved on by the police, they relied for their livelihood on roadside, riverbank or passing woods: itinerant production from whatever grew wherever they chanced to be.
In this uneasy coexistence between Travellers and settled society, pegs became the currency of choice. It was an odd exchange. Consumers did not ask for them, and those who produced them barely used them themselves.
They were things the gorgios , or non-gypsies, were thought to want, like fortune-tellings and palm-readings, which after a while became a habit. They were cheap as words. Pegs were also seasonal; almost as much so as primroses or acorns. They underpinned the gypsy economy in months when they could not pitch their caravans at the edge of fields or orchards, tying wheat or picking hops.
In the s it was reckoned gypsy women could make 12—18 shillings a week hawking pegs in cities and towns, more than enough to live on. By the s the going rate for pegs was tuppence a dozen, and shopkeepers would sometimes order them by the gross, exchanging them for goods rather than cash.
In the s the author of this piece — with the pram in which she was sleeping — was wheeled off by a gypsy in exchange for a wand of pegs in Maidstone High Street. Their value was clearly judged equivalent. Perhaps sadly for a gypsy upbringing was still judged romantic then , both items were swiftly handed back again. The only wood for him is grey willow, common round the ditches of the marsh. Farmers who disliked gypsies sadly, an undying breed used to root out grey willow deliberately to thwart them.
Pegs take no time to make once he gets going. As of this writing we have shipped to all Fifty States repeatedly and to many countries around the globe. Please share your stories of our clothespins, always love the photos and videos. Thank you for helping to bring the title American Made back to an American invention, the humble clothespin. I know Solomon would be proud. Port Angeles, WA. Why are they so flimsy? Will it pass the test of time? Thank you Connie. I have used the wooden folding hangers at times.
I have to admit a tumble dryer makes it so easy, anc fluffs towels like nothing else. I love the smell of clothes dried on a clothesline. Our neighborhood like many in the area have an ordinance forbidding clotheslines. So sad. The older neighborhood I lived in for 20 years allowed them. As a child I loved to play between the hanging sheets. I pretneded it was a castle or a secret hideaway until mom stormed the castle and folded the sheets. Cindy, those are wonderful memories! I can so relate!
And yes, sun and fresh air on cotton is one of the most lovely scents on earth. I used to hang my much of my laundry outside, until my arthritic hands did not allow me to squeeze the clothespins anymore. Now I hang what needs to be hung on plastic hangers - outside if I can, otherwise over the shower rod. I remember playing between the hanging sheets as well :. Thanks for the giveaway. Arthritis is so mean. But modern conveniences can be a wonderful comfort, and our memories of these things will always be with us.
Thanks for sharing. What an interesting and useful post! Yes, I'm in Chicagoland and have 20 feet of retractable clothesline 5 on the side patio of our house. As annoying as the removable poles are, we utilize them a lot in the summer!
Nothing is better for brightening up linens and towels than glaring sunshine! Thanks, for the history--I've pinned it for further reference! Hi Sandi. Thanks for pinning this. And great point about sunshine being a natural bleaching agent. So awesome you can utilize the great outdoors for your linens even in a city area. I have fond memories of Mama and Daddy hanging clothes on the line to dry.
I was happy to finally be tall enough to reach the line and help with the clothes. Wow, yes. Thank you Melissa. Sweet memories. I do definitly remember hanging clothes out on the back line as a child. I really don't remember particularly liking or disliking the chore.
A great use for them, to keep food bags sealed. I like your thinking Patty.
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