Sometimes children can improve a little upon their parents’ behavior.  Take the issue of strangers bearing salvation.  Whenever those young men in suits on top of bicycles came riding up our long, curving driveway, my father would be ready for them.  If he was in a good mood, he would simply suggest that they leave before he called the police.  “This is private property,” he would remark conversationally.  “And I can easily get my gun.”

As an adult, it turns out I don’t have to worry about this.  I live in a building that’s locked up tight.  You need two keys and an elevator code just to get to my floor.  And after that?  You fight a large plant made of snake tendrils, do battle with life-size chess pieces, and solve a deadly riddle.  (You think I’m kidding, but my building association has already filed a suit against J.K. Rowling for ripping off our blueprints.)

But if people started banging on my door Sunday mornings, I wouldn’t handle it the way my father did.  I wouldn’t threaten them.  I’d slip in some red contact lenses, smear some uncooked ground beef on my face, and then swing open the door: “Hello, my brethren!  You’re right on time.  The sacrifice is over, and now begins the ritual of blood.”

I respect my father’s views, but I simply believe in the correct application of people skills.