GLIMPSES OF MY DAD

My mom had an idea on one particular evening to have a candlelight dinner for our family.  She had eagerly prepared our dinner of pot roast, carrots and potatoes, and I recall baking a two layer chocolate cake.  My dad really didn't have any say-so in the matter.  All of us girls wanted to sit and eat with the lights dimmed and candles flickering on the beautifully arrayed table.

Our evening was going pretty well, with good conversation and lightheartedness, until my dad reached over his plate to open his bottle of Pepsi.  He placed the bottle opener to the edge of the cap to pull it open. As he pulled up on the bottle opener, the Pepsi bottle slid slightly, hit his plate, sending his meal into his lap. The contents of the Pepsi fizzed up, splashing onto the ceiling and all over his lap. Since I was closest to the light switch, I jumped up immediately and turned the light on to see the catastrophe at hand.

The expression on my dad's face left little to the imagination.  His words of "this is the last time we have a candlelight dinner in this house" rang out loud and clear.  The hammer had fallen.  The decree made clear; but my dad, being the man that he was, began to see the humor in the situation and that chuckle of laughter that I know so well began to ring out and envelop us all.  

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When I was a senior in High School, my dad bought me a used dark green Volkswagon with a stick shift.  I puttered around in that car to infinity and beyond.  I felt so cool in my green bug and loved the stick shift.  I. Was. Somebody.

Late one Friday night, I was driving back from my friend's house when my car began to sputter. Luckily, I was fairly close to home when this happened.  As I turned onto my street, the car stopped running and rolled to a stop.  I tried several times to start it, but to no avail.

Since my house was just down the road, I got out of the car and walked home.  Upon entering the front door, I saw my dad sitting cozily in his arm chair reading the paper with one of his favorite shows on as background noise.

"Dad", I said, as he looked up from his paper, "something's wrong with my car".  I proceeded to tell him about my dilemma and with a weary sigh he said, "Oh Sharon."  Getting up from his comfortable respite, he grabbed his coat and car keys and drove us up to the entrance of the road.

Reaching the stalled car, my dad got out with me following close behind.  He tried several times to start it, even looking under the hood for a precise inspection.  Once again, he got into the driver's seat, leaving the car door open, and turned the ignition on.  I noticed him glance knowingly at the dashboard. He knew something that I didn't.  He knew the problem.

Being the clueless high school girl that I was about cars, I waited in anticipation for his diagnosis. "Sharon", he said.  "Yes, dad" I replied.  "Do you realize you are out of gas?"  Did I say clueless?  

My dad and I drove the Buick up to the gas station to fill up the gas can and drove back again.  He told me to drive his car home and he would take care of the rest.  Gotta love a dad like that.

From that day on, I checked my gas gauge without fail, filling up when it reached 1/4 on my gas gauge.