Memoir: Snuff and Hand-Rolled Cigarettes

The smell stays with you. I mean, we don’t forget smells. When we would visit my great-grandparents, Oscar and Lorena Stuckey, we’d first be greeted by chickens, and their distinctive smell, milling about in the yard. As we approached the kitchen by way of the porch, and everyone went in through the kitchen door, we’d meet the mingling aromas of various boiled and fried foods, a hint of natural gas, and maybe a whiff of loose tobacco and fresh snuff. Describing that particular smell is impossible, I think. If you know what I’m talking about, the memory will just about knock you over. If you don’t know, I’m sorry to leave you perplexed.

Oscar rolled cigarettes between his thumb and forefinger with alacrity. The saw mill took the other three fingers from his right hand decades earlier, and you’d almost think those extra digits had been extraneous appendages. Like they would have gotten in his way, regardless. I made the mistake of getting him a cigarette rolling machine one year, which he accepted graciously and put away somewhere never to be seen again. Besides being a self-reliant Texan who could roll his own cigarettes, thank you, he wasn’t a fan of solving problems through technology, anyway. Maybe it seemed unmanly to him.

And he was manly. He was well over six feet tall and spoke in a resonate basso profundo that always drew attention. His voice had the natural timbre actors try to develop for their overly reverent portrayals of history’s “great men.”

Before he died, someone in the family had the foresight to make a recording of him speaking, but I don’t know whether the tape is still around. I do remember the topic of the conversation, though. Born in 1889, Oscar was too young to have known people while they were living in slavery, but he was old enough to have met the children of slaves.

On the tape, he was speaking to a woman about his age who was directly descended from slaves in Texas. They discussed the ongoing evolution of race relations in Texas over the years. Livingston, Texas, is not a place known for racial tolerance, but it is a place where black and white people have to live side by side. I wish I could revisit the insights the two of them shared that day. I can say they were friendly, and each seemed to enjoy reminiscing.

Lorena didn’t smoke cigarettes that I ever saw, but she didn’t mind taking a dip of snuff from time to time. I have a vivid memory of her sitting in a comfortable chair with a dip of snuff in her lip and the tiniest dribble of snuff-infused saliva working slowly down her chin. I don’t think I ever saw her wearing anything but a dress, usually with an apron over it. She had simple tastes.

Her son, Oscar, Jr., died at the age of 18 in Woodville, Texas, and she never stopped talking about him. I don’t mean she talked about him constantly; it’s just that he would come up from time to time all the way to the end of her life. I remember her well in her old age telling me she had spoken with Jesus, and Jesus had assured her that Junior was doing just fine and looking forward to seeing her when she joined him in Heaven. This was one of the few windows I had, as a child, into the suffering of an adult and the adult efforts to find comfort from religion.

As children, we never left the house without her giving us a dime. As we got older, inflation had no impact on the size of the gift, and she continued giving dimes to us long after it was really appropriate, but it was a quiet way of saying, “I love you,” and every dime was much appreciated. We all must find quiet way to say, “I love you.”

Poem: Out of the Land

He didn’t own that land.
For all his life after the war
he paid someone to let him
keep his cows there, but he
treated it like his own.

He built a camp house, 
a barn, and a small cover
for the tractor out there. 
He planted hay for the cows,
of course, but nothing stopped
him from growing potatoes,
tomatoes, onions, peppers,
snap peas, and corn.

He also engaged in an
interminable and fruitless
battle against beaver dams,
trying to make the bottom land
usable for more than mudding
in a chopped up Volkswagen.

Many years the cows didn’t
earn enough to pay the lease,
but he was never going to
give them up. He would never
let go of the frantic fence repairs,
hooping and hollering for feed time,
and walking in solitude under
tired oaks trying to forget the
pressure of permanent
and paralysing memories. 

Flash Fiction: Fowl Run Afoul in East Texas Dirt

We used to chase roadrunners. Actually, I don’t think “chase” is the right word. We rode our dirt bikes around the dirt roads and trails, and sometimes a roadrunner would jump out and run along in front of us or alongside us. We never wanted to catch them or hurt them. We just liked seeing them.

It’s kind of like when dolphins escort a ferry you’re on. It sort of gives you a warm feeling to take the trip with them. The roadrunners made us think of the cartoon, of course, but we never worried about the coyotes. They only came out at night, anyway, and I don’t think they really had any particular interest in roadrunners in the first place.

So we liked to see the roadrunners and the rabbits that would run along the trail. I don’t think I ever saw a roadrunner get hurt, but rabbits had a habit of running into the spokes or under the wheels. It’s no fun having a rabbit run into the spokes of your wheel. It’s a bloody mess, and not at all pleasant for a boy who’s squeamish. Other people, of course, would just pack them home, skin them, and have a little fried rabbit for dinner, but that was never to my taste.

So, those were the main animals we’d see, except for the copperhead snakes. I don’t know why they like to stay in the trails, but they do, and they’ll fight to keep the spot. We had thick boots, of course, but they always gave me a little shiver, anyway. If you’ve ever felt that thud against your boot, you know what I’m talking about. That’s just involuntary.

All this happened at the cow lease out on farm road 942. You’d only drive down 942 if you owned land there, leased land there, or wanted to buy drugs. If you ever saw a car pulled over on the side of the road out there, you could pretty much bet any money it was someone waiting to buy drugs or sell drugs.

