Foreshadowing a later interest in life, I used to play at being a saloon owner; I had only one set rule, “No singing in the saloon.”
My sister, a year older, would test me, she’d sing, “La, la, LA, dee-de-da…”
“No singing in the saloon.” I’d remind her.
“No humming either.”
She was a bad whistler, but she gamely tried to get my goat by whistling.
“No whistling. No music in the saloon!”
“But I am not in the saloon,” she taunted taking a step so she was under the door jamb, “I’m in the doorway of the saloon and I can sing if I want to!”
Sometimes she would extend the provocation and she sang during breakfast.
“Argh! No singing!”
“Mary, you’re not the boss of the table.” Our father reminded me.
I glared at the world, dropped the comic section of the newspaper, picked up my bowl of Fruit Loops, and lurched off to breakfast with the dog. Sure she bit, but at least she didn’t sing.