Not long ago Lenore Skenazy was excoriated by Helicopter Parents for allowing her 9 year old to ride the NY subway alone. It was a national news story.

A while back, due in part to A.P. Giannini, my mother committed the same crime—each year at Christmas time.

We were taught how A.P. made loans from his vegetable cart during the quake of ’06. Being a Bonetti, my grandmother, Beeb, liked that a boy from the old country turned his cabbage greens into real green under the moniker “Bank of America.”

B. of A. had a “Christmas Club.” You could put a buck a week in the bank and come Christmas time you’d have $54.08–4% interest—a fortune to a kid under 10.

Home was Piedmont. We’d get twent-five cents per chore around the house (mowing grass, raking leaves, cleaning the basement), and a quarter per week allowance just for making our beds. Every penny went into that Christmas Club account.

Each December, we would take our pass books to the bank, get the cash and then catch the “C” train to The City.

To a kid, the City was the land of Oz—especially at Christmas.

We had our sport coats and ties on (in those days, no one—child or adult–would dare go to The City without one).

And we had our routine.

First, we’d walk around Union Square and look at all the window displays. Sax, Tiffany’s, Macy’s, the City of Paris–all would compete.

These windows were magical–just short of the robotic figures one could see at Disneyland. Crowds, six deep, pressed up against the windows. Street musicians played carols. Salvation Army Santa’s rang their bells on every corner.

The City of Paris had “the world’s tallest tree.” We were told they lowered it in through the roof late at night. Leaning against the railing and looking down 5 stories was scary. I’m not sure that dropping tiny saliva bombs was appreciated by the shoppers below.

Stores had Santas. We were too cool to sit on his lap, but any Santa meant a Toy department. The games you could play—for free! Electric trains were everywhere. Yards of track were laid down behind glass. Engines pulling freight cars chugged into mountains and came out of tunnels (why are tunnels so cool?). One could watch these trains for hours.

But we had places to go and gifts to buy. We’d store the gifts in lockers at Macy’s (terrorists were unheard of). I hated it, but since Grandma Beeb, was sure to ask if we’d been, we’d force ourselves to look at the ornaments and greens at Podesta’s near Maiden Lane.

A favorite game was to “Chintz” Cable Cars. They were mobbed. One could hang on the outside, with only a toe on the running board. You literally had to face forward in peril of being smacked by a car coming the other way. How many times could one ride without having to pay?

After riding half way to the Stars and jumping off before the conductor could catch us, we’d visit my father’s parents who flew in for the holidays and stayed with Ben Swig at the Fairmont. Visiting them was just an excuse to ride the outside elevator to the Crown Room, then slide down the banister near the Tonga Room.

Lunch was always at Blum’s. The root beer floats and ice cream sodas covered the basic food groups.

The highlight of Christmas was the trek down to Emporium-Capwell’s. They had Carnival roof rides like at the State fair! There was a Merry-go-round and a real Ferris Wheel–complete with a toothless carnie.

The Ferris Wheel went out over the edge of the building. When it stopped at the top I could barely open my eyes. My toes still tingle thinking about being up that high and swaying in the wind. I hated it–but couldn’t wait to go again.

Exhausted and loaded down with more shopping bags than we could carry, we’d walk back to the terminal and catch the C train to be home in time before dark.

I couldn’t wait to turn 10 the next year and try two bucks a week. Imagine what a kid could do in The City with $104 (plus interest, don’t forget). It boggles the mind just thinking about it today.

Christmas in the City with no adults. For a kid, was there anything better?

In those decisive moments on board Flight 93, the passengers become Mark Bingham’s teammates, and Jack Clark, Bingham’s rugby coach at Cal, taught Bingham to protect his teammates.

