A building, a bridge or even a trash container are subjects that are rich in the cause of stories. But what is there to tell of a clothespin?
When I was a small boy I liked to play with them as my mother hung the laundry for drying. I learned to appreciate the differences between the wooden ones that felt nice and the plastic ones that break easily. When I was a little older I learned how to take them apart. A little later still I learned to put them back together again. Without hurting myself. Whenever I see one of them, the damp smell of drying cloth hits my nose.
But that’s about it. Is it enough for a slightly coherent story? The answer is no, the more so since my passion for clothespins is negligible.
This notwithstanding, I love the picture of a dinky clothespin in the evening sun. So sue me.