Kids Smoking

Kids smoking

I'll never forget my first drag. I was probably eight or nine years old. It was autumn. We had just raked the neighbors back yard. She was old and her dead beat husband didn’t do much yard work. When we finished our work we began to put it into a yard waste container; a cardboard box. I don't know what possessed us to do it. It's still a mystery. This friend of mine had talked me into many strange things before but this one took the cake.

Hand rolled

The tobacco was a mixture of grass (the lawn kind) twigs and, maple leaves. We tore off a flap from the box and used it as rolling paper.  This wasn't your average cigarette, it was more like a cigar for King Kong. We had to hold this yard waste tobacco stuffed corrugated cardboard cigarette with two  hands. What could go wrong?

Got a light?

We just needed matches. My friend always had a box handy. He was a bit of a pyro. He once made a Popsicle stick replica of the towering inferno and set on fire on his upstairs den floor. It was before smoke detectors and common sense. Back to the backyard. His eyes gleamed as he glided that wooden matchstick across the side of the box.  The flame ignited and so to, our curiosity. 

Cool kids

Smoking was cool. Our parents did it. Heck, I use to go the variety store every day to buy my mom a pack. I didn't even need a note. They knew I was the "smokers kid" Now I was going to find out what the hype was all about. Home grown backyard style. 

The fires of curiosity

My friends and I started to puff the yard waste. The cloud of smoke caught the attention of our neighbor.  Not only had it caught her attention it caught the grounds attention too. It was on fire. We didn't notice that the heater had fallen out and landed on raked pile of potential tobacco. Suddenly flames started shooting up from the ground. The old lady said she was going to call the fire department. We knew that if they showed up, we would never live to smoke again. There we were stomping and coughing our brains out until the fire went out. All that was left was a cloud of smoke left by the fire and three kids scurrying home.

When the smoke cleared and the threat of stupid ideas was gone, the old lady went back in. We had dodged a bullet. You would think we would have learned our lesson. I did but apparently my matchbox friend didn’t. His curiosity was on fire. Heck, everything he touched was on fire. He even came over and lit an oil slick on the driveway on fire just, I don't know,  because.

The Barbershop

My first haircut

I remember my first haircut. Okay kind of. I remember the barbershop and the barber. I must have been five years old. Our neighborhood barber aka bookie whose name I will not mention, was quite a character.  He was my father's barber and now he was going to be mine. I wonder if my dad made the odd wager or was he strictly there for the haircut and conversation. My dad was the most handsome man in the neighborhood.  He had a killer smile and Popeye forearms, and many neighborhood women had a secret crush on him. My mother was the most beautiful woman to have never graced the silver screen. The were truly a beautiful couple. Body, mind and spirit. The men on our block must have been jealous of him. Of course, I'm assuming here but they all had the same hair cut or should I say brush cut.

New heights

The chair seemed comfortable enough, that is if you were a man. My seat wasn't as comfortable. The barber’s chair was made kid friendly with aboard across the arm rests. It wasn't very friendly. In fact, it was a pain the ass. I sat on a hard piece of wood and even with added height he wasn’t happy with it and pumped the chair as high as it could go. I think I was the inspiration for the creation of the bobblehead. With every bouncing inch my head shook like a tennis ball stuck in the end of a slinky. This barber was starting to be a pain in the butt. Okay, the chair was starting to give me a pain in the butt.

 What is that smell?

The shop was a strange place, it smelt like tobacco and embalming fluid. The oversized mirrors revealed something that was not meant for a young boys’ eyes, the view of the bathroom and a picture of a nude pinup girl hanging from the inside of the door. The counter in front of me had jars of combs drowning in blue liquid aka embalming fluid. There were white towels hanging down, electrical cords hanging down and razors, and more razors everywhere. It look like the prop room for a horror movie. 

The rub 

There was one other item on the counter.  Brylcreem; it was everywhere. Tubes and tubes of gooey goop. I sat there looking at my scared mug in the mirror, that's when I noticed he was sharpening his axe on a piece of leather hanging from the chair. My chair.  I was wondering why he draped me up in a plastic cloth. Apparently, in case he cut a major artery.

 Dirty old men and nervous children

The waiting area had a few aluminum chairs, and a table littered with magazines. A collection of newspapers,  racing forms,  Field and stream, Popular Mechanics and I'm sure buried beneath a magazine with the torn out page of pinup girl now hanging in the can. There was a couple of guys who looked like gangsters reading a Windsor Raceway program chirping about their jughead picks. I didn't pay much attention until I had no choice but to do so. "Lift your chin up, stay still" the barber barked like he was a major in the army. He was a major alright. A major pain in the ass. His kept pushing my cheeks and forehead to keep me in place. I was a little nervous. Probably the sound buzzing in my brain caused by follicle chewing device once known as a electric razor.

