How very good and pleasant it is when kindred live together in unity! It is like the precious oil on the head, running down upon the beard, on the beard of Aaron, running down over the collar of his robes.
Psalm 133:1-2
Before he quit smoking, the sounds emanating from him every morning were horrifying. The long sessions of hacking and coughing, and expelling the poisons from his lungs in great wads of phlegm were pretty much enough to convince me long before I had ever heard of a surgeon general that smoking was probably a bad idea. That image of him was the best anti-smoking ad that I ever saw.
It was another couple of years for Papaw to quit smoking, but, from my perspective, it was virtually an overnight change. No whining. No great struggle. No debate. Simply done. Gone was the pedestal ashtray next to his chair. Gone were the cartons of cigarettes in the cabinet. All that remained were a few empty tobacco tins, and some rolling papers from the days that he rolled his own before he graduated to Camel filterless, and over the next few years those disappeared as the cabinets were cleaned out from time to time. Now as altruistic as you may think his divorcing himself from cigarettes may be, he did pick up another vice which stuck with him to his dying day and beyond, chewing tobacco.
His first foray into chewing tobacco began with plugs of tobacco, a hard brick of tobacco from which he would cut off a piece to chew. That was relatively short lived until he discovered Red Man loose leaf chewing tobacco, which he would just take a big pinch of it out of the pouch and put it in his mouth to chew. No matter the source, however, what did remain constant from that time forward were brown dribbles down his chin and an Astor frozen concentrate orange juice can for a spittoon continuously in his hand.
I am not sure if cigarettes in his life provided as much color to the way that he lived his life before he stopped smoking as chewing tobacco did after he started to chew, but I can’t imagine what that would have looked like if it had been as colorful. Between the tobacco, the cans, and unusual circumstances it just goes on and on with chewing tobacco.
Normally, as we were just walking around a spittoon was not necessary; he just spit on the ground. However, driving, sitting around in the house, or other functions did require the spittoon. I suspect Mamaw is thankful that he did not see the need to buy an expensive spittoon, and chose instead to reuse a product around the house. An Astor frozen concentrate orange juice can is unique and well-suited, as much as anything is. Because it was designed to hold a frozen liquid it doesn’t leak. Because it is heavy cardboard with a tin bottom you don’t have to see what is coming back out of Papaw’s mouth. The top opening being nice and wide is both good and bad. It is good because it gives him a big target to aim for. It is bad because it is easily spilled.
There is no doubt that I am in good company with the vast majority of my cousins in having been instructed to hold his can for him from time to time. Inevitably, we would be driving somewhere and Papaw would turn to me and say, “Here boy, hold this can for me;” this was not my idea of a good time. A typical can would last him a month or more, and let me tell you there is a lot of nastiness on the outside of his cans in that month. If I resisted, which I often did, I got in return, “Boy, just hush and hold that thing while I drive, it ain’t gonna’ bite ya’.”
If we were out somewhere he would normally want to bring his can with him. Mamaw was quite good at helping him to draw some appropriate boundaries for where to take his can, and where not to. For instance, going into church was probably not a great place to take the can. Going into a fancy restaurant also fell into that category. But, just because he did not take his can does not also imply that he did not take his chewing tobacco.
When my cousin, Laura, got married the family gathered in an absolutely spectacular restaurant on the St John’s River in Jacksonville, FL. The view, the food, and the company were beyond compare. Family had traveled both near and far to celebrate this great occasion. While at dinner Papaw indicated that he needed to visit the restroom, and with a little help he made his way there. One of my cousins was in charge of making sure that he made it to and from the restroom without incident. While taking care of his business in the restroom, however, he slipped in a wad of tobacco to chew on, but did not have his requisite spittoon / Astor orange juice can with him. The restaurant was one of those fancy seafood restaurants with plenty of brass accessories around as decorations, and Papaw spotted one that looked a lot like a spittoon to him. Seizing the opportunity, he used the “spittoon” that he found, just as my cousin was trying to stop him. Unfortunately, he did not stop him in time from spitting into a very nicely polished brass ship’s compass. Papaw was amused by his own mistake, but did not like the idea of having to get rid of his tobacco; he had just put it in. So, being the frugal man that he was, he pulled out the wad and put it back into his Red Man pouch to be used later that evening; again, recycle and reuse.
