Duke & Rose Simpson back in the day
There was plenty of rust on the old beast as well. Our faded Levi's, white T-shirts and sneakers bore traces of ancient color, grease and red dirt. Mom provided us carefully laundered clothing every morning and was a stickler for cleanliness. She half-heartedly threatened us with our lives if we returned from our wanderings soiled and stained. It was nearly impossible to follow her orders however; there were catfish and frogs too easily captured in the dissipating mud bogs of summer, and sandstone, sandpaper cliffs to climb up and slide down. Skeletons of dead vehicles, equipment and outbuildings were available to crawl through and conquer.
So, there we sat, three young brothers on the antiquated implement; two light complected tow-heads resembling our father, and one olive-skinned and black-haired like our Portuguese mother. Our freshly shaven heads bobbed in unison as we contemplated our newly acquired prize; one of us had bravely made off with a fresh pack of cigarettes and a book of matches from our father's tobacco supply. We were ecstatic, willing and more than ready to shake the bonds of youth and enter the world of suave, debonair and cigarette smoking adults.
We loved and respected our father; he was way cool, strong, handsome and full of life. Dad was a smoker, and his awe struck sons thought he cut quite a figure with a pack of "smokes" rolled up in his T-shirt sleeve. He was bad! Mom gave him grief for smoking, but he paid little attention to her when it came to that issue. He would sit on the back porch, squinting through clouds of smoke; smiling, laughing and joking with us as we tried to impress him with our roughneck antics. We thought he was great, and we did our best to emulate him.
We were also influenced by the Navajo men who hung around Bob Howell's grocery store. Their wives sat just up the ditch, in the shade of tall, slender willows; visiting merrily as their children played in the cool sand of the wash that ran in front of Bob's market. Craig, Steve and I would sit in wide-eyed wonder as they chatted in their mix of Navajo and English. I am certain that is where I learned to creatively cuss in Navajo.
The Navajo men were adorned with tall, rounded black felt hats; silver concho belts dulled to a satin finish through constant wear; and stiff blue jeans stuffed inside sharply pointed cowboy boots stitched in swirls of motion. Their flannel shirts, which were worn even in the heat of summer, were overlaid with strands of turquoise and coral, and flat, rounded tabs of turquoise attached with cotton twine inevitably hung from each ear. The odor of hand-rolled cigarettes, mixed with the smell of cedar smoke and rich red earth completed the scene. These memories rest easily with me.
With all that in mind, we lit up! Sitting there puffing away on those unfiltered tobacco sticks gave us a sense of confidence we had never known. We were real men now, like Dad and the Navajo "bucks" at Bob's place. That is until we noticed the imposing figure of our mother heading down the path in our direction. She was coming on like a runaway freight train, with our two laced, curled and bobbed sisters trailing closely behind. There we sat, over exposed and emitting smoke signals in the summer breeze. As if on cue, we all exhaled and jammed our still lit stogies down the gas tank opening of the obsolete tractor.
Looking back, I am grateful the petrol used to power the tractor had long since evaporated. The balance of our clandestinely acquired treasure quickly followed those smoking embers into the opening as we witnessed Mom's advance on our position. Looking down into the tank, I realized the clues to our downfall were easily visible to seeking eyes. I quickly and purposely jammed my arm into the tank to flick the proof to an unseen corner of the tank. Once I had accomplished the misdeed, I attempted to withdraw my appendage and realized my forearm was wedged tightly into the metal orifice.
Craig and Steve bailed off the tractor and headed for the tall weeds so quickly it made me proud to call them siblings. Short of gnawing off my arm and following their example, I was left alone to face the wrath of Mom's Portuguese temper. It would not have made a difference anyway, Mom shouted "STOP!" and put a halt to their plan of escape. As I struggled to free myself, Craig and Steve made their way back toward the tractor, heads down and kicking horse turds. Everyone arrived back at the scene of the crime at the same moment.
There they stood, as I struggled for freedom; my two guilt-laden brothers; two sassy, presumptuous sisters; and our kind, loving, but angry mother. Mom had a look of disdain on her youthful face, and a twinkle of mirth in her brown eyes; the mirth no doubt related to my predicament. After quickly sizing up the situation, she sent the girls back to the house for a can of lard. As soon as our sisters were out of ear-shot the flood gates of frustration opened on our shameful experimentation. Mom lashed out at our ignorance, and caused us a great deal of grief when she informed us of her extreme disappointment.
When the girls returned with the lard, and smirks on their faces, they seemed disappointed to see Mom was finished chastising us. Our mother slathered my arm and gave a gentle tug, freeing me as slick as a whistle. Gathering her posse, she headed back to the shade of the house. As she turned to leave, Mom advised us that Dad would be home shortly and the discussion would continue upon his arrival. The girls seemed energized by the prospect of witnessing our hostile encounter with the man they had so carefully wrapped around their little fingers.
We were hiding behind the tool shed when Dad arrived and entered the house. There we sat, nursing our self-imposed, psychological and emotional wounds; awaiting our father's imminent return. We ran to the window just in time to see our parents disappear behind their bedroom door; we were really in for it this time. Experience told us that thoughtful discussion between those two meant serious trouble, so we wandered back to the shed and sat down, falling into a deep, dark funk.
After what seemed like an eternity, Dad came out the back door and sat down on a step between the house and the shed. From our vantage point, we could see he was greatly disturbed. He slumped on the step and ran his hand through his strawberry-blond hair, as if he were deep in thought. Leaning back against the building and sighing, we clearly heard our father say, "Come here boys, I want to talk with you." We knew better than to hesitate when he spoke, so we slowly but surely made our way to the house to receive his decree.
Much to our surprise, Dad did not yell or reach for his infamous belt. He simply waived his hand, directing us to sit down across from him. As we sat down, he reached for a pack of smokes. Shaking out four cigarettes, he took one for himself and distributed one to each of us. He lit his and nodded for us to do the same. We were totally confused by his logic, and began to mist up in anticipation of the unknown. In the past we had discovered the punishment ended sooner if tears, sobbing and heart wrenching apologies sprang forth with wild, zealous abandon. Knowing full well what we had in mind, Dad just held up his hand and said, "Don't. "
The Simpson Clan
We were trembling wildly, and struggling to hold back the tears. Dad squinted at us through his exhaled smoke and said, "Inhale." Up to that point, we had been puffing our samples and not receiving the full effect of the tobacco. It must have been Craig who took the first deep breath, then Steve and I followed suit. Dad had us inhale a number of times before sitting back and closely observing us. For a second or two we thought it was cool to sit and smoke with our father. That was before the noxious fumes and nicotine wrapped around our uninitiated lungs.
About that time a Navajo family drove up to the house with a rug to sell. They eyed our now green countenance, and must have wondered at just what the heck these silly pink people were about. Dad completed the transaction and returned to check our health. At that point we were totally nauseated, crying out loud and racked by dry heaves. It was ugly, but it looked as if we would live. Dad ground out his cigarette, and, as we watched, tossed his remaining smokes into a nearby trash can. He quit cold turkey that day; so did we.
With Warm Regards,
Barry, Steve and the Team.
Copyright 2005 Twin Rocks Trading Post
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