 Slick sucker

When the buzzing stopped and the final scissor work was complete, I received a cranial massage with a big wad of  you guess it; Brylcreem. When he was finished I jumped off the high chair and thanked God it was over. The blood returned to my butt, and I even got a prize. A sucker. But I wasn't a sucker.  I did the math; hard ass equals hard candy. I guess it wasn't that bad of an experience.

 Two dapper dudes

We walked out and back home, a short walk, just two styling guys. Eat you heart out ladies. I never mention that nude picture or asked why it was hanging in the bathroom. I had survived my first haircut. It was just one of many trips to the barber shop to follow. Same barber, same picture and the same two by four.

 Who gave grandma the scissors?

I don't know when my mother decided that scissors and a bowl would be a better hair cutting option or why she thought my grandmother would be a better barber. Luckily, that only happened once. Not so lucky, the next day was picture day a school. I will leave you with two things. One, I don't look good in purple and two, I don't look good with bangs. Especially, when there cut a forty-five-degree angle. She couldn't follow the professional bowl cutters rule; if the bowl slips, don't cut! Sounds simple enough.  The perm thing, I didn't find out until the late eighties but that's another story. A very sad story. 

 

Wassi Laundry

Trailer life

Our summer tradition started at Pinery provincial park continued to a new lake.  Just a few miles from Powassan Ontario, was the Canadian shield waterway known as Wasi lake. Wasi Lodge was our new home away from home. By now my mother had enough of us kids and maybe her husband too, the month break was welcomed. It was just my dad, us kids and a couple grand kids. Apparently, my sister needed a break too. Our fourteen-foot Citation was parked on the top of hill overlooking the shoreline.  I wish I could say it was all fishing and fun, but somethings were not fun. Doing laundry, not fun. Fishy, sweaty and soiled clothes filled up the hamper aka green garbage bag. Not fun. There isn't a twist tie strong enough to contain that stink.

A load of crap

Once a week (usually on a Monday) we'd take turns doing laundry. This is the story of one of those Mondays. It was my turn.  The only good thing about laundry day was that I was relieved of my camp cook duties. I think they were tired of my KD surprise anyway. The surprise: hotdogs, hamburgers and occasionally a fresh caught fish. We didn't eat fish very often. In July the bass were wormy, and the perch and walleye were a little finicky, probably due to the fish flies in their full bellies. So, it was no surprise that there was no surprise. 

They called him the streak

There are some items I didn't want to see, let alone touch. My dad's underwear was at the top of the list. Sorting clothes was a shitty job, literally. Sorting through darks and whites was easy enough but some of the whites were brown. Such was the case with my dads shit streaked boxers. I accidentally grabbed his soiled boxers, ate breakfast again, swallowed and verbalized my displeasure “look at this shit, it's shit. I am not cleaning this shit, it's shit" There I was separating the proof in the pudding, the old farts fart-streaked cotton boxers.  Our y fronts paled in comparison. My father started laughing a wheezy laugh. This didn't help my mood much.

 Come fly with me

I carried the bag crap to the laundry room. Along the way the flying insects caught the scent of plastic wrapped shit. Deer flies and black flies began to buzz around my head. A favorite activity even if they didn't get the prize, pissing me off was worth it. The rusty washers and dyers were hidden in a room behind the camp store. The laundry room was a stinking eye sore and I was just one of many unhappy contributors. I swung open the spring-loaded screen door and proceeded towards the top loading washer. The spring door snapped closed behind me, this was meant to distract any incoming flies, but the flies had cousins on the inside. However, most were pleading for their lives stuck to a hanging glue strip. 

Pushing buttons 

I filled the washer with our shitty, stinky, fishy clothes and looked for the proper setting. There was no button for shit-stained undies, so I decided heavy was my only option. I didn’t have any Cheer, but I still gave it my All. Pun intended. The powdered soap was clumpy, and I wondered if it would take care of the dumpy.

 Clean hot and wrinkled

When the laundry was finished washing, I didn't care to investigate, and I just threw it all in the dryer. Folding clothes was not part of the job so, when the drying was done, I just turned the bag inside out a filled it up and headed back to camp. I entered the trailer and dumped the bag out and it was ever man or kid for themselves. It was bad enough I had to do laundry, but I wasn't folding shit. 

