What does Dad know?

“What are you doing, Dad?’  I gave an exasperated huff while he laid bacon in a dry skillet. At fourteen, I knew more that my dad ever could and food needed oil to keep from sticking in a frying pan.

Dad smiled, but said nothing. In a few minutes, I fought to keep my jaw from dropping as the slices swam in a pan full of bacon grease. How did Dad know that?

It was my turn, now. I didn’t pull the car into the driveway. Instead, I pulled it over the shallow ditch in front of our home and my choice filled Patrick with disdain.

“That’s stupid.” Contempt filled his eyes, daring me to come up with a rationalization.

I kept my temper. “I’ll tell you what, son. Why don’t we come out here in a couple hours? Then you can see how stupid I am.”

Two hours later, I dragged him away from his pursuits, gathered some tools along with a drain pan and went back to the car. He tagged along, grudging, but curious.

I pointed to the ditch. “Lay down and crawl under the engine.” I did the same. “Tell me how stupid I am.” I placed the drain pan under the engine and unscrewed the bolt. Dirty oil poured out. “I have to change the oil and I don’t have a ramp. This way, I have room to do everything I need to do.”

He didn’t speak and I could see him grappling with two concepts. He didn’t know as much as he thought he did and I knew more than he thought I could. Point proven.

That was almost thirty years ago and now, I have sons aged fourteen and fifteen. I’ll have to go through this again.

I hope I have the strength.

William R. Bartlett lives in Belton with his family.