Took one ass whippin' from Dad one time with a pair of jumper cables. Never, never did I cross him again. I learned the value of work, respect and who was the boss of the barn. Frankly, I had been acting too big for my britches and he put me back in line. The short version, he wanted to change the reel on the combine, and I said I was going to the beach. When I turned my back to him and took a step, he nailed me with a pair of jumpers laying on a barrel. I'm glad it wasn't the barrel. In fairness, after the we were done he sent me on my way with a 12 pack. No shirts were taken off that afternoon at the beach. He continues to drive me crazy, but it is gonna be bad times when he's gone.
I feel compelled to add an edit to this. It is a small pleasure to be called "Sir" at the cafe or wherever, I admit to it. So, I always give a thank you. Then, I tell 'em we call Dad "Sir", it isn't my time yet.