Memoirs of a Good Jewish Boy
My father was strictly old-school with some old school skills. If I was in the back right corner of our 1976, 70-foot long Chrysler New Yorker, and my father felt the moment called for a “behavioural reset”, he could stretch his right hand, slap the side of my head, and retake the wheel without veering. Nowadays, this is considered unacceptable parenting. Back then it was just non-verbal communication—and the occasional reminder of the answer to a question we would never ask: “Or what?”
