April Fools’ Day has come and gone, but there’s still time to reminisce.

“Line up at the door,” said my third-grade teacher on a sunny spring morning. “Don’t forget your lunch sacks and jackets.”

“Are we going on a field trip?” I asked.

“No,” Mrs. C, the teacher, replied. “School has been canceled for the rest of the day. You are free to return home.”

A gift! Freedom the whole day! I planned to race home, change from school clothes to grubbies, lope across fields, climb Douglas-fir trees in the woods. Classmates in line wore their happy, smiley faces. I was beyond happy. It’s not that I didn’t like school. The day promised no pelting rain — only the fragrance of woodland ferns and clover fields. My joy hit the ecstatic level.

Then, two words from the teacher. How cruel could the teacher be? Inhumane and heartless!

“APRIL FOOLS!”

In time, I must have forgiven Mrs. C. She became one of my favorite teachers. In the humor department, Mrs. C. and I were kindred souls.

April Fools’ training at home: an apprentice started small. Substituted the sugar for salt and salt for sugar at the breakfast table.

Ground rules: nothing mean-spirited or embarrassing. Fool those who relish a joke, which meant kids vs. Dad.

Mom laid low during our shenanigans.

A grand master of April Fools’ Day leans heavily into humor.

Years ago, I scheduled a consulting job about an hour’s drive from my parents’ place and planned to spend the night before at their home. A coincidence — a Scout-age son happened to be at the folks’ place as well. Each grandchild looked forward to a week’s stay with the grandparents.

That evening, Dad and the grandson worked on projects in the garage and yard. Mom and I discussed garden seeds for the coming summer.

A crash resonated through the living room. Dad poked his head in the front door. “Sorry about that. We were tossing around a Frisbee-like piece of metal and it hit the picture window. No damage.”

“Dad,” I said, “don’t allow a kid to throw metal.”

I was up early the next morning to get ready for work.

Dad stopped me in the hall. “Your car has a broken front window,” Dad said. “The metal disc we tossed around last evening must have hit it and we didn’t realize we damaged anything at dusk.”

I surveyed the damage to my car from the front porch. The whole window was a puzzle of fractured glass. I’d have to repair the window before I could drive to work. A defeated sigh — what could I say to the culprits?

I ambled out to the curb where I’d parked my car. The broken glass was there, but the edges had an unusual look. I swiped my finger across the window and it wiped away the cracked-glass look leaving a dribble of condensation.

My father and son proclaimed, “APRIL FOOLS!”

With one swipe of the windshield wiper, the fractured glass artwork disappeared in a puddle of condensation.

Amazed at how completely fooled I was, I hopped up and down, moaning and laughing. I noticed the neighbor standing on her porch.

“I invited the neighbor to watch,” Dad said.

Great master planning. I’d forgotten about April first, what with work responsibilities. The crash the night before on the living room window — actually a smack with an empty soup can for the set-up. Cool mornings with moisture in the air — good for “shattered glass” artwork.

I never did fool Dad.