8. College Days

As I have told you, in earlier pages, I had lived a singularly sheltered life at home. It is a literal fact that I had to ask permission to step off our premises and report on my doings upon my return. I had not been conditioned for a totally unsupervised life.

Papa, whose partial paralysis had cleared up more quickly than we had dared to hope, drove me to the little railroad station and put me on a very dirty train that made all the stops. Until that day I had not traveled much on trains, but they all smelled alike and the aroma was heady. Fine coal cinders had percolated into the red plush seats, lubricating oil had dripped onto hot brake shoes. The Pullmans do not smell like that; only the day coaches. I inhaled deeply. I grinned foolishly and chuckled. Would you believe it? I was free! I was absolutely on my own! I wanted to do something to exemplify my independence!

I must confess that I have dreaded to see this moment arrive. Confession may be good for the soul but it can be bad for one’s reputation. Some of you, persons of great rectitude, are almost sure to be disappointed.

The next time the train butcher came through with his big basket of oranges, bananas, chocolates, magazines, cigars, etc., I bought a package of Sweet Caporal cigarettes. I had promised Papa that I would not walk from one car to another while the train was in motion. Kindly give me credit for obeying that order. I didn’t have long to wait, for the train stopped frequently.

Mama hated tobacco. Papa would smoke a cigar with Mr. Leigh Hunt whenever he visited us, and it was a known fact that he had smoked cigars when he was a lawyer and legislator. But he too detested cigarettes. I had occasionally transgressed but only once had I been caught at it.

On a bright moonlit evening, in the previous winter, a boy of my age picked me up in his family’s sleigh and we drove a few miles to a “big meetin’.” Johnny had bought a couple of “two-fers.” I don’t mean twofer a quarter but twofer a nickel. A twofer cigar is in no way related to Chanel No. 5. Johnny and I smoked all the way to the evangelistic services. I knew I smelled very bad. Mama would be up to greet my return. As we passed through Wilmot the store was still open and I bought a couple of pennies’ worth of peppermint drops which I chewed up on the way home and smeared over my knitted scarf.

Mama heard the sleigh bells and opened the door. She kissed me and began to cry aloud. Papa was in bed asleep. Mama led me into the living room and made me kneel down beside her while she took “our wayward son” to the Throne of Mercy. It was an agonized prayer, punctuated with sobs. I was very unhappy as, of course, I should have been, vile little creature that I was.

But now, on the train, living my life according to “the devices and desires” of my own heart, I could smoke in peace. My conscience? Oh yes, it troubled me a little; but not enough. Did I enjoy the cigarette? Not very much. I maintain that it was simply the symbol of my independence; something like the Boston Tea Party. I had been penned up too long; something had to give.

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