Dad and us kids worked in the fields until dark. After devouring the huge supper Mom spent most of the afternoon preparing, we gathered around the radio.

Mom closed her eyes and hummed along with Kate Smith to “When the Moon Comes Over the Mountain.” Dad liked Lowell Thomas. And my brothers and I scared ourselves silly with our own take on “The Shadow.”

As soon as the programs were over, it was up the stairs to bed. The boys and I knew we were supposed to go to sleep and not “fool around.” But more often than not mischief interfered with Dad’s warning. Our favorite game was a pillow fight.

It’s hard to have a quiet pillow fight, and on this particular night, the ruckus was especially loud. Dad hollered up the stairs, “You guys cut it out. Right now!”

Well, Bruce couldn’t resist one last fling. Of course, Junior had to defend his honor. The commotion got louder. This time Dad was serious. He yanked open the stair door and growled, “I mean it. Stop this foolishness. Get to bed.”

This was Dad’s if-you-don’t-do-what-I-say-you’re-in for-a-lickin’ voice. And we knew HE wouldn’t “fool around.”

What we didn’t know was as we dove into our beds and pulled the covers over our giggles, Junior kicked over the full slop jar. Dad, thinking he’d accomplished his mission, settled back into his chair.

It was warm next to the wood stove. Dad was about to doze off when through the crack in the floor drip . . . drip . . . drip . . . drip. Yep. The contents of the slop jar leaked all over his bald head.

I don’t exactly remember the lickin’. But I do remember I never again forgot to empty the slop jar.