Growing up in East Texas in the 1940s kept me pretty well sheltered from the problems of the large cities like Houston and Dallas.  “Naive” might be a more descriptive word for me during those days. But occasionally, I would venture into uncharted waters.

 

My grandfather, Big Daddy to all the grandkids, lived approximately one hundred yards from our home.  One of his vices was that he chewed tobacco – Day’s Work, to be exact, although he was known to take a chew of Beechnut on occasion.  He always had a “plug” of Day’s Work around his house somewhere.  I had observed how he would take his sharp pocket knife, slice off a sliver of tobacco, and place it between his cheek and gums.  Wow, to a boy of five or six that was really something – especially when he spit.  He would sit on the front porch, and he could spit for distance and accuracy.  I swear that he could hit a tumblebug dead-center ten feet away from the porch.  That takes concentration and practice, with maybe a little luck thrown in.

 

One summer day I wandered down to Big Daddy’s house to see what I could get into.  No one was at home, so I was leaving.  But, something on the mantel caught my eye as I walked by.  There it was, beckoning me, tempting me – his plug of Day’s Work chewing tobacco right there on the mantle.  I figured that he had left it there for me to try out.

 

Making sure that no one was at home; I found a knife and cut off a small sliver of tobacco.  It smelled very good to me – sweet and savory.  I put the knife back and headed out the back door to the cover of the nearby woods.  Finding a good spot behind some bushes, I put the plug of tobacco in my mouth, then between my cheek and gum.  Nice fit, nice sweet taste – this was really good stuff.  No wonder my grandfather used it regularly.

 

In my haste to carry out my forbidden deed, I forgot that you do NOT swallow the juice.  So, I chewed and swallowed for what seemed a long time.  Then, right in the middle of my chewing, I felt a wave of sickness come over me.  I had been lying on my back watching the clouds float by, but suddenly they seemed to be spinning around in the sky.  No question about it, I was getting sick.  I sat up and pondered what would Big Daddy do?  Then I remembered – spit it out.  I was not concerned with distance or accuracy this time, I just spit it all out.

 

Now I was really feeling sick to my stomach.  It was time to head home and see if my mother had some magic elixir, even if it meant confessing what I had done.  By the time I reached my back door, I could hardly walk.  I headed for the kitchen table and crawled under it in a fetal position

 

 

My mother came in, felt my brow, sniffed once, and diagnosed me correctly.  I could hear her rummaging in the medicine cabinet, and I knew what she was getting for me - “Oh no…not the dreaded castor oil.” She knelt down beside me with a large tablespoon of the foul-tasting liquid.  “Here, son, swallow this and don’t give me any backtalk.  In fact, I do believe your condition calls for TWO tablespoons.”

 

The kids of today don’t know what they have missed.  Castor oil was the 1940s penicillin.  It cured everything, provided you could force it down your gullet, and then keep it down.  Every first day of spring we kids needed “worming”, and a big dose of castor oil was just what the doctor ordered. The only thing I ever found that would sort of mask its taste was a root beer chaser.  I quickly recovered from my self-induced sickness, and mother never questioned me about the incident.

 

It seems to me that I never developed a taste for chewing tobacco again.  Many of my high school friends chewed Beechnut, but I always just said “no”.  I suppose it was all because of Day’s Work and an overdose of castor oil.

 

“DAY’S  WORK”

BY: NEAL MURPHY

107 HEMLOCK STREET
PO BOX 511
SAN AUGUSTINE, TX 75972
936-275-9033
Cell: 936-275-6986
Email: humptydumpty1940@gmail.com

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