“Get a switch,” Mamaw said. “A good one or you’ll be sorry.”

My five-year-old mind is already sorry but doesn’t know why, like my dog who peed inside but got his beating hours later. I’m ashamed that I don’t remember.

It better be a good switch: from child to adult.

John Atkins is a Renaissance curmudgeon, retired from corporate America, who spends days writing for himself and watching birds eat dried mealworms on the front stoop. He also edits a local quarterly magazine and is working on his first science fantasy novel.