DIANE MAKAR MURPHY Restrictions on everyday vices add to their pleasure

He walked along behind his lawnmower, sweat dripping from his brow, with a near-black stogie clenched between his teeth. And I wondered, as I passed by him with my dog -- we two marching up the hill toward home -- if the man had been banished to the outdoors with his cigar, like my father often was, with his sardines.
It was a rule my mother had, one of many inside rules. My father, though he could have an occasional cigar in our home, could not, among other things, eat sardines inside it.
Dad had acquired a taste for the ugly, finger-size fish when he was a sailor during World War II. While I was fascinated by the intriguing little tin with the attached key that allowed you to roll back the lid, even I appreciated the ban. They stunk, and they stunk in such a way that I understood exactly what the Little Rascals meant when they mentioned Limburger cheese.
Typically, my father opened the sardines outside and disposed of the container in the garbage can. On very rare occasions, however, the ban was lifted, and my father was allowed to have sardines indoors.
I knew instantly that it was "the day" when I returned from school. The doors stood ajar, the windows were open, mother was absent, and the house smelled like Fisherman's Wharf on a hot day. God bless restrictions.
There were other things we couldn't do in the house. These, like the sardine ban, had practical reasons. We were not allowed to play ball in the house or throw things. Our home's contents were hard-earned and so valuable to my mother.
The furniture was not for playing with and so that ban extended, of course, to the couch throw pillows, despite their name. These were not to be tossed about willy-nilly as they were particularly cherished by my mother who considered the living room, as many people did and do, a show room -- a place for company.
Too restrictive
My father and I, however, found the pillow ban far too restrictive. Since he was a cop, often on a swing shift and home during the day, we would do the unthinkable after I walked home from school for lunch. When mom was working, we sat across from each other -- he on the living room couch, I on the chair -- and tossed the pillows back and forth.
"You throw high; I'll go low." The cop and the kid counting: "One, two, three ... 11!"
"Ohhh!" The pillows collided in midair and fell to the floor.
Laughter.
"OK, let's go again. We got 12 yesterday; we can beat that."
The other thing we were not allowed to do was wear our shoes above the landing at the side door of our Cape Cod home. We have the same restriction in our home today, but honestly, everyone ignores it on occasion: You're late, you don't want to remove your shoes to get something you forgot; you're only stopping home for a minute. There are many exceptions.
Not so in my childhood home. Those shoes were removed at the vestibule at the side door and left there. Period.
If they disappeared from that spot, it was only because mom took them downstairs, cleaned off the soles and returned them to our closets. We obeyed. After all, it was an easy enough requirement since she did all the work (to keep our home spotless).
One morning, however, in my elementary years, I charged out the door and headed for school. I walked the half mile up the hill, met my friends and, only at the school guard crossing, a hair's breadth from Elmwood Elementary, looked down for the first time. There were my feet in two unmatched shoes, retrieved hastily from the vestibule.
And so, I suppose, we find that some restrictions are good and some are bad. Perhaps the limitation on cigar smoking makes it all the more sweet. Truly, the face of the lawn mowing smoker is alight. Perhaps next time I mow, I'll stop and get a big old stogie first. And a can of sardines.
murphy@vindy.com