A few weeks ago, I was about to head out the back door to put a couple of pork shoulders on the barbecue. Just as I was on my way out, Paul showed up and grabbed the door. I was home by myself, so I welcomed the excuse to ditch the kitchen cleanup and to sit out, smell the meat, and run our mouths.

There's no one of my age -- at least no one whose family hails from the rural South -- who hasn't heard, "When I was bad, Daddy made me go outside and pick my own switch." I always dismissed this as old person hyperbole. In my mind it belongs with, "I walked fourteen miles to school barefoot every day, and it was uphill in both directions."

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