“Dad!” I exclaimed after I discovered that he had slid my cake in front of him when I wasn’t looking. Dad gave a big guffaw and slid my cake back to me. He loved expressing his sense of humor, but always in harmless ways. Being a child in my middle teens, though, I was too involved in my own dignity and I didn’t appreciate his humor as much as he thought I should. My pompous self-importance drew his wit like a mosquito on a hot summer night, and it was just as pointed.
I accompanied him on an errand in his pickup out through the countryside to Olathe when we stopped at a light. After the light turned green, our motor sputtered and stopped.
“What’s wrong?” I asked as he reached under the seat.
“Nothing,” he answered with an air of nonchalance, “we just ran out of gas.” He turned the key and tried to start the motor. At nearly 15, I already knew more than Dad and I knew that every vehicle needed fuel. Just acting like it had fuel wouldn’t make it magically appear. I became embarrassed as cars drove around us.
“Do you need any help?” one driver called out.
“No thanks,” Dad answered cheerfully and continued to crank the starter. I slid down in my seat and pulled my hand over my face when the motor coughed to life.
Astonished, I stared at him and Dad laughed.
“I installed another gas tank. I just switched it over and it started. You should have seen your face.” Dad laughed again.
Forty years later, Sandi poured a cup of coffee and turned to do something else. Unnoticed, I picked up her cup and placed it in a different location.
“Happy Father’s Day, Dad,” I thought with a smile.
William R. Bartlett lives in Belton with his family.