September Smoke

Written by Stumblin’ Jimmy Watermelon

y early childhood was a blessed one of great simplicity. Outside of my imagination, which I will readily admit was nothing close to simple, my world consisted of my family, the few island friends I’d had since memory, our farm and the all encompassing woods, marsh and waterway. My education, along with Daddy and Momma’s teaching, came from the little two room schoolhouse that I attended from the first grade through the seventh. Though I had two lady instructors who were seasoned as well as hickory switches, the greater joy of my learning came from pouring through themultitude of National Geographic magazines collected since the 1880’s. The remainder of my early conceptualization was derived from those trial and error efforts of most simple childhoods. Mud pies don’t taste as good as they look, pulling Anna Lizzy’s pigtails isn’t funny to Anna Lizzy, so don’t do it facing her, and “once is enough lesson” - don’t eat a green persimmon. Most lessons were multiple repeats before they sunk in. I must admit, most humbly, I still struggle to this day. But, back then it was all so simple.

In those days I think pretty much all schools began their schedule in September after Labor Day. Upon entering the eighth grade, a whole new experience began for me. Instead of the short distance to the familiar little clapboard island school, I caught a big roaring yellow school bus full of big kids that I’d never known. The driver, a high school senior, would swing the door open to pick me up at the head of our dirt lane. There began the long, oh so long, ride to an almost overwhelmingly large brick school on the mainland. I was in junior high school, as green as that persimmon, about as puckered up (if you get my drift) and life was developing some complexity.

Social order on my little island, outside of Daddy and Momma being my lifeline and grownups setting the rules, was something I was oblivious to. Outside of the draw of Anna Lizzy’s pigtails, we were all equal. In my new surroundings I learned about the pecking order the hard way. Almost all the kids seemed tough, even the girls. The ones that didn’t get tough, were, like me, the target of great derision. Survival is a basic principle, and in searching for my own method of self-protection, I madewhat was probably not one of my best choices --- mimicry.

Early on I wasn’t that good at defending myself. I’d never had to before. I didn’t understand the games of ego that these mainland children played on one another. I’d never had to deal with that either, so I was truly at a loss. What I did notice right away was that all the tough kids smoked cigarettes. Oh they hid ‘em from their teachers and folks, but during and after school, in their “special places,” their hangouts, they swaggered and jawed and puffed away.

Well, I guess I figured the best way not to get picked on was to be one of the tough kids too. It seemed to me that it would take less time to learn how to smoke than learn how to fight. Following the progression of this skewed logic, it appeared obvious that the thing to do was to start with the smokin’ and work my way up. A child’s logic can be like a monkey steering a boat. You don’t always wind up where you thought you were aiming.

Back in those days, Daddy smoked cigarettes. He’d buy them on the Island from Cousin Tom’s food, feed, tractor parts and mercantile store. There were a lot of places like that back in those days; bolts and washers at one end of the store, hams hangin’ at the other, with Levi jeans, bib overalls and gingham dresses in the middle. There was nothing odd at all for me to walk to the store for candy or something for Momma or Daddy. Well, a mild country boy I might have been, but I could hatch a plan just as surely as that monkey could climb into the cockpit of an airplane. (Please understand here that I have nothing against monkeys, in my imagination they just appear to devise the same downfalls of mischief that I have encountered – but somehow in a more comical way.) It amazes me now how much patience I could muster as a child, when the world and all time seemed to move so slowly. I guess it all came down to my focus on that target of my desire.

It took me several weeks to scrimp up a cigarette here and there out of Daddy’s open packs. I’ll bet I had ten of those paper wrapped wonders saved up when I finally figured I’d reached my goal. All this time, as my treasure trove grew, I was keeping them in a discarded kitchen matchbox that I’d thoughtfully hidden under some floor boards in a corner of our barn. Boy I was one clever monkey, I mean, rascal. I’d been offered a smoke once already at school but turned it down sayin’ I had a sore throat. I wanted to know for sure that I could be just as cool and tough as these new peers of mine appeared.

Come one Thursday afternoon after school I decided it was time to meet my destiny. I was gonna test out bein’ cool an’ tough. Daddy was off looking at cattle and Momma was busy in the kitchen. This was “the time,” if ever. I’d get my moves down pat and then Friday at recess, I’d join the crowd. With a handfull of kitchen matches and my best John Wayne swagger, I sauntered out to the barn.

I just imagined that cowboy on the TV as I flared up for my opening draw. The first half dozen drags left me hacking coughs with a drooling mouth and tearing eyes. Still, determined to overcome my weakness, I pressed on. Somewhere along the sixth or seventh tobacco stick I thought that I might finally have the hang of it. Just one more cigarette and I’d have that tough and cool act down.

My recollection has mercifully faded somewhat over these many years.I’m sure the moment was far more graphic than this. Still, I can tell you that about halfway through those last puffs, things went as sour as that green persimmon. This time I could imagine the feeling of eating a dozen of them, stems and all. My world began to spin a bit faster than I was used to and yet time ground to a near agonizing halt. I remember staggering out of that old barn with the smoke clinging to me like garden slugs to ripe leaves. And like those critters often wind up, I was on my own downward slide. About halfway towards the house I lost the last of any cool and toughness that I’d thought I had found. Sinking to one’s knees during an upheaval projectile evacuation tends to do that. Momma found me a short bit later in a heap on the grass. The lawn was a deep green and I to match.

Daddy got home just before dusk. He rubbed his brow, gave me a long, long look and pronounced my fate. There was nothing left to do but “have another go at the dog that bit me.” You know, until then I didn’t think I had anything left in my stomach.

September smoke? For me, no more.