If you were to spend time around Jack Clark’s players, a very clear image of the man they couldn’t talk enough about would materialize—even if you’d never met him, or heard him speak. Between cringe-worthy accounts of tough love in practice, stories of his facilitation of former players’ success in post-college endeavors, or the vested interest of 70 young students in the life of a man who at once mentors them and keeps his personal life an enigma, you’ll see the same look of veneration repeatedly appear in the eyes of Clark’s players. Over and over, they will talk about a topic they could never discuss in practice, a topic their coach avoids with a firm, colossal hand. They will talk about the larger-than-life figure that is their coach.

A framed Latin insignia welcomes all visitors to the Doc Hudson Fieldhouse: “Spectemur Agendo.”

I meet Jack Clark for the first time as I take a seat across a big, wooden desk from him in the Doc Hudson Fieldhouse.

As I begin to film, I see a hat with the number 12 sitting on a shelf above his desk.

“That’s a Joe Roth hat,” he says. “Know who he was?”

I ask Clark if he played with Roth. He amends my description of their dynamic: “I protected him.”
Joe Roth had been on my dad’s “you need to know who they are” list when I was growing up.

In 1975, Joe Roth transferred to Cal on the heels of an undefeated season and 1974 state title at Grossmont College of El Cajon. With Roth at the helm of the offense, the Golden Bears won a Pac-8 title, and led the nation in total offense. Roth played his last year as the only person on the roster that was aware of his own terminal melanoma. He died shortly after the conclusion of the 1976-1977 season.

“We believe in toughness,” Clark says. “Not the guy that thinks he’s tough, but keep-getting-up-toughness— that kind of mental toughness.”

I ask Clark if he played with Roth. As he affirms, he amends my description of their dynamic.
“I protected him.”

I continue to film in his office, while he fervently glues himself to his computer screen. As I focus my camera on a frame that houses a personally addressed letter from the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, I feel certain that whatever is claiming his undivided focus is highly classified. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he was hatching the next Argo, but with rugby… or something… from that very desk.

After I finish filming his various awards, honors, medals, photographs, and office adornments, as well as being subjected to a pop quiz on humidors (Him: How many humidors are in this office? Me: 400,000. Him: A humidor is a case where you store cigars. Try again.), I head for the main room in the field house, but stop in my tracks at the sound of a voice that seems like it is accustomed to being obeyed.

“Want to see something cool?”

He wanted to show me his Argo plot. I hurry back to the desk.

Jack Clark is on Facebook.

As he looks at the screen, his face cracks into a smile, which seems just as much a natural expression for him as the focused stoicism he generally exudes.

In the slightly grainy picture, a younger but similarly grinning Clark stands with his arm around an older man with white hair and glasses. Both are dressed up, in Cal colors. Bookshelves are in the background, the kind whose imperfectly arranged contents betray that they’ve seen more than their fair share of action.

“Know who that is?” A break from the screen to question me.

I had already blown the humidor question, so naturally I cheat and glance quickly at his caption, hoping it will help me out. It’s my lucky day.
Casually: “Glenn Seaborg.”

It’s the New Year. Few of us note that Tuesday night we toasted Father Time with his scythe (trailed by a baby) which gently reminds us that we end each year celebrating Zeus’ castration of his father, Kronos (just as Kronos used a sickle to castrate his daddy, Uranus). What a clear (if somewhat unpleasant) metaphor. Out with the old–in with the new — not a pretty visual, but it’s the essence of the life force.

My friend coined the term, “WAJ” (pronounced Wahj). Knowing that I’m often not “all there,” (or “out in left field” as my mother used to say) he just shrugs his shoulders and says “That’s ridiculous. That’s ‘WAJ’–the World According to Jeff. Life’s not that way—and never will be.”

In WAJ, sun block causes cancer — rather than prevents it (Google it). We need to have forest fires in order to prevent them (see early American Indians intentionally burning in late May). Rugby is honored at Cal — not demoted.

Locally, our problems are the same as in small town destinations everywhere, from Maui, to Aspen to Nantucket. Water, tourism, affordable housing, traffic, design control, quality of life vs. development. We are no different.

