In the 40s and 50s there was not much information on the dangers of smoking. Advertising was everywhere and most of the movie stars smoked and so did many of our parents. We started quite young and continued mainly I think because our parents told us not to. There was no money to buy tailor-made cigarettes or even to buy tobacco and roll your own. Besides, all the storekeepers knew your parents and you knew they would tell on you. But we certainly learned to scrounge. We would watch where cars parked. Once in a while they would empty their ashtrays. There were no filters at that time, which meant there was always a butt from every cigarette. Break open four or five butts, roll the tobacco in brown paper and you had your own cigarette. The brown paper gave it a stronger taste. (Wondering about brown paper? That was the paper used by shopkeepers to wrap groceries. Imagine, we didn't even have shopping bags.) Sometimes you managed to get tobacco from your parents or grandparents. You had to be careful not to get caught. You waited until the pack of tobacco was partly used before taking enough for one cigarette. If you got greedy and took too much they would notice. Everyone guarded their tobacco well. Pap smoked black Beaver in his pipe. This was tobacco pressed into a small block about the size of a chocolate bar but more that twice as thick. It had to be cut off in small pieces and Pap would often rub it between his hands to crush it a little more before filling his pipe. I would sometimes take enough for a cigarette and roll it in brown paper. This was not easy because the cut up Beaver was granular and would fall out of the rolled paper. Smoking hard Beaver in brown paper provided a harsh taste which almost stripped the skin from the inside of your mouth. I'm not sure how old I was when dad discovered I had been smoking. Maybe twelve or thirteen. He didn't say much right away, but the look in his eyes said he was not finished with me yet. After supper he said, "I see you like to smoke. In that case, I guess you might as well have a good one." I was told to get on Pap's settle or couch. Dad then proceeded to take grandfather's old pipe and fill it with black Beaver. Now, Beaver was strong enough, but in Pap's pipe it was even more so. He had used the same pipe for years and not having any teeth, the juices in the pipe had certainly matured. The sound when you began to draw in on the smoke was the sound of an old boat pump trying to suck up the last bit of water. The scene in the kitchen that evening was of a young boy smoking his grandfather's pipe full of dark Beaver with his father sitting at the end of the couch mending a pair of shoes. The father tells the son not even to spit and if he did he would jab him with the awl he was using. The mother sits in her chair across the kitchen, knitting, but anxious about what is happening. Grandmother is sitting in her chair and she too is worried. Grandfather has left the room because he finds it difficult to watch one of his boys being punished. I rather enjoyed the pipe full of tobacco. If I could smoke all that was in the pipe without getting sick then my punishment would turn out to be a blessing. With a little sense of pride I informed my father that the pipe was empty. I got ready to leave, but the awl in his hand said stay. He filled the pipe a second time, lit it, and told me to start smoking. The two ladies on the other side of the kitchen began to look more anxious. I too began to feel that way a little. The second pipeful began to have some effect on me, but I did manage to finish it without getting sick. Now surely that would be enough, especially when my mom said, "James, I think he's had enough." It was enough for me, but not for my father. He filled the pipe the third time, lit it, and told me to start smoking. I was not far into the third pipeful before my stomach started to churn. I don't know how much longer I could have continued but it soon ended when I heard my mom say, "James. That is enough - he's starting to turn green." I ran for the outdoors where I discharged everything I had eaten that day. What happened after that? Oh, I continued to have a smoke whenever I could scrounge enough tobacco. Sam Johnson St. John's, NL