Whine as only a fifth grader can about not having figured out your halloween costume yet (I don’t wanna be a witch again!) until you push your father to the edge and he says: Come here.
Follow him to the master bedroom where he rummages around in his closet and drawers and pulls out:
- A funky old flannel shirt (Put this on.)
- A bunch of old t-shirts (which he promptly stuffs into the funky old flannel shirt and plumps just right so that it looks like you have a beer belly)
- A funky old flannel jacket (‘cause this is the Olympic Peninsula and it’s cold and wet out there, trick-or-treaters)
Follow him into your brother’s bedroom where he scores an old railroad conductor’s hat, then turns and twists your long hair into a bun and stuffs it all up inside.
Follow him into the kitchen where he whips out a can of Crisco and a tin of Folger’s coffee and slops on grease and coffee grounds until your 10 year old face has a five o’clock shadow.
Admire your whiskers approvingly in the bathroom mirror while he disappears outside and then returns with a stick that he’s whittled down quick and outfitted with one last bundled up funky old t-shirt.
Best costume ever.
Best Dad in the whole wide world.
Update: The above pic made John Hodgman's blog -- see just a little bit starstruck for the full story.