Caussey's Corner

Mother’s Scissors: Golden Memories of Childhood Days

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Each Saturday, the family went to town to buy groceries. Dad bought flour, sugar, and corn meal in large 25-pound sacks. The brand we purchased was determined by the pattern on the different cloth sacks. From that cloth, Mother made my shirts and underwear. We moved to town when I was in the fifth grade. I was still wearing primrose pattern shirts and magnolia pattern underwear when we made the move. Mother had made those garments using her black scissors, sewing them by hand.

Mother’s Scissors: Golden Memories of Childhood Days
Photo: Pixabay

One summer, while fishing at a creek, I managed to hook my behind with a fishhook. I tore a 5- or 6-inch gash down my skin. After stopping the bleeding, Mother retrieved some fishing line from Dad’s tackle box, cut some of it with those black scissors, then threaded a needle and sewed up the gash. I wear that scar today. Once when I was in the Army and slightly under the weather at the Officer’s Club, I was only too proud to show any and everyone that scar. The crowd enjoyed it immensely, everyone, that is, except my battalion commander. He put me on report (and that is when I selected Dr Pepper as my drink of choice).

Examining those scissors, I couldn’t help but notice those red marks on the handle. At age six, I decided one day to paint the wood cookstove in the kitchen. Dad had bought a gallon can of red paint to cover the woodshed. I opened the can with mother’s scissors and proceeded to paint the hot cook stove. After supper, and hearing my story, Dad took me to that woodshed that was to be painted. That trip taught me that red is not a kitchen color. Those rose petal underwear offered little protection from things lying around that woodshed. My dad also convinced me that you don’t have to use red paint to make something turn red.