An In Depth Look At Nothing In Particular

Nearest in age, my brother Stanley, or Stan, five years my senior, had at some point, made the brilliant choice that he would become a smoker of cigarettes.  Stan was a wild and crazy kid and always went for the gusto.  He had a free spirit and decided it was time he learned the finer points of the tobacco world.  He was thirteen years old, nearly an adult, and was quite capable of making a decision of this type.
 
Where he came up with the money to purchase them, or who bought them for him, I never knew, but he always seemed to have a good supply on hand.
 
At that time he didn't particularly want Mom and Dad in on his little secret.  He had little or no worry with the older boys, but me, well, I was a concern.  Being only eight I wasn't all that trustworthy.
 
So he came up with a plan, I too would become a smoker, and a non telling bond would be made.  With my participation that would insure my loyalty and keeping my mouth shut and thereby sealing our pact of secrecy for ever.  I didn't really understand his logic but he assured me it was the right thing to do.  It would also, as I thought about it, give me a little more leverage when they tried to ditch me.
 
Oh heck, why not, everybody did it, my Dad smoked like a chimney, so at the ripe old age of eight I began a career in smoking.  I, in a way, was something like former President Bill Clinton and didn't inhale, but just sort of puffed away.  And, I have to admit, I rather enjoyed it.  Felt like a big deal walking along the river and lighting one up.  Stan always carried the smokes, but on long walks he might give me a couple to put in my pocket.  To help from being detected we did the gum chewing bit, Black Jack, and, if the need arose, we could resort to onions, they were readily available, and I grew up to really like them, got so I could eat them just like an apple.
 
Stan's plan of secrecy was sailing along nicely; we were smoking like fiends and no one was the wiser.
 
One morning, however, a flaw became evident, as just prior to our leaving for our morning smoke walk; I was summoned to the back yard where Mom was doing the family wash.  Probably wanted some clean rinse water or needed me to carry a basket of clothes to the line.  I yelled at Stan, "Wait right here, I'll be back in a flash" and headed for the back yard.
 
As I came around the corner of the house I saw quickly that things weren't as they should be, and I promptly sized up the situation, Mom, with hands on her hips, and with one of my shirts firmly clenched in one of them, and it looked like trouble.
 
She motioned for me to come closer and held out the shirt, and as I walked up she pulled several matches from the pocket.  Oh oh!
 
"What's this?" she asked.
 
I looked at her, my mouth hanging open, my mind in a dither trying to come up with an answer.  Actually, trying to come up with a lie. I was drawing a blank.  Should I turn on the tears and beg for mercy or take a chance, a darn good chance, I'd be caught in a lie.  The situation looked bleak.
 
Then came the questions, in rapid fire order, "Whose are these?"
 
"Where did you get them?"
 
"Why do you have matches in your pocket?"
 
As I opened my mouth to bring forth a torrent of mistruths and falsehoods, she said, "And I don't want any stammering, stuttering or lies, have you been smoking?"
 
She wanted the truth and she wanted it now!  With my mouth still hanging open and my throat as dry as parchment, I could, out of the corner of my eye, see Brother Stan hiding around the edge of the house.
 
I was now firmly caught between a rock and a good hind end kicking.  Stan, watching closely, who knew me well, was reasonably sure I was gonna' fold like a cheep tent and he hit out on the dead run.  I had hoped to bring him into the fray as a reference and perhaps take a bit of my pending butt kicking.  Too late, he was gone.
 
Regardless, my goose was cooked.  Even though Stan had coached me well for this very possibility, I became flustered and with quivering lip, I spilled my guts.
 
Needless to say, my smoking days were over, a fact to which I am profoundly grateful.  Stan had to drastically alter his techniques if he wished to continue with his smoking habit.  He did, to both situations.  I think he also re-evaluated the loyalty of an eight year old brother.  But in later years he forgave me and even went out on a limb for me.  He became a banker and loaned me money for a car.  Geez, didn't he learn anything?