When I was a child, I loved going to my grandmother’s home. She let me do about anything short of setting it on fire. Fire was nothing to her since my mother had accidentally accomplished lighting the place up as a child. But still, that was probably the one rule of her house. Don’t set it on fire.
My grandmother didn’t drive. So we would walk to this tiny store near her house called Jack’s. When entering Jack’s, it was as if the strangest combination of York peppermint patties and cigarette smoke had filled the air and teased my olfactory nerves. Yet somehow the odor was pleasant and memorable. Since Jack’s was the size of a toddler’s shoebox, it was always filled with people. I usually raided the candy section for candy cigarettes.
(Second time this week that candy cigarettes have gotten props from me, just if you were questioning my love for them. Do tell if you’re unfamiliar with them.)
The whole walk home I would mimic my grandmother’s smoking habit by doing my interpretation of glamorous smoking with the candy cigarettes. Eventually the candy part would get quite soggy and I’d have to eat it. But that was totally okay, because they came in a pack similar to those of real cigarettes. So there were always more.
My mother was quite the non-smoking advocate and disapproved of this behavior. So both my grandmother and I caught worlds of hell for it. But my sweet grandmother, with her elderly, sharpei-like skin, let me anyway.
And I loved every minute of it …
But I have finally been gotten back for all of the behind my mother’s back candy cigarette smoking in which I participated.
