My father and I were standing in the old chicken house, which used to stand at the bottom of the hill, below the Gallia County Farmhouse. I was quite upset with him. I reflected that I was now 27 years old and that I had a number of complaints concerning the way I had been brought up. Specifically, I was angry about the lack of attention my father had afforded me when I had been growing up. I stood right in front of him, close to his face, and bitterly complained, "You never talked to me about religion! You never talked to me about the Bible!"

I backed off and began striding back and forth in the narrow dingy chicken shed, muttering, "You never asked me about what I was studying in school, or my schoolwork. Never once did you help me with my homework."

I told him that he and I used to drive back and forth from the Farm to the little school in Centerville everyday, when he had been a teacher there, and he had never once asked me about these things. I explained that while I had been growing up, I had thought his lack of interest in me had been normal. Only when I had grown to an adult had I realized what had happened. Just now, at the age of 27, was I finally beginning to realize how little – practically nothing – my father had done with me when I had been growing up.

How differently I could have developed if my father had simply taken some interest in me. I might even have become interested in sports, such as basketball, but there had never been any interest by my father in anything which I was doing. Now I was very angry about it.

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