With so much on the
line . . .
I’ve been wondering
about the origins of the phrase “on the line,” in its sense of risking the
chance of loss; at risk of failing or being harmed. I can’t find any explanation of the kind of line that’s
holding all that tension here, just that to “bell the cat” is taking a risk of
a different sort.
Boundaries?—a
borderline between warring countries?
Fishing? That seems most likely, somehow, the
thought of having on one's line “the big one that got away.”
A ley line, one of
those ancient tracks, determining the earth’s energies?
Genealogy?—not letting down one’s
family, one’s noble blood?
A tether, with a
mastiff or lynx snarling at the end of it?
Unlikely, but maybe
just the risk of having all one’s clean dry laundry rained on, hung sunnily out
hours earlier on the clothesline, with wooden clothespins, in a big yard with
an apricot tree or maybe some pines.
This would have been a real threat in Santa Fe in late summer, with an
afternoon thunderstorm brewing over the mountains, sweeping darkly into
town. (Though now, all thunder and
no rain.)
Having so much on
the line right now, I choose this image for the gentle brightly-colored things
I have to lose. Because it's not, after all, quite so bad.
image: Provence Mon Amour
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