Not a lot bothers me. But the idea of scaring kids does. I don’t like kids getting scared.
Once in the mountains of Colorado after nearly two weeks of traveling in our ’48 Ford, after days of my mother’s infamous silent treatment, and after an hour of trying to get his notoriously temperamental light meter to work so he could take a decent picture of Pike’s Peak, my father tossed the light meter in the roadside trashcan and told us all to get back in the car because “We’re going home now.”
Earlier in this ill-fated trip, my brother, who was 14 at the time, dropped a rock from a cliff aimed squarely for my 11-year old sister’s blond head twenty feet below, yelling “Look out!” just as the rock approached the part in her hair like a train going full speed toward a stalled car on the railroad tracks.
It was bloody and glum back in the car. Only five years old, my goal was to stay…
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