Christmas. Father’s Day. Dad’s Birthday. All perplexing dilemmas. What do you give to the man who refers to gifts as “prizes”?
A daughter’s need to please her parents never fades. But pleasing my mother is usually quite simple. (Of course, she'd never tell me if she hated a gift anyway. She’s much too gracious.) But my dad? He’d let me know if the wrapping paper wasn't quite right. After all, forthrightness is character-building. Oh what the heck - it’s all in good fun.
Anyway, this year an idea struck me in the realm of gift-giving. But first - a bit o' history about dear old Dad. Besides the fact that he’s difficult to buy for (what father isn’t?), he also happens to be a motorcycle enthusiast. And I'm not talking about your proverbial motorcycle guy. Show up with a brand new Harley Fatboy and you’ll get a polite smile. (He is genuinely a nice guy.) But show up with a '46 Indian Chief…now you’re talking turkey. You'll become inducted into the small fraternity my dad considers friends. As a matter of fact, here’s the kind of stuff my Dad gets excited about –
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| Rusty gas tank |
Rust. Not chrome.
So last summer when he bought this fancy “new” 1984 Harley FX, equipped with a radio (c'mon Dad!), I couldn’t help but give my old man some guff. (Seriously -this is the guy who drove across South Dakota on a '45 Indian Bobber only a few years ago...I probably don't have the year correct on that Indian or the model on that Harley - will certainly receive a call on that.) So, kicking the tires on his shiny new motorcycle just didn't fit the bill. I asked him several times, “Why didn’t you just buy a Honda, Dad?”
A Honda. An idea struck me….One day, a few weeks before Christmas:
I could see the gleam in his eyes....then the day came. On eve of Christmas. As he unwrapped the gift...and noticed the label on the box.
“It IS from a motorcycle superstore. You weren’t kidding!” He almost smiled, his almost-smile.
Then as logo-recognition set in, the excitement waned. Noticeably. Time stood still.
“Oh, no. No. No.” Slowly, he took the t-shirt out of the box. The t-shirt -- that so audaciously displayed Honda's proud emblem.
Alex spoke up, “Oh Grandpa – that looks cool. I’ll wear it.”
“I’d never let my granddaughter wear that,” he spoke swiftly and sharply.
I sat back in my corner quietly and watched the scene play out. My prank had worked - and it had worked well, without suspicion. And with great laughter by all – except perhaps by the victim.
What will become of the Honda t-shirt? Only time will tell. It may come back haunt me. But most likely, I imagine, the t-shirt will be become shredded garage rags…
