So many Rules.....

From the time I was about 3 feet tall, I was gently but firmly fed from the family book of rules. Rules from my mother and father as well as my grandfather and grandmother. I was a happy child until rules were brought up and enforced. I would be happy that it was meal time until I was told that nice little girls did not sing at the table. Nice little girls did not talk when there were grownups at the table. Nice little girls ate with her left hand in her lap unless she needed to cut her meat.
Rules have been the vain of my existence my whole life. It is almost inevitable that if someone or something tells me that I can't do something that is exactly what I want to do. I remember when I was six years old, my mother made me a beautiful suit from a gold medal flour sack. The jacket covered up the words, Gold Medal. It was one hundred percent cotton and wrinkled easily. My mother taught me to smooth my skirt before I sat down, and cross my legs at the ankles. That was the rule.
I started taking piano lessons when I was six years old. That was what little girls did in those days. I enjoyed the lessons, however, there was a rule. That rule was that I had to practice my lesson for one half hour every day. I hated that rule. I would have rather read my books. My mother said that she had to pay a dollar for my lessons and she wanted me to be a pianist like she and her mother. I wanted to play the flute like my friend. Mother said when I was eighty I would play the piano, probably not the flute. I am sure she was right.
Our piano was in the parlor. It was completely removed from the hustle bustle of the household. I personally think they put it in there so I would practice like I was told to. Well boredom seemed to fall on my shoulders like a load of hay. The sun shone in on the window and I stared outside wishing I was anywhere but sitting on the piano bench. My mother's sewing machine was sitting not far from my piano. She had a pair of pinking shears on her machine. I had never used them before, so I thought I would see if I could make the lace curtains at the window pretty. I made several strips up and down the curtain. When I was done, I put the scissors back and played the piano some and then went to my favorite spot and read my Laura Ingall's Wilder books. A short time later I heard my mother sobbing. I, of course, looked to see what the problem was. In her hand she held the strips that I had cut with her pinking shears. She never said a word to me nor I to her. When I was grown I talked to my mother about it. She said, "it was just a childish mistake, but we were so poor I couldn't replace the curtains, so anytime we had company they either couldn't go to the parlor or had to look at the strips. The decision was quite simple. We had no more company in the parlor.
This last spring I was making curtains for our camper. I was looking for some scissors. There in the bottom of my mother's sewing basket lay those dreaded pinking shears.