...about the hazards of growing up in tobacco- and snuff-centric households. * also see tobacco freckles* Children in such households quickly learn to choose a flavor of soda can other than that of the dippers in the room, lest they suffer hideous mishaps. I come from a long line of dippers and chewers. Why, even some of the men in my family chewed the redman's revenge. As a wee sprog, I keenly observed that even a minute amount of snuff juice at the corner of the mouth accentuates a lady's wrinkles as the treacly liquid threads its way along via capillary action. Not. Pretty. Also was a lesson to keep the hide well-hydrated, non? But, then again, I wasn't kissing my great granny on the mouth or chin, so what did I care? I just vowed not to take it up me ownself. Then, too, the later generations of ladies in my family abstained from tobacco, including Mom, thankfully. On the flip side, kids who didn't grow up with the burdens of spittoons also did not reap the benefits of shooting jugs of fermented tobacco juice bloating in the Southern heat. *(see the above link for more on that one)
A post on Sabra's blog reminded me of the Robert Earl Keen song Copenhagen and I just have to post it here, because, for me, it never gets old.