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personal property.
The crate in which our upright piano had been delivered also stands in the back yard. It looks like an illustration for a fairy story. Father had made it into a playhouse for us, cutting a door in one end and small windows on the sides, a house for the Seven Dwarfs. 
There was a firmness of authority as well as tenderness in our family. Each of us had his chores. Mother made us take piano lessons. When we were old enough, Father made it a rule that we read both Santa Rosa newspapers every day. "Living history," he called it. Father's word was law in all things. He and my mother would explain where we had been disobedient, but that having been done, there was no court of appeals. The penalty was a sound spanking and Father's hand was hard as a rock. I am no child psychologist and I do not understand "permissiveness." But looking back, I realize that we loved and respected our parents precisely because they were so strict. 
Out of the pattern of family life that they sent