on the third saturday of march, in the weaver towns, the oldest piece of clothing in every house is brought out, washed whether it needs it or not, and hung on the line. the line is shared. by midday the whole street is a row of soft, patched, faded garments swinging together. the earliest mention is in a letter of 1758, where the writer complains of "the slow vanity of the long-kept coat."
what is hung is not for sale. it is not for repair, except by its owner. it is simply for showing the cloth has lasted. the rite assumes a quiet pride in keeping things — a shirt of twenty years, a child's dress that fitted three children, a grandmother's scarf still warm enough. the towns took to it because the weavers there make cloth they hope will be worn this long.
now the day is half a market. neighbours walk along the line and pause at any garment they recognise. somebody will say, i remember this on you, and somebody else will say i never thought it would last, and the cloth will be touched lightly at the seam. by sunset everything is taken back inside, folded, and put away for another year.
— field note: a child's pinafore, said to be ninety years old, was on the line at no. 12. the seam at the shoulder is not the original seam.