8d · loy & sons, ash works · two dozen · 1922
two dozen ash-wood pegs, each turned on a foot-lathe by an old man in the next valley who has not been spoken of in years. the spring is a notch, not a wire — these are the older kind. they hold a wet sheet against a strong wind, in mild defiance of any newer design.
bought by the same woman who keeps the same washing line, in the same yard, on the same wednesday. she will lose four pegs by the third month: two to the wind, one to a child who has chosen to be a horse, one to the cracked board behind the dustbins where things go to wait.
the survivors persist long enough to grey, to swell once in a storm and shrink, to mark the fabric of a particular dress so that wherever else she wears it, the imprint of an ash peg is there. when the bag is empty she will buy another. it is one of the still-points of the year.
field-note · counter a single peg has been used, this morning, as a place-marker in the household manual at the chapter on linen. it has not been returned to the bag.