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I can’t understand why parents refer to the good old days so often. Too hear them talk, no one has ever matched their escapades—yet, the angel faces they paint on themselves. Honest to John, I don’t understand how they could get away with what they said they did and yet never do a thing like that or get whipped within the inch of their lives. I’ll bet that if the truth were known, their enjoyment came mainly from being able to gloat, “I put something over on Mom and Dad!” I find it strange the way parents somehow always find out the things we try to keep from them, and what’s more they never find out anything when we don’t care if they do.
There is one thing that happened to me that my parents never did find out—thank goodness! It was when I was ten. You see, I grew up in a neighborhood of boys. There were seventeen boys between the ages of eight and sixteen, and all of them living on my block. Since the nearest girl was five years younger than I, it was quite natural that where the boys went, I went. I took a lot of punishment, too, because some of the boys didn’t exactly appreciate my presence, but I always tagged along anyway.
I remember it was shortly after the Fourth of July because we had a lot of empty Roman candle and Fountain shells lying around form the big celebration. Included in every boy’s life is the trying of his first cigarette, and this was their day. But instead of borrowing from one of their dad’s packets like ordinary boys, these goofs decided to make their own. The cheapest and most easily obtained materials (which they choose to use) were empty Roman candle shells and good old fashioned barnyard manure. Now if you’ve ever been where manure is burning you know nothing smokes more and smells less appetizing. At any rate they stuffed candle shells with manure and proceeded to smoke.
I was a little late coming in on the scene, just late enough that I didn’t know they had stuffed one particularly for me with a fire cracker in it. After I had watched for a while the gang began to coax me to try. I suppose I had wanted to all along because I always wanted to do what they did, but I hesitated because I had been taught smoking was wrong. Nevertheless, when everyone started making a big fuss over me and daring me I just had to. I remember the first time I inhaled. This was no corked end or filter tip you know, and I ended up spitting like Old Faithful to get that nasty stuff out before I swallowed any.
Gradually, I mastered the technique and was just gaining a maximum amount of self-confidence when “Pow!” off went that blasted firecracker power—in my face, in my hair, on my clothes. Oh, it created quite a chuckle for the on-lookers, but I didn’t think it so funny. My ears were ringing and the sashaying ash had burnt small holes quite evenly over the entirety of my dress. It looked more like Dotted Swiss than pick cotton, and most of all, I was afraid mom would find out. My brother was there, and he suggested I go home and change before the folks got home from work—which I did. Well, I look and chuckle at this incident now but at that time, it slowed down my tom-boy spirit for a long time.
Strange though, mother forgot I had that pink dress, and I never had to wear it again.