My Dad, the Prankster

My dad is an interesting guy.

He's one of those people who knows just about everything. I called him the other day to ask when American fighter pilots might have been stationed in Britain during WWII (don't ask), and he was able to give me a brief outline of the RAF, a history of the American air force, the types of planes they would have flown, how many men to a plane, what their duties were, and what year they'd be flying (as well as where their targets would be).

He's always been that kind of dad--the predecessor to Wikipedia and Google for those of us too lazy to go look it up in an actual book.

But with great power comes great responsibility. I'd like to say my dad only used his powers for good. But I can't.

Mom wasn't entirely blameless, either--nor was she entirely guilty. Sometimes she was in on his pranks. Sometimes she was as much a victim as my brother and I.

The earliest example of such Tomfoolery occurred prior to my birth, when my mom and my dad were dating. He had her convinced (or at least, doubtful enough to worry) about laws against PDA: Public Displays of Affection. Convinced to the point that she was worried about holding his hand, or kissing him, when they were in public.

And why should she doubt her boyfriend? He was a law student, wasn't he? The laws were archaic, he'd assure her; hardly anyone ever enforced them anymore. But technically...someone could. But sure, if she wanted to hold hands, that was fine with him. He would take the risk if she would.

That's perhaps how my Dad became so powerful. There was always a grain of truth in what he said, or at least a modicum of plausibility. Enough that even when all of your common sense told you what he said couldn't be true...a part of you wondered. And he could stick to a gag longer than anyone I've ever known.

The earliest prank I remember was a result of a child's literal brain and our frequent family road trips. Once, on one of the seemingly interminable trips across Oklahoma (or possibly Kansas or Texas--they blended together to my six-year-old eyes), I noticed something that was actually rather perceptive for a child my age.

"Dad," I said, "You know how we drive for hours and only go a little ways on the map?"

I was referring to the old Rand McNally Atlas my parents lugged on every vacation, vainly hoping to spark my interest in cartography by calling me thrilling things like "co-navigator" as they pointed at the jumble of indecipherable lines and numbers that were supposed to be roads.

"Sure," he replied.

"So lines on the map are really a lot bigger than they look?"

"That's right."

"Then what," I said, drawing myself up for the big conclusion, "about state lines? They're bigger too, right?"

"Sure are," Dad confirmed, without missing a beat. "About a mile wide, I'd say."

"Who owns them, then? Which state?"

"Neither," Dad replied. "The government does. State Lines are a federal zone."

"Wow," I breathed, awed, looking out over the endless stretch of nothing with new respect.

If Mom put up any kind of token protest to this flagrant nonsense-mongering, I don't remember it. What I do know is I went through a significant portion of my childhood proudly telling anyone who would listen about the Federal Zone.

The deception didn't end there. There was no Tooth Fairy at our house; our quarters came from the Tooth Frog. On a trip to Chicago, my brother proudly informed my Mom that the bronze statue of the decorated general on the horse was "Bill Chicago," the founder of the city. I'm embarrassed to say how long it took me to realize why my dad took such delight in telling my cat Huckleberry, "You're an oaf, Huck!"--and why he laughed so hard when my brother or I repeated it. And by sixteen, perhaps I should've known better than to puff up with pride when, upon returning home from my first job at Papa Murphy's Pizza, my dad said, "Hey, it's the working girl!"

But that's the thing with my dad. He seems trustworthy. He knows things--lots of them--and 98% of the time, his answers are genuine, and accurate.

But there was always that 2%--the bit that taught me that even the nicest, smartest guys in the world sometimes have ulterior motives.

Maybe that's why it took me so long to start dating.

Anyway, Dad, here's to you. Meet me in the Federal Zone later, and we can grab a drink.

All my love,
Laura