It was 1962, Wichita, Kansas.  My Dad surveyed the front yard—a very big front yard, a grim look on his face.   "Weeds," he pronounced sullenly, as if our front yard had become the equivalent of a ...  [+]

When Wally asks me to punch him in the stomach, I try not to hold back. I let it rip. I set my feet like he taught me to, draw back my fist, and deliver a blow to the spot he's pointing at—right above ...  [+]