Most people thought my father was a stern man. They thought I was the same because I'd spent my childhood learning to mimic him. The truth was more complicated. He was as kindhearted and easily amused as anyone I've ever known. His humor was dry, occasionally dark, which is probably inevitable if you spend your career in law enforcement. You don't survive that work without developing a sense of humor. He was playful, too, though that side of him was mostly reserved for me and my siblings. At least, I've never seen evidence to the contrary.
Sometimes his antics were hilarious. Sometimes they were the sort of thing that probably belonged in family court. One afternoon he lit firecrackers on a spoon in the middle of the kitchen. My brother and I thought it was the greatest thing we'd ever seen. My mother responded with threats of divorce. Looking back, she had a point. At the time, though, I questioned her ability to appreciate a good joke.
He also had a weakness for strange pets. Before I was born, there was a squirrel. Later, when I was a kid, there was a snake. The snake escaped with alarming regularity, prompting another round of conversations in which my mother suggested divorce might be the more reasonable outcome. We always had dogs, too, and those my father genuinely loved. He had a soft spot for them that I inherited without much resistance. His favorite jokes, though, weren't practical jokes in the traditional sense. No whoopee cushions. No pull-my-finger routines. What he truly enjoyed was scaring us. Not scarring us—though, after this story, you might argue the distinction is narrower than I'd like to admit.
Some nights he'd wait until we were tucked into bed before letting out this strange, unmistakable laugh somewhere down the hallway. We'd hear it echo through the house, followed by footsteps, and within seconds my brother and I would be sprinting toward our parents' room. Becoming a father taught me the brilliance of this little performance. At the time it felt like psychological warfare. Now I suspect he simply wanted a few quiet minutes of being hugged by his boys. We had reached that age when affection had become embarrassing, something to avoid whenever possible. Looking back, I have to admit it was a remarkably effective strategy.
He also insisted on taking us to scary movies. Reading that now, I understand why my mother objected. Writing it down, I realize my sympathy has quietly shifted toward her. Apparently writing really can be therapeutic. My parents, I've come to appreciate, had profoundly different philosophies about raising children.
Then there was the Christmas we found a go-kart under the tree.
That sounds innocent enough until I mention that it was a racing go-kart capable of more than thirty miles an hour. Today that doesn't seem especially fast. To a ten-year-old, it was essentially military hardware. Better still, it had two seats and exactly one helmet. My father, ever the optimist, apparently figured at least one child would survive.
My mother was horrified. Understandably so.
As an adult—and now as a parent—I understand her reaction far better than I did then. I'm nervous around toddlers on balance bikes. I still remember the road rash from learning to ride a bicycle. I can't imagine watching a child obsessed with Evel Knievel launch himself around the yard in what amounted to a tiny race car while his father stood nearby thinking everything was going just fine. In fairness to him, it usually was. Usually.
