“I am not young enough to know everything.”
— Oscar Wilde (1854–1900) Irish poet, playwright, and writer.
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“Dad,” daughter Robin asked one evening while staring down her homework. “What does facetious mean?”
I paused—a rare teaching moment! “It’s when you make a statement that is so opposite of what you really think that it becomes funny. Like you telling me that cleaning your room is your most favorite thing in the world.”
She greeted my fatherly wisdom with a blank stare, oblivious to the slight jab.
This was years ago, around the time Robin started driving. When my earnest efforts to instruct her on the care and feeding of an automobile were filtered through the unique lenses of her teenage worldview. When seemingly minor details were delicately balanced around the far more pressing demands of her social calendar.
“I’m home, Dad,” she called the office to tell me one afternoon. “But I’ve got a small problem.”
My precious daughter had already taught me that “small problem” does not have the same dictionary definition as it does in the teenage lexicon. In adolescent-speak, “small problem” is a coded warning that means: “Dad, sit down … and bring your checkbook.”
“Define small problem.”
“I had a little bit of a flat tire on my car.”
I blinked. “How, precisely, does one have a little bit of a flat tire? In my years of driving, a tire is either inflated, or it is flat. There is no middle ground. That’s like being a little bit… ah, never mind,” I sighed, cutting myself off.
“I probably need you to come help,” she admitted.
Staring at the shredded, tragic remnants of what had once been a perfectly good piece of vulcanized rubber, I asked, “Where did this little bit of a flat occur?”
“I don’t know,” she replied. “The car drove funny all the way home.
“All the way home?” I repeated an octave higher, “Did it occur to you to pull over and inspect the vehicle? Change the tire, maybe drive to a nearby service station for assistance?”
“No,” she said, as if explaining long division to a toddler. “I was expecting some calls. I had to get home.”
“Does it make any difference,” I countered, sweat dripping from my brow, “that driving on a flat could ruin the rim? Or, worst of all, risk losing control of the vehicle and endangering your life?”
“I told you, Dad,” she said as though I had suddenly lost my hearing. “I was expecting important calls.”
Fast forward a few months. Same song, second verse. My charming daughter walks into the living room and nonchalantly announces, “My car is making a funny noise.”
“Define funny noise.”
“A rattling sound—usually when the motor is running.”
“Take it by Rodeo Chevrolet tomorrow after school,” I instructed. “Let them look at it.”
“The motor is what? “I exclaimed to the shop manager the next day. “Well, thank goodness I bought that extended warranty.”
“Yeah, about that,” the shop manager replied, clearing his throat. “To honor any claims for engine damages, the warranty requires receipt copies for all routine oil changes.”
“And about that …” he continued.
That evening, halfway through dinner, I asked. “Robin, why is the shop telling me there is no record of oil changes for your car? Considering as how I sent you there numerous times for oil changes?”
She replied promptly with a big smile, “Dad, I know what you told me, but the little oil light on the dashboard never came on. And I didn’t want to waste your hard-earned money on something the car didn’t need yet.”
Struggling to breathe, I managed to continue. “Robin, you don’t wait for the light. When the oil light comes on, the engine is already dead.”
“Oh,” she murmured. “I thought it was just a friendly reminder to check the oil.”
“You know, Robin,” I said, “I’m just now learning about incredible new things in the auto industry. Tires with inner linings allowing motorists to drive without worrying about a flat. Synthetic oils needing fewer changes. New stuff to me, but I’m just now discovering that my incredible daughter knew about these motoring miracles long ago.”
Silence prevailed.
Robin smiled. “Dad—you’re being facetious—right?
—Leon Aldridge
(Author’s note: I love both both my children equally and with all my heart. Therefore, I try to pick on them equally and with my best efforts. Last week it was Lee, this week it’s Robin. All good memories that I wouldn’t change for anything. Today, Robin drives a big pickup and I have no doubt that she takes impeccable care of it, including tires and oil changes.)
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Leon Aldridge is a veteran editor, publisher, and communications professional, currently enjoying semi-retirement while awaiting his next challenge. His columns appear in: The Center Light and Champion, The Mount Pleasant Tribune, the Rosenberg Fort Bend Herald, the Taylor Press, the Alpine Avalanche, the Fort Stockton Pioneer, the Elgin Courier, The Monitor in Naples, and Motor Sports Magazine.
© Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling 2026. Feel free to use excerpts with full and clear credit given to Leon Aldridge and ‘A Story Worth Telling.’
A Story Worth Telling 