Column: Knocking three times and really regretting it

While I was growing up in a modest-sized, hard-working city in Wyoming, my dad happened to live about a two—or three-minute walk from a cemetery.

Whenever I was staying with my dad, I would join the neighborhood kids at night as we would make the short walk to go and explore. As a kid, it would always freak me out, and I wanted nothing to do with it, but sometimes, I just wanted to feel like I was part of the group and begrudgingly joined in on the mischief. It was also the first place my dad took me when I was around 14 to try and teach me to drive, and I ended up wrecking his car at the ceme...