The lovely strains of “Rock of Ages” floated into my room as I watched the Protestant services in the Father’s garden.
To the right of the Father’s garden I watched the antics of an A. P. news correspondent with a wet sheet that he was trying to drape over the barbed wire fence. After several attempts he succeeded, and then he went through the same awkward motions with a faded blue shirt.
Half an hour later I looked out the window, and he was still there, hovering over his newly hung wash like a mother hen with her chicks.
From long and sad experience, we all learned it was best to stand guard over our wash until it was completely dry. It was no fun to stand in a long line to get near the tubs, and it was no picnic to wash with a microscopic bit of soap while mud and water splashed all around us. But to have clean clothes hijacked off the lines and barbed wire was downright demoralizing!