By Dave Yoo
My wife’s father, Bob, has a certain way of doing just about everything. In his mind, to divert from his strict protocol is to invite disaster. Take washing the dishes, for instance. He doesn’t trust dishwashers, his theory being that you should wash in the order of the object’s proximity to your mouth when you eat. Which means you have to clean the silverware first, then the glasses, and then the plates and bowls last. According to him, to wash dishes out of this order is to invite all kinds of bacteria. Since I’m just as stubborn as he is, I’m constantly arguing with him about his set ways.
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Whenever the whole family visits my in-laws on special occasions, Bob always makes a big bonfire. For years, I’ve begged to help out, but he’s always refused to relinquish control as the official “fire master,” because, of course, he has a certain way to make fires. But last weekend, as he was battling a strep throat, he finally granted me the honor. I was determined to prove to him that not only is there more than one way to do something correctly, but that in some instances, there can be an even better way to do it.
After dinner, I went outside to the bonfire pit and collected branches. Earlier in the day, Bob had already stacked some logs in his patented pentagon formation in order to “maximize air flow.” Since it was so cold, the rest of the family waited back at the house for the fire to get started. I stuffed napkins in between branches, and then secretly doused the pile with lighter fluid, which I knew Bob considered sacrilege. When I deemed the pile adequately drenched, I lit the sucker. The flames shot up more than 12 feet! Back at the house, I could see everyone’s faces pressed against the glass, their mouths agape. I felt incredibly proud of my accomplishment, but it wasn’t enough — I wanted the fire to be even bigger. Then something caught my eye.
“Hello, what’s this?” I asked, stumbling over to a big rubber tire. On the ground next to it were the remains of an old, rotting wagon. “More fire wood!” I shouted to myself.
I lugged the walls of the wagon up to the fire and tossed them on. The flames were now maybe 15, 20 feet tall. Bob gave me a begrudging thumb’s up sign. It’s like I was turning into a man before his very eyes. My wife ran out the back door.
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“It’s huge!” she shouted. “You’re a hero!”
“I found this old wagon, it made the flames so big!” I said.
Her face turned white.
“You burned the wagon?”
“It’s a pile of junk. Or was,” I said, admiring the fire.
“That’s my father’s wagon. He attaches it to the tractor and bails hay with it.”
“But it was broken.”
“He repairs it every spring. It used to be Grandpa’s. Fixing it is like his way of mourning his father every year.”
Uh-oh.
“It really wasn’t salvageable,” I stammered. “It would have really depressed him to try to put it back together.”
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She just stared at the fire, shaking her head.
The next morning, the cars in the driveway were covered with an inch of strange, gray dust. It looked like nuclear winter. I realized it was ashes from my fire-code-breaking bonfire.
The door opened, and Bob peeked his head in the room.
“Interested in vacuuming the living room?” he asked.
“Sure thing,” I replied, and I didn’t question his directives to start by vacuuming the perimeter and then work my way into the center of the room. As I stupidly followed his precise instructions, I caught his reflection in the mirror as he left.
He was smiling.
—Dave Yoo
