Caw

Dad stopped in the middle of the hiking trail with a twinkle in his eye. “Do you want to hear my crow call?”

At that age, my dad could do everything, and I loved watching him produce wonder after wonder. “Sure.”

He stood in the middle of the path, cleared his throat, waved his arms, cleared his throat again and lifted his chin. “Caw,” he said. He didn’t make a sound that remotely resembled a crow; he just spoke the word in normal speech. “Caw,” he said again.

I’d been had once more. “Oh, Dad.”

But before he could even laugh, we heard a crow call back. A real crow, guttural and raspy, returned his call. My jaw dropped and my eyes opened wide. “But…How…The…”

He gave a gentle laugh. “Didn’t you believe me?”

 I did, of course, but his sense of humor had caught me on many occasions, and I thought this was yet another. The crow called again, and I shut my mouth.

Dad did that sort of thing many times when we were together. Whether it was a card trick, a joke, a prank or even just making the best of a bad situation, like giving boat rides in our flooded basement, he took and spread mirth whenever he could.

And I followed in his footsteps.

“Boys! How can you tell if a ghost is following you? Easy, just turn around and look. If you don’t see anything, then you know a ghost is right behind.”

They didn’t even smile, but, considering their disability, that’s not unusual. Still, I persisted and each attempt filled me with joy. My dad taught me that laughter is sweeter than any dessert, and I am his son. I stopped on the trail.

“Hey, guys. Have you ever heard my crow call?”

William R. Bartlett lives in Belton with his family.