In no particular order, it would start with no more sidewalks and gutters on country roads. Especially in front of vineyards as witnessed on Pope St. It makes our town look like Black Hawk. Subtly paved bike paths (for pedestrians too) like around Lake Tahoe, are just fine.

On the subject of traffic: Make the Valley a loop. All traffic from Napa to Calistoga goes north, via a three lane highway up 29 and heads south on a three lane highway down the Silverado Trail. Sure, certain families which live near cross roads (say Silverado and Zinfandel) will have to go south (down to Rutherford) to go north—and vice versa–but it’s a five minute inconvenience for a few, to unclog roads for literally millions.

In WAJ, there will be no more wasted money on feasibility studies regarding round-a-bouts.

They work. They’ve been proven in Aspen, Truckee, and all through Europe. Install them immediately at each major cross road between Napa and St. Helena.

Round-a-bouts can be built for far less than the cost of stop lights and more appropriate than overpasses.

Security cameras are placed on Pope Street Bridge (my friend’s idea). Any large illegal truck that tries to cross it gets fine a hundred bucks. Can’t tell you how dangerous it is when traffic backs up on the Trail because a Rig prevents two way traffic on the bridge. It would pay for itself in a week.

Parking: Meters are re-installed for five years (or until an underground garage is completed on the Adams St. site). Income from meters (200 spots would generate at least $100 per day (not counting fines)—enough to service the debt on a $5,000,000 underground garage.

All new parking lots would be required to look like the one at Napa College out on Pope St. The placement of the trees makes it look like an old fashioned orchard—not a paved lot.

Adams Street extension gets built, and Main Street is turned over to the tourists. A “Village Square” (complete with fountain) is built on the Daly property — zoned for local serving only — featuring café, restaurant, “Kellers”, barber shop, shoe repair, hardware, machine repair, deli, and other local retail—maybe even City Hall.

Tainter is closed between the Catholic school and Church. It becomes a joint play area for the Boys and Girls Club and Catholic school. Turn it into basketball courts and parking.

The Wine Train goes. Bike paths take its place.

City league basketball returns. Gyms we got. Softball is encouraged, not discouraged every summer night on Carpy Field.

Gates and a driveway are installed on South side of elementary school playground (off South Crane) so grandmothers can be dropped off close to the Little League Diamonds and not have to walk 200 yards to see their grandkids play.

On the school front, High school practices for athletes can be no longer than a max of two hours, and the majority of them must be only 1.5 hours.

Seasons are shortened. Rather than two basketball, or two Volleyball games per week against other schools, there will be one game per week against another school, and then one Red and White game (with officials, scoreboards, the whole enchilada, at night) between roughly balanced squads. They will be “game-like” in every way, but local kids will be playing against each other. Believe me, “red vs. white” games would draw as well as a Tuesday night game against Tamales—and more kids (and parents) would enjoy the athletic experience.

International Baccalaureate program is reinstated and the emphasis goes back to academics not “extra-curricular activities.”

Inter-district transfers are discouraged—not encouraged.

Install the soccer fields on the Pope St. property Dave Garden donated to the town–just for fields. And no balderdash about flood plains. Fields don’t interfere with floods.

Fireplaces would be encouraged. The ban on new fireplaces would be immediately lifted.

Western hills would be harvested and cleared of “understory” to prevent a “Rim fire” from occurring up here. Monies used to fight fires would be allocated to the county to hire convicts (they’re cheap) and unemployed workers to clear the forests. Some could be harvested for profit to help pay for it. This one is vital!

Housing? City would buy a few cheaper acres on the edge of the URL rezone it for “Work Force” housing, rather than build on expensive land like Adams Street.

NO housing built behind the new levy. Does no one watch TV news?

Each winery is charged 2 cents per case for schools.

Money goes to building a “teacher town” of affordable housing for teachers in St. Helena.

