My father lies to me. He never loses his composure, never cracks a smile. In my own defense, I believe very little of what he tells me. However, the oil story has become famous in my family, and I find myself telling it at every get together.
I got the Camaro when I was sixteen. Please keep in mind that I am a girl, and I don’t particularly care how the car works, so long as it works. Starting the engine, my father noticed that there was blue colored smoke coming out of the exhaust.
“Well, that’s good” he told me, “as long as there is blue smoke coming out of the exhaust, that means the car is burning oil.”
“Well yeah, as long as it’s burning oil, you know there is oil in there, so you don’t have to check it.”
I know, I know. But it made sense to me. Needless to say, that Camaro led a short life with my family.
My father informed me that that same car would probably not make it all the way up to Michigan, but he said that was okay because Michigan is north of here and the earth is round, so it’s actually uphill. Therefore, if the car was to break down, I would simply be able to coast home.
We learned to stop asking, “Are we there yet?” on road trips when his standard response was, “We’re already there. This is just a really long driveway.”
“No, you don’t have to stop for that one.” He told me. “The white outline around the stop sign means that it’s optional.”
“I’m not sleeping. I’m just checking the inside of my eyelids for leaks.”
Sadly, lying to small children seems to have become a tradition in my family. My own daughter doesn’t believe a word I say to her anymore. I can’t help but smile when I hear her tell her little sister to be quiet, that we are already in the driveway …
Of course, it’s all fun and games until the engine blows up!