Somewhere in Kentucky

I was five when I learned what happened when you crossed my father. I’d left my Big Wheel in the driveway. It was by far not the first time, and Dad had always made it plain that he wanted it put away when he came home. This time, Dad came in the back door calmly, and asked me to follow him back out. He walked me out to the garage, picking up my Big Wheel along the way. He carried it to his band saw and made me watch while he sliced my Big Wheel in half. Stolen from an Internet forum about toys; photo unattributed there I remember several other overly severe punishments for things my dad judged I’d done wrong. But none tops that one, which I remember in total clarity 54 years later. I learned to do whatever it took to stay off his radar. Leave no toys out. Skip no chores — and do them extremely well. And as I got older, I learned to avoid disagreeing with him or offering any feedback or opinion he had not asked for. He couldn’t take it; not from one of his children, at any rate. I…