My uncle, the colonel, always blew into town unexpectedly bringing chaos and confusion in his wake.  He was more used to barking commands and having instant obedience, than he was with living in a dynamic household with two very independent women and two women-to-be.

He had long forgotten the days when he had to do for himself -- the days when there were no orderlies to lay out his uniforms and polish his shoes.

So the day came when he asked me to shine his shoes. I told him that the going rate was 50 cents -- quite reasonable in 1962.  He replied that I was not learning my true place in the world. He said that I should be begging him for the privilege of shining his shoes.  Much to his chagrin, he got the same answer -- 50 cents -- from my sister.

Rather than part with the 50 cents, my uncle sat on the basement steps shining his own shoes -- all the while complaining to my parents that they had not taught their daughters their proper station in life.

I can still see my father grinning as he walked by him.  He told him that he thought we were doing just fine -- after all his daughters could be or do anything they wanted in life.