Papaw approached going to church or other events in much the same way. He agreed to leave his can in the car or truck, but he would still chew tobacco right up until the last possible minute. At church he would hold court with several other men from the church who also were chewing, or smoking, or maybe just swearing too much to go directly into church on a patio near the church entrance. Mamaw would go into the church and find their regular pew and get settled in. As the prelude would begin she would come out and tell him, “Philip, get in this church right now, church is beginning.”
Papaw took that as a sign to get his last few chews in and exchange at least one more story about his new heifer. As the prelude came to an end Mamaw would stick her head out the church door again, a bit more insistent this time, “Philip, I mean it. You spit that tobacco out right now and get in here; the preachin’ is about to begin.” He would then reluctantly pull out the mighty wad of tobacco from his mouth and return it to his tobacco pouch for later use. As the church service came to a close he would beat a hasty exit, beating the pastor to the door as the postlude began, and before he hit the bottom step outside the church the wad of tobacco he saved earlier was returned to his mouth. He was in good company since the gentlemen he had been speaking with prior to church were already there with him.
As frugal as he was about his tobacco, I guess I have to say that I am honored that he considered using some of his precious product for my needs. Several times while visiting with my grandparents I would be invited by a friend of the family to go fishing. Frugality ran deep and wide throughout that community and there would be no stopping at the bait and tackle store to buy any store-bought worms. No sir; I dug my own worms.
The area next to the barn was some of the muddiest area on the planet, but also one of the greatest for finding worms. For one of these fishing expeditions while I was digging up some worms and putting them in a container to take with me, my spade got a lot of mud caked on it. I took the spade and smacked it against the side of the barn to knock off the mud, which worked relatively well. However, it also worked well to agitate the hornets in the nest directly above my head that I had not seen, and several of them approached me to more fully express their displeasure in me disrupting their nest.
I happily and eagerly would have run, but the mud was so squishy that it was about halfway up my calves and I wasn’t going anywhere in a hurry. Fortunately, and with a lot of effort, I did break free, but not before I ended up with several stings for my troubles.
Nearby, Papaw saw the whole thing happen, and once he was able to stop laughing about how ungainly I was stuck in mud and swatting at hornets he was able to express some sympathy for my plight. Out of a sense of deep compassion and love, I am sure, he offered me a solution. “Here boy,” as he pulled the wad of tobacco from his mouth, “put this on it. It’ll pull that sting right out of it.”
“What?!?” I looked back at him incredulously as he extended out his arm with the mighty, dripping, spit-covered wad in his hand to me. “Papaw, that’s nasty. I don’t want to put that on me.”
“Now boy, just do what I say!” as he shoved the warm, brown mush into my hand. “Here now, put that on it.”
Reluctantly, I did. And, to my amazement, within a couple of minutes the pain was effectively gone. Of course, I did not want to admit that to him, but it did work. And, even more importantly, I was still able to go fishing.
Papaw’s love for his tobacco was known throughout the community, to friends and family near and wide. Tommy, a local neighbor, also raised cattle, and in Papaw’s last few years leased the land for his own cattle from Papaw. They really did have a special and tender friendship that I could tell meant a lot to both of them. I think Tommy saw in Papaw much of what I had my entire life, and I had loved the fact that someone else appreciated him the way that I did.
Besides raising cattle and running a farm, Tommy was also one of the local funeral directors, and it was a tremendous honor for him to help prepare Papaw’s body for burial. He made sure that he had the right suit on, his glasses, and the things that made him look like my grandfather should have looked. However, Tommy took great glee in sharing with me that he had also put a pouch of Red Man in Papaw’s jacket pocket, “for the journey.” Of course, I forgot to ask Tommy about the Astor orange juice can because Mamaw would not put up with him spitting in that coffin.