Rodney’s hotel gets built. In-and-Out does not replace A&W.

Christmas wreaths would forever adorn St. Helena’s historic electroliers (lamp posts) during the Holidays. Next year we put red, blue, green and yellow blubs in each lamp like we used to.

During light rain years like these past two, dredge Conn Lake. Make the bathtub bigger.

MOST IMPORTANT: Build a one foot tall concrete barrier at the top of the all spillways in Napa County. Conn Lake is 870 surface acres (Bell Canyon is 70 surface acres). A one foot increase in the height of these spill ways, will put negligible pressure on the dams and solve all of Napa and St. Helena’s water problems for the next 50 years. (Napa sells water from Lake Hennessy to St. Helena as opposed to expensive water it is selling us now from the “Water Bank” (Which is piped in from out of the area).

Until Conn dam overflows, during rain storms when the river rises dangerously high, water is pumped up from the river into Conn Dam (Lake Hennessey). We already have the pipes. All we need are the pumps.

Napa River, especially near Pope Street gets cleared of debris to alleviate flooding. (Farmers used to “burn” all the growth in the river back in the day—there was no debris and scads more steelhead—go figure!

Any farmer who either alone, or in concert with others (see Rutherford Dust Society) attempts to alleviate flooding by terracing, cleaning debris, or anything else which can be signed off by the Army Corps of Engineers will be held harmless from any damage which occurs down stream, and specifically held harmless from any suits from Eco-terrorists.

Good faith efforts ought to be rewarded not punished.

City land next to water reclamation plant is leased for $1/year to churches or service groups for vegetable gardens. Each group gets an acre—and the food goes to the hungry. Excess produce can be sold and profits go to affordable housing.

I could go on, but at my age I can’t remember what else I want. Funny how so many wishes have to do with traffic. But after a certain age, there’s nothing more important than “circulation”—no matter the arena.

In those decisive moments on board Flight 93, the passengers become Mark Bingham’s teammates, and Jack Clark, Bingham’s rugby coach at Cal, taught Bingham to protect his teammates.

If you were to spend time around Jack Clark’s players, a very clear image of the man they couldn’t talk enough about would materialize—even if you’d never met him, or heard him speak. Between cringe-worthy accounts of tough love in practice, stories of his facilitation of former players’ success in post-college endeavors, or the vested interest of 70 young students in the life of a man who at once mentors them and keeps his personal life an enigma, you’ll see the same look of veneration repeatedly appear in the eyes of Clark’s players. Over and over, they will talk about a topic they could never discuss in practice, a topic their coach avoids with a firm, colossal hand. They will talk about the larger-than-life figure that is their coach.

A framed Latin insignia welcomes all visitors to the Doc Hudson Fieldhouse: “Spectemur Agendo.”

I meet Jack Clark for the first time as I take a seat across a big, wooden desk from him in the Doc Hudson Fieldhouse.

As I begin to film, I see a hat with the number 12 sitting on a shelf above his desk.

“That’s a Joe Roth hat,” he says. “Know who he was?”

I ask Clark if he played with Roth. He amends my description of their dynamic: “I protected him.”
Joe Roth had been on my dad’s “you need to know who they are” list when I was growing up.

In 1975, Joe Roth transferred to Cal on the heels of an undefeated season and 1974 state title at Grossmont College of El Cajon. With Roth at the helm of the offense, the Golden Bears won a Pac-8 title, and led the nation in total offense. Roth played his last year as the only person on the roster that was aware of his own terminal melanoma. He died shortly after the conclusion of the 1976-1977 season.

“We believe in toughness,” Clark says. “Not the guy that thinks he’s tough, but keep-getting-up-toughness— that kind of mental toughness.”

I ask Clark if he played with Roth. As he affirms, he amends my description of their dynamic.
“I protected him.”

