Cowboys and Indians

As a kid in Indiana, the state with a somewhat misleading name since even in the 1940s there were no tribes of the noble indigenous to be seen, most of the play time was spent recreating World War II over the hillocks and kid-dug caves of the vacant land across from the tank factory.

We fought Germans and Japanese soldiers with stick rifles and machine guns, not to mention an occasional grenade-like rock.

But sometimes we would switch off to the older, more exotic experience of Cowboys and Indians. In my neighborhood in Kokomo, most of the kids wanted to be cowboys -- mostly Gene Autry or Lash LaRue with an occasional Roy Rogers thrown in. The cowboys would gallop around, shooting at the Indians. The better-off ones with shiny cap guns and the rest with any piece of wood that could emulate a six gun.

The Indians mostly would use home-made bows and arrows and spend most of the game improving their representation of dying from cowboy bullets.

The Indians, just as the Germans and Japanese, were always the losers. What's right is right.

Nowadays, it is different. For the past few years the tables have been turned.

Today, the old Cowboy and Indian game has a new wrinkle. The Indians have casinos and instead of bows and arrows, they use slot machines and card tables to take on the cowboys.

And unlike the games of my youth, the Indians almost always win.

And the cowboys just keep coming back.

Strange.

The Devil Weed

I guess I could blame my first experience with tobacco on the movies (everyone smoked in them, particularly the manly heroes), my admiration for an uncle and grandfather who near chain-smoked or my dad's occasional cigarette, El Roi Tan cigar or use of his hookah with its water bowl and snakelike tube.

Or perhaps I was in a hurry to grow up. After all, it was during World War II and we were all in a hurry, even those of us in our single digit years.

I first met the Devil Weed when I was 8 or 9. At first, I would appropriate a Lucky Strike from my father's pack and sneak out to the coal shed at the back of our Home Avenue place for a few puffs. I enjoyed smoking so much, I decided the share the experience with my little sister, Bonnie. That association came to an abrupt end when Bonnie, so buoyed by the experience she felt it necessary to report to our parents: "I smoked cigarettes with Bobby in the coal shed."

My father, ever into modern child raising, decide to treat my budding addiction in a modern way.

"So you like smoking," he said.

Unsure if it was a question or statement, I remained mute.

"Well, we'll see about that," he concluded as he handed me a Lucky Strike, instructing me to smoke it.

I did and thoroughly enjoyed it. In an apparent effort to make the lesson stick and possibly to provide added impact by making me ill, he provided me with one of his El Roi Tans. I had not partaken of the cigar experience before and found it a bit more than I could take.

But the effect my father had sought did not occur. Neither of the smokes made me ill.

Not sure how that ended, although it was before he hooked up the hookah. I never had a chance to puff tobacco through the water jar and the snakelike tube, although it looked like something a sophisticated person like my father would enjoy.

That failed punishment only whetted my taste for tobacco. Mostly it taught me to avoid smoking with my rat of a sister. After a few experiments with corn silk and newspaper burned my throat, I determined I had to have some of those Lucky Strikes. But I couldn't filch my father's or I would have to endure another smoke 'em if you got 'em punishment and embarrass my father again.

So I did what had to be done. I forged a note which read: "Please send a pack of Lucky Strike cigarettes home with my son, Bobby. (signed} Mrs. Weaver. I took the neighborhood store, which fortuitously was about halfway to Meridian School.

The man at the store fortunately didn't know my mother did not smoke and could write better than a third grader. Had I been a good son, I guess the incident would have resulted in a strong case of shame. Instead, there was the elation of having my own pack of cigarettes -- 20 of those wonderful little soldiers in their nifty white package with its dashing red circle trademark.

About this time, I made friends with the little redheaded girl who lived a couple doors north of us. She, too, had an interest in tobacco which helped me greatly in avoiding the coal shed and the informer of a sister. The preferred smoking area for the redheaded girl and me was her family's rhubarb patch, at the back of their property.

In addition to the pleasurable hours spent puffing smoke, I was enthralled and a little puzzled by the many tall tales the redheaded girl would spin. One particularly impressive story involved an uncle who lived with them who was dying of some horrendous disease. At one point, to prove the veracity of her story, she brought along a swatch of pink silk cloth with some reddish stain.

This, she informed me, was a piece of her uncle's underwear, worn by him hours before he died.

After using notes at the neighborhood store for a time, I became wary. Mostly it involved the store's owner telling me he and my dad and uncle, who ran stores, were great friends of his. In my tobacco-sharpened state, I knew the day might come when the grocer would mention my mother's tobacco habit to my father.

So I ventured out afield along the old rusty train tracks beside the shut down glass factory, up Main Street to Markland and the black market cigarette and candy store. The owner of the store, who also ran a tiny movie house next door, wasn't interested in any note from Mrs. Weaver. He just wanted the two or three nickels for the cigarettes.

Lucky Strike greens had gone to war, but the movie and cigarette guy had not. World War II might be a patriotic effort for many on the home front, but for the black marketeer it was a time for profit to be made.

Those days cigarettes were in short supply. Filling the gap at stores like his were second line smokes. My two favorites were Wings and Spuds.

They weren't as tasty as my beloved Lucky Strikes, but they were available.

About the time I got used to the second rate smokes, we moved to the outskirts of town. About that time I kicked my smoking habit for the first of three times.

My second installment of tobacco addiction started shortly after we moved to California. I became friends with a classmate who was also on the eighth grade basketball team. He and I became close friends. Mostly it was his sartorial splendor that I admired, dressed as he was in the uniform of the day -- Levi's jeans, a T-shirt and engineer boots. If it was cold, a Levi's jacket topped it off.

Cigarettes were carried in a rolled up shirt sleeve or down in the engineer boots . The boot was preferable in keeping your smoking from your folks, but a detriment for smoking since the sweaty location gave you soggy, hard to light cigarettes.

This new buddy of mine was a bit of a rebel. Smoking was "beating a weed" while his other favorite pastime was "cyping" cigarettes or candy from a neighborhood market. His technique involved a two-man team -- one keeping the grocer occupied while the other stuffed the loot into a Levi's jacket.

When high school came along, I joined the smoking crowd on the bridge over the train tracks. Each morning a dozen or so would stop for that last cigarette before trudging onto the school grounds.

My smoking continued through high school and college. It wasn't until my second job and was in my 20s that I decided to kick the habit.

That probably would have been it, had it not been for the great Fairbanks flood of 1967. I was between jobs and waiting to leave for points south when the flood hit. We were caught on the other side of the river from our home, imposing on friends for a week or so.

The boredom and availability of the cigarettes from a neighbor led me back down the path. This time I took up filter tip cigarettes -- Phillip Morris with the sweet after-taste, That third and final installment lasted a couple years. Since then, except for a rare cigarette bummed from someone during consumption of adult beverages or an even rarer cigar, I have been clean.

Still, every now and then I have an urge to get out a pad and forge a note saying:

"Please send a pack of Lucky Strike cigarettes home with my son Bobby. (signed) Mrs. Weaver."