I lived under perpetual threat of crucifixion. As a child. Really. Everyday. Other parents threatened their rambunctious and unruly children with slaps, smacks and the occasional, ​“I’m going to kill you.” 

My mother had a flare for the dramatic. ​“If you don’t stop doing that right now…If you don’t do your homework…If you don’t dry those dishes, I’m going to crucify you.” 

My friend Linda was horrified. The image of me, my brother and sister nailed to crosses, being dragged through the streets of Massapequa Park until finally propped up on our front lawn seemed too brutal. Somehow worse than a quick and simple homicide. 

Crucifixion. Bah! I shrugged it off. An empty threat. My mother didn’t keep a stack of two-by-fours on hand to build three crosses or have nails long and strong enough to hammer us into place.