A cure for youthful smoking ~ July, 20, 1995

David Heiller

(Editor's note: this column has been slightly edited, removing the initial and final lines of this family story, due to dated references.
So, we begin with the real reason for the column: a good old cautionary tale about growing up in the 1960s.)

Joe Camel is just a cartoon. He will never overpower Mom and Dad and your older sister when it comes to teaching a lesson or two about smoking.

That opinion is based on the first time I had a cigarette, about 30 years ago. There were about eight of us, ranging in age from about 12 to seven. Randy was the youngest, and his parents also owned the root beer stand in town.

We had a hide-out in some sumac trees above the root beer stand. There were trails under their dense branches to a clearing that no one could see in the middle. We hung out there, played hide and seek, or just laid around in-between swimming in the river, riding our bikes, playing softball.

One afternoon we convinced Randy go to the root beer stand and steal a pack of cigarettes. Stealing was not right, and we all knew it, even Randy. But he was a loyal lieutenant and wanted to be accepted by the big kids, so he went off and did it. I felt bad about that, but I didn’t stop him.

He returned with a box of Old Golds. The older kids, like my brother Danny, divided the booty like gold. I got one cigarette.

What a feeling, holding it in my fingers, looking at the filter with Old Gold printed in gold letters. Then lighting it, breathing in, then blowing out a cloud of smoke! Talk about forbidden pleasure.

I didn’t inhale. I didn’t know how, and somewhere I had been told that it was dangerous to inhale. Still, I watched in envy as the older boys drew the smoke into their chests, then blasted it out their nostrils. I couldn’t figure out how they did that. It sure looked cool. Dangerous and cool.

The first pack went quickly, so we dispatched Randy for another one. We waited. And waited. Ten minutes, then 20. Knots boiled up in our stomachs.

Someone went to investigate, and quickly returned with the stunning news that Randy had been caught stealing the cigarettes, and that we all had to go to the root beer stand!

Oh man we were scared. We never thought we’d get caught smoking. And poor Randy had been caught stealing on top of that.

I can’t remember what Randy and Stanley’s mother told us when we got to the root beer stand. My attention was focused on my sister Kathy, who was there working the 3 p.m.-7 p.m. shift as a car hop. She had a triumphant smile on her face.

Kathy said we had better get home and tell Mom, because when she got off work, SHE was going to tell.

That was one of the longest afternoons of my life. Danny and I sulked home. We laid in our beds. We ate supper in silence. But we didn’t tell Mom.

We were playing catch when Kathy came home. She went in the house, then Mom called out, “Boys.” She only called us “boys” when we were in big trouble.

I was expecting a spanking, although I don’t know why. Mom never spanked us. When you live in a family of eight kids, parents don’t have to use corporal punishment. There’s always an older brother or sister to gladly to that job.

Instead Mom lectured us. I don’t remember exactly what she told us. Probably how disappointed she was. Whatever she said, it worked. That was my first and last cigarette for many years. Danny’s too.

Everyone in our gang had various punishments. Randy and his two brothers, Stanley and Billy, had the worst. Their dad bought some cigars, and he made the kids sit at the kitchen table and smoke them.

“We got a little sick on that,” Stanley said from his home in Madison, Wisconsin, on July 17. “We got a little green. I’ll never forget it.”

And neither will I.