Psalm 133:1-2
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| Moses with His Arms Supported by Aaron and Hur Thomas Brigstocke (1809–1881) Aberystwyth University School of Art Museum and Galleries |
One memory that I have of Papaw, which most of my cousins do not have is him smoking; he was a product of his generation. I remember him smoking filterless Camel cigarettes; that was, of course, after he no longer rolled his own cigarettes. He would sit in his chair in the den and smoke those cigarettes, read Zane Grey or Louis L’Amour novels, and be as content as he could be (I would venture that most of my cousins also do not remember him reading Zane Grey novels either). However, in 1965, when the surgeon general, Luther Terry, mandated the legislation that eventually added the surgeon general’s warning on all smoking products, the face of smoking in the US changed drastically.
Before he quit smoking, the sounds emanating from him every morning were horrifying. The long sessions of hacking and coughing, and expelling the poisons from his lungs in great wads of phlegm were pretty much enough to convince me long before I had ever heard of a surgeon general that smoking was probably a bad idea. That image of him was the best anti-smoking ad that I ever saw.
It was another couple of years for Papaw to quit smoking, but, from my perspective, it was virtually an overnight change. No whining. No great struggle. No debate. Simply done. Gone was the pedestal ashtray next to his chair. Gone were the cartons of cigarettes in the cabinet. All that remained were a few empty tobacco tins, and some rolling papers from the days that he rolled his own before he graduated to Camel filterless, and over the next few years those disappeared as the cabinets were cleaned out from time to time. Now as altruistic as you may think his divorcing himself from cigarettes may be, he did pick up another vice which stuck with him to his dying day and beyond, chewing tobacco.
His first foray into chewing tobacco began with plugs of tobacco, a hard brick of tobacco from which he would cut off a piece to chew. That was relatively short lived until he discovered Red Man loose leaf chewing tobacco, which he would just take a big pinch of it out of the pouch and put it in his mouth to chew. No matter the source, however, what did remain constant from that time forward were brown dribbles down his chin and an Astor frozen concentrate orange juice can for a spittoon continuously in his hand.
I am not sure if cigarettes in his life provided as much color to the way that he lived his life before he stopped smoking as chewing tobacco did after he started to chew, but I can’t imagine what that would have looked like if it had been as colorful. Between the tobacco, the cans, and unusual circumstances it just goes on and on with chewing tobacco.
Normally, as we were just walking around a spittoon was not necessary; he just spit on the ground. However, driving, sitting around in the house, or other functions did require the spittoon. I suspect Mamaw is thankful that he did not see the need to buy an expensive spittoon, and chose instead to reuse a product around the house. An Astor frozen concentrate orange juice can is unique and well-suited, as much as anything is. Because it was designed to hold a frozen liquid it doesn’t leak. Because it is heavy cardboard with a tin bottom you don’t have to see what is coming back out of Papaw’s mouth. The top opening being nice and wide is both good and bad. It is good because it gives him a big target to aim for. It is bad because it is easily spilled.
There is no doubt that I am in good company with the vast majority of my cousins in having been instructed to hold his can for him from time to time. Inevitably, we would be driving somewhere and Papaw would turn to me and say, “Here boy, hold this can for me;” this was not my idea of a good time. A typical can would last him a month or more, and let me tell you there is a lot of nastiness on the outside of his cans in that month. If I resisted, which I often did, I got in return, “Boy, just hush and hold that thing while I drive, it ain’t gonna’ bite ya’.”
If we were out somewhere he would normally want to bring his can with him. Mamaw was quite good at helping him to draw some appropriate boundaries for where to take his can, and where not to. For instance, going into church was probably not a great place to take the can. Going into a fancy restaurant also fell into that category. But, just because he did not take his can does not also imply that he did not take his chewing tobacco.
When my cousin, Laura, got married the family gathered in an absolutely spectacular restaurant on the St John’s River in Jacksonville, FL. The view, the food, and the company were beyond compare. Family had traveled both near and far to celebrate this great occasion. While at dinner Papaw indicated that he needed to visit the restroom, and with a little help he made his way there. One of my cousins was in charge of making sure that he made it to and from the restroom without incident. While taking care of his business in the restroom, however, he slipped in a wad of tobacco to chew on, but did not have his requisite spittoon / Astor orange juice can with him. The restaurant was one of those fancy seafood restaurants with plenty of brass accessories around as decorations, and Papaw spotted one that looked a lot like a spittoon to him. Seizing the opportunity, he used the “spittoon” that he found, just as my cousin was trying to stop him. Unfortunately, he did not stop him in time from spitting into a very nicely polished brass ship’s compass. Papaw was amused by his own mistake, but did not like the idea of having to get rid of his tobacco; he had just put it in. So, being the frugal man that he was, he pulled out the wad and put it back into his Red Man pouch to be used later that evening; again, recycle and reuse.