I continue to film in his office, while he fervently glues himself to his computer screen. As I focus my camera on a frame that houses a personally addressed letter from the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, I feel certain that whatever is claiming his undivided focus is highly classified. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he was hatching the next Argo, but with rugby… or something… from that very desk.

After I finish filming his various awards, honors, medals, photographs, and office adornments, as well as being subjected to a pop quiz on humidors (Him: How many humidors are in this office? Me: 400,000. Him: A humidor is a case where you store cigars. Try again.), I head for the main room in the field house, but stop in my tracks at the sound of a voice that seems like it is accustomed to being obeyed.

“Want to see something cool?”

He wanted to show me his Argo plot. I hurry back to the desk.

Jack Clark is on Facebook.

As he looks at the screen, his face cracks into a smile, which seems just as much a natural expression for him as the focused stoicism he generally exudes.

In the slightly grainy picture, a younger but similarly grinning Clark stands with his arm around an older man with white hair and glasses. Both are dressed up, in Cal colors. Bookshelves are in the background, the kind whose imperfectly arranged contents betray that they’ve seen more than their fair share of action.

“Know who that is?” A break from the screen to question me.

I had already blown the humidor question, so naturally I cheat and glance quickly at his caption, hoping it will help me out. It’s my lucky day.
Casually: “Glenn Seaborg.”

Wednesday is the anniversary of the most important of my parents’ life. It wasn’t their wedding anniversary. It did not even mark a Big Game win for Cal over Stanford. It was the day that Admiral Nagumo launched 423 planes in a surprise attack on Pearl Harbor.

Volumes have been written about that historical event. Of course, the emphasis today—especially in schools and newspapers, seems to be on the interning the Japanese who lived on the West coast, instead focusing on the horror of the sneak attack.

It is interesting that little is written about the tens of thousands of Japanese (Brazil had the biggest Japanese population outside of Japan back then) who were “relocated” or incarcerated in both Canada and much of Latin America.

And of course no one mentions the Italians (Joe DiMaggio’s father was forbidden to use his fishing boat and the family couldn’t run their restaurant—after dark, you know) who were incarcerated or the over 50 concentration camps which held German “Aliens”.

It is thought that though there were 120,000 Japanese which were relocated, some 35,000 Germans and Italians endured the same fate at the beginning of the war. Due to political clout, most of them were released fairly early, however.

It wasn’t many years ago, that my daughter could speak of the internment, but had learned nothing in school about the horrors, nor the significance of December 7th.

It appears that each generation has its seminal event. Ours was November 22, 1963. The sun has never, again, shown as bright as it did that Friday morn in Dallas.

Those born after us know all too well what 9/11 means. Or if they don’t know what it means, at least they remember the horrors of that day.

That my kids may always know–what my parents could never forget–here’s a little reminder about what happened at 7:53 am, three score and ten years ago.

As flight commander, Mitsuo Fuchida (he later became a born again Christian) shouted “Tora! Tora! Tora!” 51 Val dive bombers, 49 Kate torpedo bombers, 50 high level bombers and 43 Zero fighters attacked air fields and battle ships docked in at Pearl. Through fluke (or, if you believe the conspiracy theorists, plan), our three aircraft carriers, the Lexington, Enterprise and Saratoga were safely at sea, out of harm’s way.

The air raid lasted until 9:45 a.m. Eight battleships were damaged–five sunk. 2,335 servicemen were killed. 1,177 boys aboard the USS Arizona battleship were drowned and burned to death after a 1,760 pound bomb penetrated the forward magazine.

America was at war.

My father’s brother-in-law, John Charles Daly came on CBS radio to announce to the world, “We interrupt this program to announce the Japanese have attacked Pearl Harbor by Air…..)

By December 11th, Italy and Germany had declared War on us as well. Now many make the case that Roosevelt tricked us into war–that we forced Japan’s hand when we cut off her oil supplies from the East Indies.
And the conspiracy theorists have fun because there is ample evidence that we had broken the Japanese Purple Code and that we knew that the words, “East winds rain”, were the signal for the attack to begin.

