Surrounded by tremendous sorrow of family and friends, I felt compelled to pen this funny and uplifting story about an experience I had with my dad when I was 9 years old.
This Saturday did not start much differently than many of the other Saturdays at 3316 Sharp Road, other than, my mom demanding my father take me to the barber to renew my signature “bowl haircut” that had adorned my head since I was 2 years old. So, after three episodes of Scooby Doo, and a bowl of Fruit Loops, it was time to fulfill my mother’s wishes.
On the way out of the door, I grabbed a tall glass, Pepsi-Cola bottle from the refrigerator, and I popped the top with my dad’s key-chain bottle opener, as we walked to our electric blue, 1974 Plymouth Scamp. I swear I can see the white vinyl top glistening in the morning sun, and smell that 1970’s car interior scent as I write this. Dad started the car, and we backed down the long gravel driveway to begin our voyage.
As we journeyed westward toward the Jasper Barber Shop, I heard the familiar sound of air rushing into the car from the opening of a small vent window, which was common on cars of the day. This, of course, signaled the beginning of the driving ritual, which involved my dad unraveling the pack of Camel 100’s from under his sleeve, where I guess it was in-vogue to store them in that era, and then the tapping of the pack to compact the tobacco. The universally recognizable click of the Zippo lighter completed the sequence, as my dad would take both hands off the steering wheel to cup and light his cigarette.
Ten minutes into our journey and all was normal: the exhaust smell from a car burning leaded gas, the feel of sweat developing between my legs and the blue vinyl seats, and the sound of Glen Campbell belting out “Like a Rhinestone Cowboy” on AM radio. This was good living, and I really mean that!
Little did I know that as we made the left turn from Gier Road onto Highway 52 an event would happen that has remained engrained in my memory for the last 33 years. Perhaps it was just an anomalous gust of wind, or maybe even God telling my dad not to smoke with his 9 year old in the car, but suddenly the wind pattern changed. I remember it hurting my ears as the harmonics violently swept from negative to positive pressure in the car. By this time, a respectable bit of ash had developed on the tip of my dad’s cigarette. In an instant it was airborne like a firefly on a mid-June’s night, with two complete idiots doing their absolute best to ensure it did not land upon them. After exploring both sides of Highway 52, several times, the ash had chosen its intended victim: my dad’s nether regions. To this day, I cannot account for the extreme flammability of my dad’s jean cutoff shorts, but needless to say one could have cooked a marshmallow on them! If one were eavesdropping, he might have thought he was listening to the high-pitch screams of adolescent girls at a slumber party. But no, it was dad and me trying to rationalize the events that were occurring in the family truckster.
My father, always the clever one, swiftly reached for my half drank Pepsi and doused the flames that had nearly completely removed all traces of hair from his legs. Finally, flamous interuptus! The next several miles were followed by absolute silence, and a man and a boy staring straight out the front window of the car. As we made the right turn into the Jasper Barber Shop parking lot, dad stopped the car, and turned to me with a straight face, and said: “son, I don’t think we really need to tell your mother about this.” This was followed by absolute howling laughter that caused tears to well in both our eyes. For the next several minutes we gasped as we tried to catch our breath from the incredibly funny bonding experience we had together.
Dad, I have not betrayed my promise to you, until now, but I felt the story needed to be told. It was just too funny not to share with those who love and knew you well. Thanks for the great memory, pop. I love you. Rob
This is one of the many enduring and fun memories I have of my dad, and I want everyone to know my father, as I knew him. I encourage you to leave your own memory of my dad for family and friends to enjoy.