Papaw approached going to church or other events in much the same way. He agreed to leave his can in the car or truck, but he would still chew tobacco right up until the last possible minute. At church he would hold court with several other men from the church who also were chewing, or smoking, or maybe just swearing too much to go directly into church on a patio near the church entrance. Mamaw would go into the church and find their regular pew and get settled in. As the prelude would begin she would come out and tell him, “Philip, get in this church right now, church is beginning.”
Papaw took that as a sign to get his last few chews in and exchange at least one more story about his new heifer. As the prelude came to an end Mamaw would stick her head out the church door again, a bit more insistent this time, “Philip, I mean it. You spit that tobacco out right now and get in here; the preachin’ is about to begin.” He would then reluctantly pull out the mighty wad of tobacco from his mouth and return it to his tobacco pouch for later use. As the church service came to a close he would beat a hasty exit, beating the pastor to the door as the postlude began, and before he hit the bottom step outside the church the wad of tobacco he saved earlier was returned to his mouth. He was in good company since the gentlemen he had been speaking with prior to church were already there with him.
As frugal as he was about his tobacco, I guess I have to say that I am honored that he considered using some of his precious product for my needs. Several times while visiting with my grandparents I would be invited by a friend of the family to go fishing. Frugality ran deep and wide throughout that community and there would be no stopping at the bait and tackle store to buy any store-bought worms. No sir; I dug my own worms.
The area next to the barn was some of the muddiest area on the planet, but also one of the greatest for finding worms. For one of these fishing expeditions while I was digging up some worms and putting them in a container to take with me, my spade got a lot of mud caked on it. I took the spade and smacked it against the side of the barn to knock off the mud, which worked relatively well. However, it also worked well to agitate the hornets in the nest directly above my head that I had not seen, and several of them approached me to more fully express their displeasure in me disrupting their nest.
I happily and eagerly would have run, but the mud was so squishy that it was about halfway up my calves and I wasn’t going anywhere in a hurry. Fortunately, and with a lot of effort, I did break free, but not before I ended up with several stings for my troubles.
Nearby, Papaw saw the whole thing happen, and once he was able to stop laughing about how ungainly I was stuck in mud and swatting at hornets he was able to express some sympathy for my plight. Out of a sense of deep compassion and love, I am sure, he offered me a solution. “Here boy,” as he pulled the wad of tobacco from his mouth, “put this on it. It’ll pull that sting right out of it.”
“What?!?” I looked back at him incredulously as he extended out his arm with the mighty, dripping, spit-covered wad in his hand to me. “Papaw, that’s nasty. I don’t want to put that on me.”
“Now boy, just do what I say!” as he shoved the warm, brown mush into my hand. “Here now, put that on it.”
Reluctantly, I did. And, to my amazement, within a couple of minutes the pain was effectively gone. Of course, I did not want to admit that to him, but it did work. And, even more importantly, I was still able to go fishing.
Papaw’s love for his tobacco was known throughout the community, to friends and family near and wide. Tommy, a local neighbor, also raised cattle, and in Papaw’s last few years leased the land for his own cattle from Papaw. They really did have a special and tender friendship that I could tell meant a lot to both of them. I think Tommy saw in Papaw much of what I had my entire life, and I had loved the fact that someone else appreciated him the way that I did.
Besides raising cattle and running a farm, Tommy was also one of the local funeral directors, and it was a tremendous honor for him to help prepare Papaw’s body for burial. He made sure that he had the right suit on, his glasses, and the things that made him look like my grandfather should have looked. However, Tommy took great glee in sharing with me that he had also put a pouch of Red Man in Papaw’s jacket pocket, “for the journey.” Of course, I forgot to ask Tommy about the Astor orange juice can because Mamaw would not put up with him spitting in that coffin.
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