Still, no one bothered to tell Admiral Kimmel or Lt. General Short. Knights Valley’s Bob Ogg, (Seaman Z in Toland’s Book Infamy) told me over lunch at Brennan’s in Calistoga, some years ago, that he had intercepted the radio signals from Tankers north of Oahu, on Tuesday, and again on Saturday. He was listening from a tower he’d built in El Cerrito. (Now that’s really another column).

Short’s predecessor, General Charles Herron never feared sabotage from the locals–so he dispersed his assets. Many claim that had that policy been followed (rather than clustering assets) the devastation could have been greatly minimized.

Kimmel and Short were disgraced, unfairly. Commissions investigated them. As commanders, they were ultimately responsible. However, given that Washington had crucial information which was not relayed to them; it was a bit disingenuous to have destroyed their reputations for events that were not wholly of their making.
In fact, in 1995 The Dorn Commission wrote, “Responsibility for the Pearl Harbor disaster should not fall solely on the shoulders of Admiral Kimmel and General Short, it should be broadly shared.”

A suprise? In 1908 when Macarthur was at West Point they studied War games which featured the Japanese attacking the U. S.–through Hawaii–and this was before anyone had heard of air craft carriers, let alone aircraft.
On December 7th, America was changed, utterly.

My father was in Harvard Business School. He tried to enlist. They wouldn’t take him. Due to a football injury, his right arm wouldn’t straighten out. Finally, the Marines relented and he ended up on Saipan and was headed for Japan when the bomb was dropped.

Like many young girls of that time, my married him in ‘43 because he was going overseas and might not return. (When I took the kids to the Cal/Hawaii game a few Thanksgivings back, as we left the U.S.S. Arizona, we ran into a Classmate of my mom’s and her second husband. They had just been visiting her first husband–up in the Cemetery on the Pali with the other Pearl Harbor boys who died that day). Everything we are today is because of what happened back then.

This is not to point fingers. Decisions were made by combatants on both sides that caused death. All life is precious. We pray for all soldiers and civilians whose lives were wasted, regardless of what side they were on.
But our prejudice is focused one jar head who suffered, daily, as a nameless cog in the Marines’ 3rd Division on Pacific Islands he couldn’t even pronounce. We cringe when we hear the well meaning, but uninformed neo-revisionists, who criticize Truman’s decision regarding the bomb.
No bomb. Odds are, no Jim Pop (my dad).

The innocents at Hiroshima and Nagasaki did not deserve to die anymore than the innocents in Nanking.

Or anymore than the young boys sound asleep on the Arizona. War is Hell. Bringing it to an end–Heaven.

Over the years, I have written often of our youthful transgressions. They still seem funny to me. Maybe Mrs. Vance didn’t like thumb tacks being placed on her chair before English class, but it seemed like a good idea at the time. And since her girdle was so thick she couldn’t feel them, what was the harm?

I’m not sure rural kids today can egg police cars, get chased through the vineyards, get caught, and then have the police chief laugh and say he did the same thing at their age. The punishment? We had to wash their cars.
I’ve received e-mails and letters suggesting that such tales of yore are incendiary, dangerous, even irresponsible. What can be gained from romanticizing illegal, anti-social, even dangerous deeds? Isn’t it just encouraging youngsters to disobey laws or school rules?

One is perplexed. America’s most famous youngsters, Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer, are nothing if not mischievous. In fact, they are revered for their pranks. Yet, even in those fictional instances, there were consequences. Coiling up a dead rattlesnake and placing it on Jim’s bed – though funny on its face – resulted in Jim’s getting bitten by a live snake. That’s not only not funny – it’s life-threatening. Faking their own deaths and attending their own funeral was hilarious to them – but probably not to their kin and grieving townsfolk.

Yet, when we read it, we chuckle at their devilishness, cheek, and originality.

