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When I was growing up, my dad was a truck driver. He’d be on the road for a week at a time and when he arrived home, he’d sink into the couch and tell my mom all about what had happened on the road. Later on in the day, one of his friends might stop by, and the story would be told again—a bit differently this time. Bigger. Better. By the time my grandparents had driven the eleven miles from their farm—my grandma sitting next to my dad on the couch, clutching his arm; my tall grandpa perched sideways on the piano bench they’d given us—the same story had very little to do with the one my mom had heard that morning. By now, it was epic. By now, my timid father was bold.

“Putting Your Foot Down” is mostly true. 98%. But it’s better this way. I’m sure my dad would agree.

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