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When
my brother Butch was young, about grade school age, he spent hours
and hours perusing catalogs of a certain type, those that sold fascinating
items he longed to be able to buy. He was a regular reader of Boy's
Life magazine for Scouts, too, which had colorful ads scattered
throughout that were cleverly designed to catch a kid's eye. Somewhere
about the age of 9 or maybe 10 he acquired a catalog from the Johnson
Smith Company which sold mail order gag gifts and novelty items,
and he read it until it was just about in tatters. Remember whoopee
cushions and cameras that squirted water when the shutter was depressed?
How about those cans of peanut brittle which were actually stuffed
with cloth covered spring “snakes” that burst from the can when
the lid was removed, scaring the unsuspecting victim out of their
wits? I particularly loathed the stupid hand buzzers that delivered
a nasty vibrating shock when shaking hands with a deviant boy (it
was ALWAYS a boy) who held out a supposedly friendly hand in greeting
or to hand over a gift or treat. I don't believe Butch ever actually
owned one of the evil little inventions, but he was able to borrow
one from Ricky Walker or Johnny Steen or maybe one of the older
boys, Don or Randy Ray, and terrorize and annoy me, his younger
sister, until the rightful owner reclaimed the beastly chunk of
junk for mayhem of his own. At any rate, Johnson Smith had everything
a kid or zany adult could possibly want.
It was during this time, in what I assume was a moment of boyish
whimsy, that Butch sent away to Johnson Smith for some exploding
cigarette loads. He pasted a coin or two on a small piece of cardboard
and mailed it with the little name and address label, then waited
for their delivery. The cost must have been between a dime and twenty
five cents because that's about all Butch could have laid paws on
back then. The loads did finally arrive and he began thinking how
to put them to best use. He put virtually no time into this part
of the project, nor did he develop a very complex plan of action,
given his choice of victim and the eventual outcome. The ice upon
which he stood balancing precariously was extremely thin, but Butch
ignored the posted warning signs and skated far, far out onto the
big, cold, deep Lake of Stern Fatherhood, aka Lake William, Sr.
aka Lake Willie.
Once Butch made the decision to go ahead with blast off, which was
pretty much the instant he opened the package, he went ahead full
tilt. The lure of the dynamitical doodads was as strong as a Lorelei's
song, beckoning him to come hither, luring his ship (of fools) to
the rocky shore. Usually a creature of impulse, the little guy apparently
figured any pack of smokes would do. Given that our Dad smoked daily
and our Mom only occasionally, so she usually kept hers in her purse,
he went with the closest, and only, pack at hand. Foolish idea+
absence of logical planning+dearth of rational thought=impending
disaster. Do the math, as they say. I'll just add here that this
was the 1950's and a lot of people smoked, unaware of all the health
implications that were later publicized.
Strolling blithely down his chosen path, Butch selected a pristine,
white, firm cylinder from the packet and methodically inserted the
mini bomb in one end of the unfiltered Chesterfield, tamping it
carefully until it wasn't visible to the casual eye. Battlefield
cannoneers were scarce so precise. Fade now to an evening after
supper. Butch and I both were sitting in the dining room with our
Dad at the round pedestal table. Willie removed THE ONE from his
pack and lit it. I had no idea, and I doubt Butch did, either, that
this would be the shot heard 'round the golden oak table, because
he had poked the teeny TNT time bomb-loaded cigarette back in the
pack at random, no doubt hurrying to avoid getting caught in the
act.
Maybe I should explain a little about these exploding pipettes to
those of you who may not be familiar with such things. They were
very, very small tubes of paper about 3/8”-1/2” in length and were
about the diameter of the thinnest egg noodle when cooked al dente.
They were packed with gunpowder, or the same substance found in
the long, flat, red paper rolls of caps we used in toy pistols back
in the day. Given their length relative to a little mound on a single
cap, the cigarette loads must have contained more gunpowder, maybe
2 or even 3 caps worth, I'd estimate.
Well, Willie drew on his cigarette for a bit until it reached the
end of the load. I heard a sharp, very loud CRACK!!, much louder
than a single cap ever was, and the end of the cigarette just kind
of blew open, showering our Dad with a few sparks and some ash,
leaving him flushed and momentarily stunned. Butch had a similar
visceral reaction, except that his face looked like wallpaper paste,
putty colored and bloodless, and his eyes were wide with pure terror.
I could have told Butch that, as ideas go, this was a stinker, but
since he didn't consult me I guess I felt no obligation to warn
him. Our Dad was born very near the beginning of the 20th century,
had fixed ideas about child rearing and suffered fools, great and
small, not at all. By the time he realized what had just taken place
he already had his hand on the perpetrator. He seemed to know right
away who the guilty party was. My mother rushed in from the kitchen
to rescue Butch from the worst of his wrath. I have to admit, I
can still laugh myself stupid all these decades later when I think
about it. Stars fell on Alabama, cinders fell on Willie and a few
well placed swats landed on Butch's bottom. Thinking about it I
think it was the only time I ever heard my father swear. He thought
swearing was “vulgar” at the very least and was the mark of an “uneducated
knucklehead”. I suppose having something blow up so close to the
end of his nose was enough to shock him into it.
© Frances Giles
"True Confessions and Mild Obsessions"
September 24, 2014 Column
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