One of life's little lessons

An early Camel 'teaser' ad

Recently, in a conversation with one of the fellows at Brookdale, the subject of smoking came up. He told his story, that when he was a teenager he got into his father’s cigarettes and got caught trying them out behind the barn. His father, rather than gave him a good talking to, instead gave him a good paddling. He resented the spanking, thinking that he was too big to be spanked, and vowed that he’d show “the old man”, and smoked for 50 years, which has left him wheezing, and very sorry that he’d ever developed the “vile habit.” The story reminded me of my first (and last) experiment with smoking.

A good teacher, so they say, it's someone who can present a subject in an interesting or unusual manner, in a way that will penetrate the consciousness of his pupils, and cause them to remember what it is that he is trying to teach. If this is indeed true, then Bob White is one of the greatest teachers I have known, whether he knows it or not.

Bob White’s folks operated The Corner Cafe in Plainview in the early ‘30s. Bob was three years older and decades “street wiser” than I. It always seemed to me that he had patterned himself after Mickey Rooney, of the movies. Both were short of stature and carried themselves with a definite swagger. Both were outwardly self-assured, even a bit cocky---quick with a quip, and definitely feisty. Also, like the Mickey Rooney character, Bob was friendly and likable. As a small boy Bob displayed a talent for singing and dancing with his sister, Mickie. They won a number of amateur contests before he decided that such things were unmanly, and abruptly retired from a show business career. He had an active mind and was constantly thinking of things to do---things that sometimes got us in trouble.

Prince Albert in a can

At this time at the Corner Cafe there was a regular customer who fascinated us all, but Bob and me in particular. The fellow rolled his own cigarettes, which at that time was not unusual, but his trick, after sprinkling tobacco on the cigarette paper, was that he could roll the combination into an almost perfect cigarette, using only one hand. He loved to perform this feat, and did it with great showmanship, We longed to emulate his trick, but we never did we have the materials to try.

Bob’s sister, Mickie, Betty Cox, whose mother worked at the café, and I were the same age, and since we were downtown a great deal of the time we played together and became great pals. One day Bob called Mickie, Betty and me aside and told us to meet him at the Grove. He has something he wanted to show us.

At the end of Locust Street, just a block from the café, there was a small grove of trees along the railroad tracks, where bums sometimes slept, while waiting for the next train out. It was shady and cool in the summer and there was path meandering among the trees. It was a fun place to (pretend) track wild animals, and to play hide and seek.

Someone had rigged a rope swing in one of the trees so we could practice our Tarzan yells and work off a good bit of energy, while we took turns on the swing. When we got to the grove Bob produced some tobacco in a Prince Albert tin, cigarette papers and matches. He announced that he was going to teach us how to roll our own cigarettes, just like the fellow at the cafe. Of course, our efforts were a joke even with two hands. We either got too much tobacco or couldn't get it distributed evenly. But Bob said that we should not worry. Those we rolled would be okay. He observed that ours must be Camels, which would account for the hump in the middle. Finally we succeeded to the point that we wanted to smoke our own, personally rolled cigarettes. I remember that when we lighted them they burned very fast and tasted awful. Bob asked us how we liked smoking them. And we, not wanting to appear unsophisticated, all agreed that they were great. Bob could barely conceal his mirth, and finally started to laugh out loud. “You poor dumb bunnies! That wasn't really tobacco in that can! Har! Har! Har! What you were smoking was dried horse manure!” Whether it was or not I’ll never know. But my reaction to his assertion was immediate---and violent. Bob and the girls had to help me home. I don’t know what they told my mother as to why I had suddenly been stricken so ill.

I have never been so sick to my stomach since that day--- and to this day smoking has never been one of my vices. So, now, even though it’s been more than 80 years — My belated thanks to Bob White — Teacher First Class!

Source: “Growing Up in Plain View” by Walt Sehnert