“You’re not wearing that to school,” slipped out of my mouth. I flashed back to all the times my mother had said the same thing to me a gazillion years ago. Overly mini miniskirts. Too much green eyeshadow or frosted lipstick. A slightly see-through blouse.

Under his shaggy eyebrows, my dad did his wide-eyed innocent look. “Just using my noggin. I figure I’ll follow you in the ice cream truck, and if things get slow, I can pass out some Nutty Buddys and the kiddos can take turns going for rides with me in the ice cream truck. I’ll make it educational, don’t you worry. You know, teach ’em how to lay a little rubber, pop a wheelie or three.”

“Right,” I said. “No liability issues there. I mean it, Dad. March right back up those stairs, change into something grandfatherly, and jump in the car with me. Now.”

He came back down wearing a blue T-shirt that said I’M A GRANDPA, WHAT’S YOUR SUPERPOWER?

“Perfect,” I said, relieved that he’d chosen this T-shirt over his Thanksgiving sweatshirt with the picture of a roasted turkey on it that said I’M A BREAST MAN. I decided to overlook the fact that he was also wearing a pair of gold suspenders. And his Coast Guard Auxiliary hat.

While I drove us to school, my dad sang a few verses of “I Gotta Be Me” in his long-practiced Sammy Davis Jr. imitation.

I did my best to block him out so I could go over my plans for the day in my head. Turkey placemats never got old, so earlier in the week Polly and I had passed out sheets of 10” by 14” oak tag paper. We helped the kids trace their hands and turn them into turkeys, then let them decorate the rest of their placemats with a tsunami of finger paint.

When they’d finished their own placemats, they made more for their grandparents or for my dad. Polly and I made extras, just in case, and then Polly ran them all through the laminating machine so they’d survive the spills ahead. We’d hand out the placemats just before dismissal, and the kids and their grandparents could use them for Thanksgiving dinner and beyond.

I hit the brakes at a stop sign and turned to give my father my serious look. “Promise me. No wild stuff like pony or airplane rides, and only clean jokes. Actually, no jokes at all, just to be on the safe side. All you have to do is smile and look cute, Dad. And let the kids drag you around by the hand if they need to. And do not, I repeat, do not, hit on any of the grandmothers. Or Polly.”

I drove up the driveway to the school, past the clay fish totem pole and the plywood teddy bears.