My Clothes, My Rules. Growing up, and to my shame, even today, well beyond fifty years of age, I have to admit that my clothes have always had a tough time being owned by me. Mom always took the position that I treated my clothes as if I worked in a Salt Mine. As a child, that did not inspire me to do any better. In fact, it inspired me to create a game where we kids were working in a mine. Mom would always chastise me for coming home with tears and holes in my jeans after a hard day at play.
I played hard; I earned those holes and the scrapes, bumps, and bruises that came with them. I still have a few visible scars to this day. When mom finished explaining the value of a dollar, which always went right over my head, she simply went to dad, and they bought me more clothes.
To me, I always thought, what is the problem? The “Five and Dime” store across the street sold Levi’s for five dollars a pair, and they had my size.
I never thought much about dollars. For me, Quarters, Nickels, and dimes were my concern. I remember being extremely upset when the price of a slice of pizza went up to seventy-five cents; that was just ridiculous. Seventy-five cents was my entire allowance. What was I supposed to drink? Mom always said, water.
