Rabbit Box Blog

Dad’s philosophy about discipline was not unlike that of other fathers in the area, which was to ignore children unless they did something intolerable. When the intolerable happened, justice was swift and firm.

“Act like somebody,” was his usual first warning if our behavior edged toward the unacceptable. He did not expect to give a second one, and he usually didn’t have to. We knew that the next level of discipline could mean The Belt.

The Belt was one of his old leather belts, about two inches wide. He had cut the buckle end off, leaving a strap about two feet long. He kept The Belt folded neatly in half by his chair where it lay in silent testimony to what happens to little boys who disobey.

But sometimes he used more creative ways to teach us good behavior.

Dad was a heavy smoker in those days, as were most men and many women, including my Mom. An ashtray sat on most of the tables in the house, and they usually held several smoked-out butts. The ashtray by Dad’s chair also held his pipe, which he had taken up to help cut down on cigarettes.

At about age 6, I decided smoking would make me more grown-up. While Dad was away from his chair, I tore open the cigarette butts I could find and deposited the tobacco into the bowl of his pipe. I was sitting very serenely sucking on the stem and eyeing his book of matches when he came into the room.

I expected swift and violent retribution – after all, The Belt was right beside me. But his response surprised me.

“So you want to smoke, do you?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” I said, trying to sound grown up and unafraid.

“Well, you know it’s a habit I wish I had never started. You know it’s not good for you. But if you’ve thought it over and still want to smoke, you’ll need something better than butts from the ashtray.”

He reached to the corner of the table for his can of Prince Albert.

“Here, clean those ashes out of the pipe and let’s put in some pipe tobacco.”

I scooped out the cigarette dregs into the ashtray and handed him his pipe. He packed it with a generous wad of Prince Albert tobacco.

“There, that’s better,” he said. He showed me how to hold the pipe and told me how to pull on the pipe as he held a lit match over the bowl. Soon smoke curled up to say to the world, “here is a man who knows how to smoke a good pipe.”

I felt quite pleased with myself, although I was still a little surprised that Dad had accepted my advancement into manhood at the tender age of six. It obviously showed that I was unusually mature for my age, just as I had been trying to get everyone to realize.

I sat in the chair and puffed contentedly, blowing out the smoke as I had seen Dad do.

“That’s right, enjoy your smoke,” Dad said, sitting down on the couch. 

We sat silently together, with me relishing my new status as well as my pipe. I can’t say it tasted good – in fact it was just like you might expect breathing in a bunch of smoke. But if all the grownups were so committed to it, it must be pretty good. Maybe that smooth taste the advertisements talked about would come later.

After a few minutes, I doubted smooth taste could ever be associated with this nasty stuff. But I refused to be defeated and kept puffing.

Until my stomach turned over. I’ve been pretty sick since that day, but I don’t think anything has approached the awful feeling. If my head hadn’t been spinning so hard, I’m convinced my stomach would have had an out-of-body experience.

Dad, watching me closely, said nonchalantly, “Not feeling well?”

“I’m as sick as a buzzard!” I groaned. For the uninitiated, “sick as a buzzard” is several steps worse than “sick as a dog.” It was about as sick as a six-year-old can get.

“Do you think you’re going to throw up?” he asked patiently.

“I don’t know, but I’d like to,” I said.

He took the pipe and stowed it safely in the ashtray, then ushered me to the bathroom. He got me a cool washcloth and left me to my misery.

I don’t think I ever actually managed to vomit, but I gave it a major try for what seemed like half an hour.

My groaning and moaning brought Mom to see what was going on. Dad explained, “oh, he’s just found out how much fun smoking is.”

“Bobby,” she fumed. “I don’t want my boys to start smoking, especially so young.”

“Don’t worry,” Dad and I both said at once.

“Just remember this when somebody offers you a cigarette later on,” he said to me.

And I have.