Maybe parental jail time is a common fear among little kids.  Margot went through a period when all she could think about was Bo or me getting "pootened in jail." My childhood worries were legitimate though, because our dad was just one slip of the tongue away from being put on ice. He was in the military intelligence game at Fort Meade, MD, just outside of Washington, D.C. We couldn't know what he did at work, but we did understand that he'd get in big trouble if he sang at the dinner table. Then there we'd be, five little kids, watching as the g-men took him away in handcuffs. They'd push down his head as he slid into the back of their Crown Vic. In my mind, this scenario was unavoidable, because who could keep important stuff like that bottled up?

Sometimes, our dad needed to go out of town, to undisclosed locations. Our mom would throw out ideas about where he was going by analyzing the contents of his suitcase -- "Cotton sweater. Light khakis. Red polo. I'm guessing Gibraltar." But our dad had been trained for this kind of situation and he didn't have a "tell." How frustrating for him, not to have been able to slap her on the back if she ever pinpointed his destination.

If his car was in the shop and he needed a ride home, our mom would take us over to pick him up at Fort Meade's secured office buildings. We didn't mind going because it was always entertaining. At five o'clock every evening, the Marine Guard would march out in lock step and ceremoniously lower and fold the flag while a bugler played Taps. But that's not what was entertaining. The entertaining part was watching from our car, as grown men and women, dressed in fancy work clothes and clutching briefcases, ran like elks out of the building at 4:57 p.m., hellbent on bypassing the flagpole and getting into their cars before the ritual commenced. Anyone who was upright and within eye shot of the observance was obligated to stand at attention and wait until the whole thing was over.

In fairness, those bureaucratic runners had just clocked in at least eight hours of government service, and they must have figured enough was enough. And believe me, it was a real bummer for us kids if my dad screwed up the timing, leaving us waiting in the car for hours (minutes), while he stood there with his hand over his heart. Years later, after my dad had retired, my little nephew, Sam, asked him if he missed being a spy, and also, what did he ever do with his mask, weapons, and jet pack?