April Fools

My dad, Willis, was a big fan of April Fool’s Day jokes, much to my consternation. His idea of a joke and my idea of a joke were very different. He loved to prank, and I loved not to be the butt of the joke.

One of his best April Fool’s pranks he cruelly sprung on me early one April Sunday. I was peacefully sleeping away---as one tends to do early on a Sunday morning, especially if the one in question is a teenager—when I was called abruptly back to earth by the sound of my dad calling my name. He called my name, said that my (redacted) (redacted) (redacted) horse was out, and added a few more colorful phrases about the wicked wiliness of my mare, and then observed that she was out on the road.

That last bit stirred me to action and I scrambled out of bed, felt around on the floor for some blue jeans---yes, I often kept my previously used wardrobe on the floor of my room. What can I say? I was the classic teenaged slob---and hopped out to the kitchen still pulling on my socks.

Me and Taquita Ree, circa 1977

Where? I asked, squinting out the window, trying to locate the sorrel-colored blob that would tell me which direction I needed to head in to retrieve my wayward horse, shoving my feet into boots and hoping I wouldn’t need to stop and take precious time putting in my contacts. Even with my lousy vision I was pretty sure I could locate a horse-sized blob, if someone would just point me in the right direction.

It was about the time I was struggling into my jacket that I noticed Willis’ swearing was starting to sound a lot more like giggling. “April Fool’s!” he crowed, gleefully, “Gotcha!”

Ah. Yes. He did. What better way to prank your teenage daughter than to cause her to get up at dawn?

Well played, Willis. Well played.