I was never a customer or a dealer, but I thought it was a pretty bad arrangement they had. If I knew what they were doing, surely the local law enforcement knew what was up. It was just so obvious, because no one had any other reason to be stopped on the side of the road, unless their car was broken down.

It was years before I found out law enforcement definitely knew what was going on, because they were in on it. They were an integral part of the East Texas Drug Distribution Network, such as it was. I know now what I never suspected then. If an out of towner came in and tried to sell drugs on 942, that person could be guaranteed a night in the Polk County jail, and Polk County hospitality might not live up to the stories you’ve heard about southern hospitality in the US.

The Polk County Sheriffs were really nice people, but that description pretty much applies to locals only, see? The whole area was sort of overseen by the Ku Klux Klan, and you’d be naïve to think the local cops weren’t part of the KKK. In fact, if you went the other direction on 942 from where the cow lease was, you’d come to a dirt road that led off to the left.

If you turned down that road, you’d see a big banner that said, “Welcome to Klan Kountry,” or something like that. It was both a welcome and a warning, depending on who you are. I was pretty much local and had lots of kinfolk around there, but I still found it intimidating. The area was familiar to me, all right, but I never did feel at home there. What’s more, I never wanted to feel at home there. I like having friends, you see, but I guess I prefer people who are a little more open minded.

So I drove around and enjoyed the roadrunners and rabbits and such, but I kept to myself mostly, and I learned to never really trust anyone. And I learned to never really feel safe. Don’t get me wrong, I could pass for one of them easily enough, but I had to focus. I had to watch what I said and how I walked.

It was easy enough to fall foul of their good graces. Any suspicion that you were a heathen or a pervert, rather broadly defined, would be enough to put you at risk, so you had to be careful how you walked and how you dressed and everything. This is why you can’t trust what you see in East Texas. Some of those rednecks who look like KKK members are actually liberals, atheists, gays, and so on, but the closets in East Texas are larger and more securely sealed than in other places you might have been.

And that’s why stuff kept going down, you know? Steve would get a little high and start shooting his mouth off. Oh, man, he had a black girlfriend when he was in Tennessee. He thought organized religion was for sheep, man. Che Guevara was his hero, or at least he really liked those posters with his face on them. And what’s the big deal about sex, anyway? If it feels good, go on and do it. There’s no God to tell you it’s wrong.

So the law enforcement, you know the ones who dealt drugs?, didn’t really like Steve. They kind of followed him around and gave him a lot of shit. It pissed him off, but he also kind of liked it. He had enough family around there to sort of protect him from real harm, but he didn’t have enough connections to avoid constant harassment. Or at least that’s what he thought.

So he’d go to the bar in Seven Oaks and talk trash all night while sipping beer and slipping out for a few hits off a joint from time to time. Everything seemed okay. It was all right. The local women liked Steve well enough. He was good looking, and he could make them laugh, so everything seemed fine and dandy. He was in the catbird seat.

And, hey, no one ever knows how things are going to turn out, do they? And no one ever really knows what causes what or who wants what. I mean, some people don’t think Michael Hastings crashed his car. Not everything gets solved. Sometimes you’re just left to wonder. You just move on with your life, and tell yourself you’re free. I mean, it’s not like you live in some kind of God damned communist country or anything. Is it?

Photo by Daniel on

Fiction: Seven Oaks and the Alcoholic Lifestyle

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Someone said Jim lived in Seven Oaks. Now, to some people that might sound like a compliment or, at least, a nice comment on account of the fact that some pretty nice places are named Seven Oaks, but Seven Oaks, Texas isn’t one of them, and Jim didn’t own or rent any kind of home in Seven Oaks.

Jim lived in Livingston, Texas, which was a few miles south and happened to be the county seat of Polk County, which was a dry county, meaning you couldn’t buy a drink of alcohol in Livingston come hell or high water. If you liked to imbibe a drop or two of spirits, wine, or beer, you’d have to drive north or south on highway 59 until you got out of Polk County.

If you drove north on 59, you’d cross the county line and be greeted by a sign saying, “Welcome to Seven Oaks.” If you drove a tiny bit further, you’d see the Seven Oaks bar. I don’t think it is there anymore, but you’ll still find a liquor store there.

Anyway, that Seven Oaks bar didn’t exactly have a concealed parking lot, so your car would just be sitting there for God and all the world to see.

So if any of your nosy neighbors or family saw your car there more than once in a week, they might start gabbing around about how you lived up there or something. It was a not so nice way of saying you were a drunk.

I don’t remember anyone ever saying he was an alcoholic, though. In fact, his sister insisted that he most certainly was not an alcoholic, though she did concede that he made a habit of being drunk, so she was willing to say he was a habitual drunk, but he never got the DTs if he didn’t have a drink for a few hours or anything like that.

And he could clean up and get through a Sunday sermon all right if push came to shove, and alcoholics can’t really pull that off, so he just stayed drunk because he wanted to—not because he had to.

And I guess that’s all that matters sometimes, you know? We’re all just trying to do good enough to pacify the family and the neighbors. If you can keep that up, you might just have a pretty good life. And who knows, someday you might hit it big with one of those scratch-offs you keep buying at the Seven Oaks bar.

R Horton