The Backyard Merry-Go-Round

It wasn’t just a rotary clothes line; it was a hideout, a pirate ship, and a world of imagination and amusement

Nienke Beumer lives in the small town of Cooroy in Queensland. She has six children and four grandchildren. She enjoys writing, photography, gardening and sewing.

I CAN REMEMBER IT as if it was yesterday. Our black Kelpiecross dog Barkie would yelp with excitement, as he’d leap up and grab the corner of a towel in his jaws. Then he’d hold on tightly as he’d swing from it with all his might. Eventually, the clothes line would start to spin around like a whirling dervish, carrying him with it. He’d hang on for half a revolution, before dropping to the grass. There he would crouch, stomach low to the ground, his brown eyes never leaving the washing as it whizzed around in the breeze. Then, quite suddenly, he’d turn his attention to a floral sheet. Taking a short run up, he’d let out a joyful yip before jumping up to grab the sheet in his teeth. And off he’d go again, spinning around.

It was a much-loved game, and no matter how high Mum wound the clothes line or how high up she pegged the washing, he managed to reach it. All of our bedsheets and most of our towels had patched hems or tattered corners, thanks to Barkie.

But Barkie wasn’t the only member of the family who considered the clothes line to be the source of endless entertainment. It was the early 1960s and the Hills Hoist rotary clothes line in the backyard of our suburban home in Inala, Brisbane, was our favourite toy.

When we got home from school, my brother, sister and I would hastily drop our bags and run to the clothes line. Grabbing hold of the round support bar, we’d lift our legs in the air and see how far our momentum could carry us. We worked out that we’d get better impetus if two of us were hanging from opposite corners. Better still was when we had our school friends over so we’d have four kids – one on each corner. When the line slowed, we’d put our feet down to run a few steps, push off, and we’d be airborne again. What fun – our very own merry-go-round!

It also made a marvellous jungle gym. My younger sister and brother were more agile than I was. They’d swing their legs over the bar and hang upside down. I’d send the clothes line spinning around and they’d squeal with delight, as their arms flung out.

When I tired of entertaining them, I’d wait for the line to stop turning. Then I would climb up, using the handle as a step. I’d pull myself up through the centre until I could sit on the apex at the very top. Then it was my siblings’ turn to spin the line. Finally we would all collapse beneath the hoist, dizzy and laughing.

It was all fun and games – until Mum caught us. Then there’d be scolding and chores to do. But the next

day we would do it all over again. It was part of the fabric of our lives.

Sometimes we’d throw an old bedspread over the hoist to make a sunshade, where we could have tea parties or picnics. Old blankets pegged to the outside lines converted it yet again. Now it was a cubby house or perhaps a schoolroom for our dolls. Sometimes it became a secret hideout from where the Terrific Trio would solve crimes that the bumbling police were unable to unravel.

The Adventures of Robin Hood was one of our favourite television shows, and the hoist made a magnificent Nottingham Castle. One of us could stand guard at the top of‑the hoist, while Robin Hood and his‑Merry Men tried to sneak up to capture the wicked Sheriff of Nottingham.

In another favourite game, the hoist became Captain Hook’s pirate ship. With boxes making up the ‘ship’, one bedsheet fore and another one aft were installed as the sails. With an imaginary skull and crossbones flying from the ‘mast’, Captain Hook’s pirate crew would battle against Peter Pan A young Nienke (centre right) and her family in a photograph from the early 1960s with the clothes line in the background.

and his brave band of Lost Boys.

Years later, I watched as my own children climbed on board my clothes line and hung, then swung their little bodies off it. Like my mother before me, I’d called stern-sounding threats: “Hey! Don’t break my clothes line!”

I’m turning into my mother, I thought to myself. And then I was transported back to my childhood and the enjoyment I’d had on Mum’s clothes line. I laughed out loud at the thought. Seeing me laughing, my children realised I wasn’t angry. So, with big grins, they kept on swinging on the Hills Hoist.

“Do you know what we used to do?” I asked, and joined in their game.

After all, this is what childhood memories – the most precious of all – are made of.

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Sometimes the

clothes line became a secret hideout where the Terrific Trio would solve

crimes