Once, long ago, I had a scary in-law.

Not scary in the "oh-God-she's-got-a-knife" sense. Rather, scary like an emotional tinderbox.

I was a Middle America kid in a middle-class household, not having much but not wanting for much, either. This was my first exposure to prolonged dissatisfaction.

Any perceived slight, any errant gesture, any unthinking utterance would set off an avalanche of bitterness that seemed at odds with our immediate family. Nothing was quite right. Everybody was uncomfortable.

The defense mechanism I developed, the porcupine quills of this youthful experience, was to try to reduce myself to nothingness. When the heat of misunderstanding would rise at the dinner table, my head would sink lower and my face would fall gracelessly close to my plate.

Looking across the table, I saw my sister, just a year older, doing the same thing, a sort of limbo for innocents.

The only point being that families wrestle at times with the introduction of new members. For this reason, I feel some kinship to Sarah Palin.

Sure, I know, the former vice presidential candidate has popular utility only as an archetype of future conservatism or a punch line for liberal detractors.

Quicker than you can say "death panel," she stirs an extreme reaction.

But the powerful have their domestic trials just like ordinary folks. And Ms. Palin has in-law problems without the benefit of having been a mother of the bride.

In light-hearted Hollywood's version of suitors for the family princess, Levi Johnston would be the bad boy showing up on the doorstep.

A youth hockey player in the Arctic region (roughly equivalent to a basketball player in Indiana), Mr. Johnston came calling with a seeming abundance of hormones and a noticeable lack of articulation skills. His ambition appeared in abeyance.

The parents must have answered the door with distrust. Daughter Bristol swooned.

Stars align in such a way that real life develops like barely believable fiction. Political opportunity and personal mischance arrived in Alaska about the same moment.

As Ms. Palin showed the ability to energize, Mr. Johnston showed the capacity to fertilize.

Exhausting his usefulness as a stage prop for family unity on the campaign trail and hidden in the non-continental portion of the United States, Mr. Johnston might have let his 15 minutes of fame lapse.

Instead, he turned chatty.

At various turns, he dished about life on Planet Palin, throwing into the open details about his canceled wedding, visitation problems involving his offspring Tripp and the state of mind of his would-have-been mother-in-law.

Discovering limousines in Hollywood more appealing than trucks heading to the North Slope oil fields, Levi found himself last month squiring to an awards show a comedienne nearly 30 years his elder.

And last week, he revealed that Ms. Palin had wanted to keep her daughter's pregnancy a secret and later adopt the newborn.

No marriage occurred, but as a pain-in-the-neck in-law, this kid proves a natural.

I've been married 33 years, and my handbook for being an in-law reads in full: Compliment every meal, and shut up the rest of the time.

This ensures peace, though I've never walked a red carpet.

Maybe the Palins would think of adopting me.

Ken Newton's column runs on Sunday and Tuesday.