April Fool’s Day: A Legacy of Laughter

Every year, as April Fool’s Day rolls around, the internet dusts off its theories about where the holiday came from. France changing its calendar. Medieval literature. Spring festivals full of mischief. Honestly, the historians can keep debating, because in my family, the origin story is simple.

April Fool’s Day began with my dad.

He didn’t just enjoy the holiday — he thrived on it. He treated April 1st like it was his personal Olympics, and he trained year-round. Meanwhile, I could never remember the date. Not once. Not ever. And every single year, he got me.

One of his earliest masterpieces? Chocolate-covered cotton balls. A betrayal so soft, so fluffy, so deceptively delicious-looking that it should be illegal. I fell for it, of course. And he laughed that big, booming, full-body laugh that made you forgive him instantly.

But then my daughter was born — with his exact sense of humor — and he leveled up like a man who had just been handed a worthy protégé.

There was the year he made mashed potatoes, froze them, scooped them like ice cream, and built her the most convincing “sundae” you’ve ever seen. He presented it with the confidence of a man who knew he was about to witness greatness. And when she took that first bite, expecting sweet vanilla bliss and instead getting cold, salty Idaho confusion… he nearly fell over laughing.

Then came the saran wrap era.

He’d ask me to leave the door unlocked, and after she fell asleep, he’d quietly wrap her bedroom doorway or her toilet like some kind of stealthy, giggling ninja. She’d wake up, walk straight into a transparent wall, and later hearing her reaction he shook with silent laughter.

And the pièce de résistance: the year he snuck into our garage and spray-painted her St. Bernard pink. Not permanently — just a safe, washable hairspray. But still. A giant, bubblegum-colored dog lumbering through the house like it had just returned from a unicorn convention. My daughter screamed. He cackled. I questioned all my life choices.

He loved a good prank. He loved to laugh. And we loved to laugh with him.

April Fool’s Day isn’t the same without him. His belly laugh — the kind that made his whole face light up and tears stream — is something I miss in a way that still catches me off guard.

But here’s the thing about joy: when someone teaches it to you well enough, it doesn’t disappear. It becomes part of your wiring.

So, we keep the tradition alive. We prank each other. We laugh loudly. We stay silly on purpose.

Because that’s what he gave us — not just jokes, but a legacy of lightness. A reminder that life is serious enough on its own, and sometimes the best thing you can do is wrap a doorway in saran wrap and wait for someone you love to walk through it.

Happy April Fool’s Day, Dad.

Your mischief lives on.