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Big Rock Candy Mountain Detour -1- Stealing Cigars
🕑 Added 2021-12-10 10:10:01 +0000 UTCThe song, "Big Rock Candy Mountain" may have saved my Aunt Opal's life back in 1951. It happened like this.
My parents and I left Senath, Missouri looking for steadier work than my dad could find in a little farming town in the Bootheel. We drove out to Wenatchee, Washington where both sides of the family had relatives.
We traveled in a black 1942 Packard, a model called a salesman's coupe. It had two big heavy doors, wood and leather all over the inside, and no back seat or trunk, just a carpeted cargo area that went all the way back to the bumper. All our worldly goods were packed into this space, padded with pillows and quilts on top to make a bed where the three of us slept during the night if Daddy couldn't find a cheap motel.
I spent most of the days traveling back there, too. It made a wonderful playpen for a two-year-old. I had my toys and dolls and picture books and sometimes Momma would crawl back onto the pallet with me to play a game or read to me or nap.
My dad was a driving fool. He did not believe in sidetrips but drove straight toward his goal with as few stops along the way as possible. Sixteen hours of driving in a day was about his average and eighteen or more not unusual.
We had bologna, cheese and bread in the car, no need to stop for meals. We bought soda-pop and milk whenever we stopped for gas and Daddy drove as long as was possible, late into the night usually and get up early the next morning to drive again.
When Momma wasn't riding in the back with me, she sat beside Daddy on the wide bench seat, talking to him and singing along with the radio. They mostly listened to Country and Western music; Hank Williams was a big favorite.
When Daddy got sleepy, Momma would dampen a washcloth and wipe his face with it to help him stay awake. She would take his hands one at a time and clean them with the cloth, talking while she did this. Mostly gossip about her sisters and other relatives and their friends, the Blankenships and the Mosers.
The Blankenships and Mosers were particular friends of my parents. They were also young couples and had all gotten married at about the same time; literally the same time in the case of the Blankenships since their wedding and Momma and Daddy’s had been a double ceremony.
Gladys and Velma were cousins and Charlie Moser was a cousin of Momma’s first husband who had died in the war. Billy Blankenship was a shirt-tail cousin, too, his aunts and uncles having married into Momma’s relations earlier. The six of them had all attended a carnival which was where Momma and Daddy had first met.
Daddy was the stranger. His folks came from the other side of the mountains back in Arkansas and instead of English, German and Dutch, they were Irish, Welsh and Cherokee. Even though they had been born less than ten miles apart, Momma and Daddy never met until they were in their early twenties. Two weeks after the carnival, they married and nine months and a week later, I was born.
Billy and Gladys got married at the same time, and had a son within a week or so of my birthday. Two years later, they had already moved to Washington, Charlie and Velma had also gone and now Momma and Daddy and I would follow in the big black car without a back seat. Daddy had cousins in Washington, too, including a half-uncle his own age he hadn't seen in ten years.
The roads back then were rough and not always complete but the heavy Packard with its V-8 engine and luxury suspension did not care. It straightened out the detours, flattened the mountains and shrunk the prairies and we reached Wenatchee on the fourth day. With interstates and modern cars you can do the trip in two days now if you drive like my father did.
Before we left Missouri, someone my dad worked with had given him a box of cigars. He determined that he would save money on the trip by not buying cigarettes and instead smoke the cigars. So we would motor along with all the windows open and Daddy puffing away on one of his big, brown stogies.
They fascinated me. I spent a lot of time in the back seat, or where the back seat would have been if the Packard had had one. The goods and bedclothes were packed in and piled up almost as high as the back of the front seat and this was my playpen more or less.
But the cigars were so unlike Daddy’s usual smoke that I came up with the idea that I would try smoking one of them too. I asked for a cigar but was refused. I asked several times, politely, and was refused each time. So, I quietly got behind Daddy on the platform of boxes and bedclothes and when I judged the time was right, I reached around and snatched Daddy’s cigar then retreated to one of the back corners of the Packard to smoke my prize.
Momma prepared to climb into the back and take the stogie away from me but Daddy said no, I would have to learn a lesson. It took only two or three amateurish puffs before I tossed the cigar out the window and lay down on the blankets and quilts with the world spinning around me.
Momma was not happy with me learning this lesson and she and Daddy quarreled about it while I moaned and choked and hiccoughed in my misery. I willingly promised never to try to smoke a cigar again. In fact, I had a new hatred of the things.
After I recovered from tobacco poisoning, I didn’t stop snatching them from Daddy’s mouth but I short circuited the lesson by simply throwing them out the window immediately.
Momma would laugh each time I did this and while Daddy grumbled, neither of them ordered me to stop using my method of getting rid of the smelly things. By the time we reached Wenatchee, there were no more cigars.
Comments
Erin Halfelven at BigCloset
Nothing I liked better than going somewhere with my dad. A few times, I talked my way into going to work with him--while he was roofing houses. :)
John Chu
When I was a little tyke, every few weeks or so, I would accompany my Dad to Nat Sherman’s in NYC to pick up his usual box of Phillies blunt cigars. Awful things really. In Edward Hopper’s famous painting, Nighthawks at the Diner, the sign above the windows is an advertisement for Phillies cigars (5 cents).
Erin Halfelven at BigCloset
These were middling-sized cigars, though they looked huge to me. :)
Rose Howell
When I drove truck, I smoked cigarettes, but occasionally, I would buy cigars. I also smoked miniature cigars also. Nasty things.
