The Smoky Secret

 

Summer 1976, Charlotte, Texas; Carol Anna Meyer, Age 9

Liz and I were just a couple of curious cousins, nine or ten years old, sneaking around Granny Crawford’s house in Charlotte, Texas. The house smelled of frying bacon in the morning, fresh-baked cornbread and pinto beans in the afternoon, and always—always—tobacco.

Granny Crawford rolled her own cigarettes, carefully and precise, placing a white paper into her cigarette rolling machine, setting a filter at one end, and then adding the fine brown tobacco before cranking the lever until a perfectly packed cigarette popped out. She used Raleigh tobacco, her fingers working like a magician’s as she crafted each one. Mom smoked. Aunt Lois smoked. Everyone did—it was just something grown-ups did, like drinking coffee or playing dominoes on the porch.

And if the grown-ups could do it, well, why couldn’t we?

One afternoon, when the locust were screaming in the trees and the Texas heat shimmered off the dirt road outside, Granny, Mom, and Aunt Lois decided to head to the local grocery store in town. They piled into the car, saying they’d be back soon, and left Liz and me alone in the house.

That was our chance.

We wandered into Granny’s kitchen, where the smell of tobacco hung in the air like a familiar friend. And there, sitting right on the counter, was Granny’s tin of tobacco, her rolling machine, and a handful of freshly rolled cigarettes.

I grinned at Liz. “You think we could do it?”

She hesitated, but curiosity won out. “Only one way to find out.”

We knew Granny kept count of the cigarettes she made, so if we took one, she’d notice. We had to roll our own.

I studied the rolling machine like a scientist about to perform a groundbreaking experiment. I placed a white paper inside, set a filter at one end, and carefully sprinkled in the tobacco. Then, I cranked the lever, and out popped a cigarette that looked just like Granny’s.

We stared at it, then at each other. It had actually worked.

“Better make two,” Liz said. “Just in case.”

I nodded and rolled another, just as perfect as the first. Satisfied, we each took one and tiptoed through the house to the small bathroom in the back. It was the only place with a door we could lock, and best of all, it had a tiny window we could blow the smoke out of.

Liz pulled a lighter from her pocket—one of those cheap plastic ones she must have swiped from her mom’s purse. She flicked it once, twice, and on the third try, a tiny flame danced to life. Carefully, she touched it to the cigarette’s tip, just like we’d seen the grown-ups do, and inhaled.

The first puff? Lord have mercy.

Liz coughed so hard I thought she might keel over. I snatched the cigarette and tried for myself, only to end up hacking and gagging worse than she had. “How do they do this all the time?” I gasped.

Liz croaked, rubbing her watering eyes. “I think we’re doing it wrong.”

Still, we weren’t about to give up after just one try. We took another puff. And another. Giggling, we leaned against the sink, blowing our smoke through the tiny window like we were getting away with the crime of the century.

Then—a knock at the door.

Liz and I froze.

“Who’s in there?” a deep voice called.

My heart nearly stopped. I looked at Liz. She looked at me. Uncle Derald.

We had completely forgotten—Uncle Derald had been napping in the front room! The smell must have woken him up, or maybe he heard us sneaking around. Either way, he was standing just outside the bathroom door.

Without a word, I grabbed the cigarette, ran water over it, and stuffed it behind the toilet. Liz frantically waved her hands, trying to clear the smoke.

“Uh—just us!” she called back, her voice an octave too high.

There was a long pause.

“You better not be lockin’ yourselves in there getting into trouble,” Uncle Derald warned.

“We’re not!” I blurted out, though the lie felt hot in my throat, burning just like the cigarette had.

Footsteps retreated down the hall. We didn’t move for a full thirty seconds, just listening, our hearts hammering in our chests.

Finally, Liz let out a breath. “That was close.”

I pulled the soggy cigarette from behind the toilet, wrinkling my nose. Without hesitation, I tossed it into the toilet and flushed it down. We watched as it swirled away, proof of our little crime disappearing before our eyes.

“Yeah,” I muttered. “I don’t think I want to do this again.”

She nodded, fanning the last of the smoke out the window. “Me neither.”

We washed our hands, gargled some water, and strolled back into the living room like nothing had happened. By the time Granny, Mom, and Aunt Lois returned from the store, we were sitting on the couch, watching TV like perfect little angels.

No one ever suspected a thing.

But every time I smelled Raleigh tobacco after that, I remembered that tiny bathroom, Uncle Derald waking up from his nap, and the day we tried—and nearly failed—to be just like the grown-ups.