One rainy October day when I was three, I was playing on Momma’s kitchen floor when my father, the Old Poacher, came home from work.

He stepped through the door pushing a broad smile and packing his lunch bucket. He set the lunch bucket on the floor next to the creosote-soaked coveralls he had worn home from work.

A 1960s toddler would have popped the lid off Dad’s lunch bucket in a wince. I wasn’t so fast. I was a 1942 model, and not wired as they were.

My brother did not hesitate. He snatched the lunch box from the floor and disappeared into his room.

Seconds later we heard him scream: “Goddamnit.”

Continue reading: Skunk’s lesson on trust