 

#On The Trail

On The Trail

The Boiling Point

 

When you have three boys, a dog and a wife who is about to go insane, a loving husband has the responsibility to ensure some peace and quiet. My father could see the steam vapors from my mothers’ head rise. It could have been the hot July weather, but it wasn't, it was her kids and a barking dog. Our dog Trixie was part chihuahua, part terrier and part bitch. The bitch came out when we tried to sit next to my mom. Trixie was just a little protective, as any wandering chipmunk soon found out. We thought feeding them peanuts wouldn't be too bad. That and the chase was fun to watch.

 

The cool down

 

My mother would often escape the camp, climb the dunes and go stick a toe in the frigid waters of Lake Huron. It was a hot sandy walk with very little areas to stop and cool her heals. My mother and dog danced their way down to the beach stopping to catch their breath in the shadows of a dune bush. We just ran for it. Our feet were on fire. I'd like to say it was because we ran that fast, but they were literally on fire. We didn't care. We had a goal. To be the first one to dive into the water. We had forgotten how shallow the first few feet were, but we would emerge victorious.  Like three bloody knights returning from a battle. Our battle scars: pebbles stuck into flesh. 

 

A good book

 

Then it happened. One day my mother, lying on a lounge chair reading whatever Phyllis Whitney book she could find collecting dust in the trailer, gave my dad the look. My dad had seen that look a bunch of times and was glad this time it wasn't his fault. "Let's go you guys" My dad barked. The dog barked too, some chipmunks never learn.

 

The meltdown

 

I wonder if we premeditated the whole piss off mom and the dog plan, just to spend some alone time with dad. Maybe. We didn't care where we were going. We were with dad aka Mario Andretti. The twenty mile an hour speed limit was more of a please than a must. The camp road had many twists and turns, but the hills were the most fun. My dad called them magnetic hills. He thought since supper was hours away that we'd enjoyed our breakfast twice. That green Mercury buzzed like a green hornet. 

 

This is a sign

 

There are some signs that a driver should pay attention to but deer's never cross the road where the sign is anyways so, he thought he could ignore it. The animal crossing sign should have said potential roadkill ahead. Today's menu; a doe and a fawn. The screeching of hot rubber caught their attention and ours too. You’d think the fox that we almost hit the night before would have given them a heads up. Thankfully we missed. That would have been a story he didn't want to explain. Especially, if it leads to that look. 

 

All roads end

 

Around the bend was the Riverside camp entrance and a little a little further to the right was our destination. Nipissing trail was only about a one kilometer long, an easy hike but we weren't hiking today. My father broke a small branch off a helpless tree and began swing it over his head. He looked like crazy man. He yelled "You guys better get running" but he was no threat. He thought he could scare us with the old snapping belt thing. He never used it. This was just like that. Still, we were intrigued to see who could run the fastest. We were sure we could outrun him. He smoked a pack a day. The race was on. Just a few feet behind a stick waving crazy guy, in front a beaten path. We were even making new paths running through the Carolina Forest. The only protected species we cared about was ourselves; he was gaining on us. Eventually he threw down his weapon and we all emerged peacefully. 

 

The last word

 

We caught our breath and, on our way back to camp he had one last thing to say, "can you guys please behave, you’re driving your mother crazy" We did for a little while.

 

 

 

Follow the leader

Follow me, or not

I thought I was the leader, being older and more educated on all paths leading back to our family trailer at Pinery provincial park. One day we went for a hike. The route lead through Burley camp to Riverside camp over a few dunes to a path that went by the amphitheater to our destination, the store. The store had the only thing our camp didn't have, candy. 

Weathering the storm 

On the way the clouds grew dark like our expectations to make it back from the store without getting poured on. It was before cell phones, so we couldn't call dad to rescue us. I was going back to camp. I had a short cut, but my brothers didn't want anything to do with it. My brother’s (not heeding my advice) took another route. I made back to the trailer before them and then the storm approached. The weather and my father. "Where are your brothers" He said. "They wouldn't follow me" I said. Suddenly, the rain started pouring down like the lecture. The verbal thunder I received in the car matched the lightening crashing down just outside the car. Dad was not happy. 

The search party

Off to the only place rain-soaked kids could go, the camp store. Twiddle dee and dumb were seen hiding under the overhang, arms folded, teeth chattering and knee's a knocking. I thought "if they would have only followed me, they wouldn't have gotten soaked" My father didn't say boo to them. It was all my fault because I abandoned them. Hey! I knew where was going and had to get going quickly especially, with potential of lightning crashing down beside me. The fear of the tongue lashing didn't outnumber the fear of electrocution. I took my chances. We made it back to camp they dried off and I went to sit on a curb outside the washroom not to sulk but to pick up girls. But that was another story, and my brother was the leader in that story.