“Bill?” Dad looked up from his cards during the Friday evening canasta game with Mom and my grandparents. “Would you get me some ice water, please?”
Since my grandparents retired and moved close to us, Friday nights followed the same ritual. Dad picked them up after dinner and brought them to our house for an evening of cards and conversation. If we were quiet, we could sit in with them and listen to talk of times gone by. Sometimes, they spoke of World War II or about different family members. Tonight’s talk had turned to Halloween.
I set Dad’s drink beside him and returned to my place on a stool where I could be a fly on the wall and pick up ideas for Halloween pranks.
“We never tipped over outhouses,” Dad said. “We were more creative.”
Around my home in suburbia, outhouses were only a quaint memory. I couldn’t use that one.
“I lived on a farm and couldn’t go all the way into town, just for some pranks.” He studied his cards. “But, I had some school friends in town that did some … things.”
I perked up.
“One Halloween, they took apart a car, a Model T, I think.” Dad chuckled. “About 15 of the gang did this. They hauled all the pieces up to the top of the hardware store and put it back together. It stayed there for almost two weeks. Couldn’t figure out a way to get it back down.”
He took a sip of his drink. “Not me, though. I was back home, at the farm.”
Was he really? He seemed to know a lot of details about it. I left for my room where I buried my nose in a book. I didn’t need a prank. The candy was the best part, anyway.
William R. Bartlett lives in Belton with his family.