The title of each book was “The Adventures of …”(Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn). Clearly, Mark Twain equated tricks and pranksterism with “adventures.” That might be a clue.

One Christmas, my Grandfather was given a present. I have it on my bookshelf today. It is inscribed with his name, and the date—December 25, 1901. He was eight years old. The book was entitled Peck’s Bad Boy. This is not a book for the politically correct 21st century.

Not many of us today would be on speaking terms with young Henry Peck. He was a bad boy extraordinaire. The stories are filled with baby calves carried up stairs, stolen horse-drawn wagons, and melons filched in the dark of night. Henry’s backside is well-acquainted with his father’s switches.

Why did parents at the turn of the last century think that books about devilish boys were good for young kids? Whether one is talking about Huck Finn, Tom Sawyer, or Henry Peck, the theme is basically the same.
Throughout history, societies have realized that young men have to be taught certain skills and rules in order to survive as adults. We’re all familiar with the initiation rites of indigenous tribes that turn boys into men.

As America became more civilized, these “rites of passage” seemed to disappear – or at least become less codified.

Learning how to “play the game” is important. If folks don’t follow the rules, communal society is impossible. But societies can’t advance unless someone somewhere steps outside the box and breaks the current rules. From Copernicus to Columbus, men and women have stretched the limits of established thinking and taken us to places unimagined just days before their breakthroughs.

Risk takers, adventurers, pioneers, creative artists – call them what you will – move civilization forward. They also can cause a lot of pain–sometimes death.

How does modern society train a new generation to take risks–to be creative?

It can’t “lay down rules” for breaking rules. Legislating spontaneity is an oxymoron. By definition, the actions must be original, random, and “anti-establishment.”

“Play” is clearly a way to cultivate originality and creativity. The child sees the existing order, and then, on his own, develops a trick or scheme that is contrary to that order. He counters the established norm.

There are lots of rewards for breaking the rules–not the least of which is laughter. Attention is another byproduct. Breaking the rules establishes an individual identity. Suddenly he’s unique. Others walk down stairs. He slides down the banister.

Society, however, can’t function if everyone tries to slide down the banister. That’s where punishment comes to bear. Without punishment, the rules haven’t been completely broken—acceptable norms aren’t clearly defined.

That’s where today’s helicopter parents blow it. They think of punishment as a failure—as somehow inappropriate. If the kid disobeys (establishes his separateness), the mother talks to the child about it and explains why it is wrong, instead of spanking him or sending him to his room. If he cuts class and the principal suspends him, the parent rushes in, lawyer in tow, so it “doesn’t go on his permanent record.”

The kid is robbed of his unique identity, of the chance to establish his “otherness.” He then either becomes an uncreative drone or has to search out more bizarre ways to separate himself from Mommy and Daddy’s world. Drugs, anyone?

That’s why pranks and punishments need to be encouraged. Our grandparents’ parents knew that. We’re so much smarter than them that we don’t. Today, it’s pull a prank, call a cop. Either that, or mommy bails the kid out. The punishment phase of growing up is way out of whack.

Kids make mistakes. And kids intentionally break rules. Either way, they need to be allowed to pay for it in a quick, defined way: no TV, paint the fence, run laps, whatever.

That’s the lesson of incorrigible Henry Peck. For each transgression, he is punished — usually on the backside, with a board. The lesson is learned. The moral order is affirmed. His identity is established, as is the role of his father. The world makes sense.

Authority figures establish the guidelines and lay down the rules. Children need to be encouraged to challenge them. More importantly, children need to pay the price for defying the established order. It’s what defines their “otherness” and allows them to become separate, creative individuals.

Shrinks don’t get it: Beatings bad, spankings good. It’s not just about spoiling: Spare the rod and you cheat the child.

George Peck wrote, “Not all boys are full of tricks, but the best of them are.” How come my grandfather’s parents knew that and we don’t?