All Dads Have Gas
Chapter One - There is a loud quack in the garden
Picture in your mind a father in shorts and scruffy T-shirt a-workin’ silently in his garden with the help of his curious 6-year old son.
Both are raking weeds away from healthy tomato plants and feeling the heat of a sunny July afternoon.
Suddenly, the silence between them is broken.
“Quack!”
“Dad, did you hear that?” says the boy.
“Sorry. What’s that, son?” says the father.
“I thought I heard a duck,” says the boy.
“Where?” says the father.
“Over there,” says the boy. Then he points toward a tall tomato plant behind his father.
The father looks behind him. No duck.
“Our neighbour has chickens. Maybe you heard a chicken cluck,” says the father.
“No, it didn’t sound like a chicken cluck. It sounded like a duck quack.”
“Another neighbour has a dog. Maybe you heard a dog bark,” says the father.
“No, it didn’t sound like a dog bark. It sounded like a duck quack. A loud one.”
“Well, isn’t that the strangest thing,” says the father, as he steps into a new row of healthy tomato plants and wipes his brow.
“You’re doing a great job with that rake, son,” says the father.
“Will you help me with another row?” he asks.
“Together we’ll keep our eyes peeled for that duck of yours.”
The boy nods, and sniffs the air.
All Dads Have Gas
An Interlude
Quack!
Do you think a duck made that noise?
Chapter Two - A bad smell is in the air
The boy steps toward another healthy tomato plant behind his father, but before raking a small weed, he sniffs the air again.
Something smells fishy. Bad fishy.
“Dad, do you smell that?” says the boy.
“Do I smell what?” says the father.
“A bad smell,” says the boy.
“I’m not sure,” says the father. “What does it smell like?”
“It smells like a rotten fish. But worse.”
“Really?” says the father. “I don’t smell that.”
“But it’s right here,” says the boy while wrinkling his nose and waving his hand in the space between himself and his father.
The father sniffs the air.
“I do smell something,” says the father, “but it doesn’t smell like rotten fish.”
“What does it smell like?” asks the boy.
“I smell something like the inside of a wet garbage can,” says the father.
Then he asks the boy, “Do you think you smell a wet garbage can? There are three cans behind our house.”
The boy shakes his head. He still thinks he smells a fish. A bad fish.
Then the father says something that surprises the boy.
“Well, maybe what you smell is coming from me.”
Quack!
Another Interlude
Quack!
Do you think a duck made that noise?
A rotten fish smell is in the air.
Is there a rotten fish nearby?
What is so stinky in the garden?
Chapter Three - Dad explains the bad fishy smell
Picture in your mind a father in shorts and scruffy T-shirt a-walkin’ with his 6-year old son toward the shade of a big maple tree beside a garden of tall and healthy tomato plants.
Both are sweating from the heat of a sunny July afternoon.
“Let’s sit down and take a break for a few minutes,” says the father.
The boy nods.
The man opens a lunch pail and takes out some food and water.
“That rotten fishy smell is coming from me,” say the father. “I’ve got bad gas today.”
“I thought so,” says the boy before drinking water from a thermos.
“You did?”
“Yes,” says the boy. “I didn’t think it was a duck.”
“What about a chicken?” says the father.
“Nope,” says the boy.
“What about a dog or a fish or a garbage can?” says the father.
The boy shakes his head and says, “I thought you were tooting.”
“I can’t fool you,” says the father while opening a container of nibblies.
He says, “It was me alright. Something I ate or drank last night, maybe even this morning, is giving me gas.”
“Like what?” asks the boy.
“I ate extra fish last night. And I had a beer after supper. And this morning I drank two large cups of coffee. Maybe that’s a bad mix and makes me fart.”
“I don’t say that word,” says the boy. “I say toot.”
“Where did you hear that word,” asks the father.
“Mom told me to say it.”
The father’s eyes grow as big and round as the pickled eggs and apples in the lunch pail.
The father says, “Oh, my. Did she hear you toot?”
“Yes. And I called it a stinker,” says the boy.
Then the father does something that surprises the boy again.
He lays down on the grass, laughs so hard the leaves in the maple tree start to shake and says, “What else do you call them?”
Again, Another Interlude
From the Author:
The boy calls them stinkers.
The father calls them farts.
I would guess the mother calls them toots.
When I was a boy I called them stinkers too.
I still call them stinkers.
My oldest son calls them barking spiders.
I think my youngest son calls them poo-poo noises because that’s what his son Ollie calls them when he visits and passes gas.
A little girl I know calls them windyfluffs, but because she can’t say ‘f’, she says windyplupps. That’s a very good word, isn’t it?
My wife doesn’t call them anything, but she always says excuse me whenever she passes gas - which is quite often, I must say.
What do you call them?
Chapter Four - Father and son go back to work
Imagine a father with his 6-year old son sitting under a big maple tree beside a garden of tall and healthy tomato plants while eating pickled eggs and apple, peach and carrot slices from a lunch pail.
Both are laughing because of their conversation about gas.
The boy says, “I just call them toots and stinkers. Maybe I’ll call them quacks too.”
“That sounds like a good word,” says the father.
Then he puts the thermos of water and the leftover pickled eggs and slices of food back into the lunch pail.
He says, “I guess we better get back to work. Two more rows and we’re done.”
For a short time they quietly rake weeds away from the tomato plants under the hot July sun.
Then the boys says, “Dad, does mom ever toot?”
“Yes, she does,” says the father. “But not very often as far as I know.”
“And does your dad have gas?” asks the boy.
“Why, yes he does. All dads have gas,” says the father.
“Really?” says the boy. “How do you know for sure?”
“All dads eat food just like I do. And all dads drink water or coffee or beer or pop like I do.”
“So, they will have gas,” says the father.
“That’s a lot of gas,” says the boy.
The father nods.
Then he hears a toot.
“Excuse me,” says the boy.
“And our work is done,” says the father.
The End
Final Words from The Author
I do hereby verify that the title of this story is completely true.
My dad had gas.
I’m a dad and I have gas.
My oldest son is a dad and he has gas.
My youngest son is a dad and he has gas.
My wife’s dad had gas.
My wife’s older brother is a dad and he has gas.
Still don’t believe me?
Just go ask your dad.
Quack!
.
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