I am not sure why it is 12-year-old boys must experiment with things they should leave alone but they always do. Sometimes this leads to big trouble, but back in the times of my youth there didn't seem to be that much "big trouble" around to get into. But there were scads of little troubles that fairly begged to be stirred up, and, like most of my contemporaries, I often stirred.

Most of my trouble stirring occurred under cover of the woods. I liked the outdoors and spent most of my spare time there as I still do, though the amount of spare time available for woods living has shrunk since my youth due to, I suppose, the Internet, global warming, daylight saving time, the ozone layer, receding coastlines, trade deficits and other abominations which are always messing up things.

Back then it was just the Devil we had to worry about. I am sure it was the Devil who was to blame for my first (and last) attempt at smoking. It happened this way.

I was slipping along a trail one day, stalking Cape buffalos, black maned lions and grizzly bears near a field in north Meridian. I was armed with my large bore rifle. The rifle was a special hand made one; that is, made by my own hands. The  barrel consisted of a long piece of water pipe, one end of which I had hammered shut tightly over an eight-penny nail centered in the opening so that when the nail was withdrawn  a small hole remained through which the fuse of a large "Zebra" firecracker would protrude nicely. Does anyone remember Zebra firecrackers? Only a cherry bomb was more powerful (read dangerous to experimenting 12-year-olds).The Zebra was dropped down the barrel, it took several tries, so that its fuse protruded.

           

The Load

 

The rifle stock was hand carved from a pine 2 X 4. A light wadding of toilet tissue was rammed down the barrel to ensure the projectile stayed in front of the fat, blue and white firecracker. The bullet, either a roller bearing or ball bearing depending on current scavenging results, was dropped in and secured by another wad of tissue.

When confronted by a wild and dangerous animal, I quickly lit the fuse, aimed at the beast, closed my eyes (an aid to retaining eyesight) and fired. The explosion happened a good four inches from my nose. I killed many hickory Cape buffalos, oak grizzlies and pine lions. If I missed I could hear the speeding steel bearing clicking through the treetops as it exited Lauderdale County on its way to other time zones.

The result of each firing was that the breech area had to be pounded shut again because the explosion always opened that end of the barrel up significantly. But that bit of maintenance was no bother to a 12-year-old with a hammer.

Anyway, about the smoking. As I had seen at the Saturday movies, respectable hunters on safari always had a smoke and a toddy around the campfire after a hard day's hunt. I will not discuss the toddy here, except to say that my clandestine attempt at creating my own involved theft and fermentation and ended in disaster, a complete story of its own that can wait until I have researched the statute of limitations.

The smoking part came easier. There I was, slipping along eyeing the broom sage for crouching lions, when I saw it; a healthy stalk of rabbit tobacco. I had heard about this wild treat from my older and more worldly friends. (Scientists now call it Gnaphilium obtusifolium.)

           

Roll Your Own

 

I stripped the curled brown and gray leaves from the stem, wrapped a wad of them in a strip of paper bag in which I carried my Zebras and prepared to salute the end of a good day on safari. To appropriately set the scene, I leaned my rifle against a nearby acacia tree, I sat cross-legged on the ground at dusk beside the campfire and, as lions roared in the distant darkness, I lighted up.

As I was soon to learn, I had rolled the smoke with entirely too little compaction, and its end intermittently smoked and flamed. When I took a long draw, inhaling deeply as I had seen my heroes of the screen do so many times, what I drew deep into my lungs was not a sweet, narcotic smoke, but instead a virtual chest full of fire! Rather than smoking, my cigarette was just simply on fire, and I quickly exhaled with a series of raspy coughs.

That day in camp ended without the proper urbane celebration, but I would soon learn to wrap the rabbit tobacco tightly and moisten any that was too dry. I progressed eventually to packing the leaves into a hollow weed cut long enough to give any flames time enough to subside. I was at last suave in my ceremonial day's end salutes; even though there was never anyone around camp to address me as Bwana.