Our dads teach us many things: how to ride a bike, how to drive a car, how to wrap outdoor pipes so they don’t freeze in the winter. Some teach us how to cook or do laundry. My dad taught me how to count change back to customers at his dry-cleaning business long before machines did the calculations for us.
And then there is the lesson I learned one summer evening when my dad taught me how to defeat one of nature’s eeriest creatures — a bat.
What makes this lesson so memorable is that my father’s method of handling the situation required him to be part slapstick comedian and part mad scientist, two roles I would never have imagined him playing. Until that night, I had no idea he could be so entertaining.
Our story begins with a blood-curdling scream in the middle of the night. My sister Amy had gone to the upstairs bathroom, where she ran into a bat that had somehow made its way inside. We never figured out how it got in, but the bat’s nocturnal visit left an indelible impression on us.
While Amy ran into the hall screaming like a banshee, our visitor flew into my brother Ben’s room, where Ben was sleeping soundly despite the bedlam surrounding him.
My father, clad in only his underwear, came flying up the stairs with an expression on his face that registered concern for his children’s safety — along with a good deal of irritation at having been awakened so abruptly from a sound sleep.
Since this is a family publication, I will not include anything my father may have said that night. Aren’t we all a little grumpy when something or someone wakes us up suddenly?
When my dad realized what was happening, he picked up Ben, who was still sleeping, and left the room, closing the door behind him. He put Ben in Amy’s bed and went downstairs to get a broom. When he returned, he had put on some pants and shoes. He was clutching the broom as though it were a weapon, and he looked as though he had settled on a battle strategy.
Opening the door to my brother’s room slowly and carefully, he strode in and closed the door. For a moment, I could have sworn he was not my father at all — he was St. George preparing to slay the dragon.
If the amount of noise that ensued was any indication of how things were going, St. George was having a rough time fighting the dragon. Because the door was closed, I had to imagine what was going on in there. My father was chasing the bat and swatting at it with the broom, but he seemed to be hitting everything except his target. He hit the blinds, the light fixture on the ceiling, and the clock on the nightstand beside my brother’s bed, knocking it to the floor.
Suddenly, everything was quiet. My father stepped into the hall and quickly closed the door behind him. He went downstairs without saying a word to us. He returned in a few minutes, holding a rag that reeked of ammonia. Before I could ask him what he was doing, he had gone back into the bedroom for another round with the bat. He didn’t seem frustrated or angry; he seemed determined to win this round.
This time, I didn’t hear my father running around the room trying to hit the bat. Instead, I heard the bat squeak a few times and then stop. Again, everything was quiet. My dad opened the door and stepped into the hall, holding what I hoped was an unconscious bat and not a dead one. As much as I disliked this creature, I did not wish it any harm. I just wanted it out of our house.
My dad never told us what happened to the bat. He took it outside and came back in without offering any details of what transpired. I went in the backyard the next day and looked around, but I didn’t find anything to indicate where the bat was. As an optimist and lover of Beatrix Potter stories, I just assumed the bat woke up after my dad put him outside and flew home to be greeted by a loving family.
As for getting rid of the smell of ammonia in the house, that is a story for another day.
Mary Zahran, who always smiles when she remembers her late father’s sense of humor, can be reached at maryzahran@gmail.com.
