kools

One time when I was about ten or eleven, I don’t know, maybe nine, I followed the McCool boys (that really was their last name) into my grandparents’ back yard, way back into the corner in an area that was fenced off. They had a pack of Kools, menthols as I recall. The boys, who lived next door to my grandparents, were way too worldly and tough to be hanging out with someone like me, but they must have figured that if they could get me to smoke, it might make for good entertainment on a Saturday afternoon.

One of them passed me a cigarette and lit it for me, as any southern gentleman would do. After a spell of coughing and gagging and spitting, I managed to inhale a few puffs. I felt pretty good about myself, especially when I realized the McCools were paying attention to me. My knees were usually scuffed and my hair was hardly ever well coiffed. They hadn't much noticed me before.

I think about that day every spring. My grandparents had this amazing cherry tree smack in the middle of that backyard, and the blossoms on it damn near knocked me out me each April. I thought they were so beautiful. I think about them this time of year.

I also think about what happened to me after I smoked with the McCools. By late afternoon, I was back in my grandparents’ tiny house, and of course I reeked. Dearie (my grandmother) asked me what I’d been up to, well, rather, had I been smoking. I confessed, as it would have been pretty hard not too considering I smelled like the inside of a smoldering tobacco barn. What she did surprised me. She said it was up to me to tell my mom about it when she came to pick me up.

So when my mom arrived, the three of us sat in the living room, each of us sort of eyeing the other while I drank a Coke and finally summoned up the courage to spit out the words concerning the Kools and the McCools. Mom was angry, but she took it all in stride. She and Dearie cast each other some sidelong glances and must have silently agreed to let me off the hook this time. It was my first offense, after all.

I think back to this every April. I remember the way the cool grass felt on my bare feet and how the cherry tree was so pink and lovely and how the smoke burned my throat and how much I wanted those boys to think highly of me and how that cold Coke bottle felt good against my sweaty palms and how the looks on the faces of Mom and Dearie were seared into my head for a long time after that.