Locomotive to the Past, George Schultz [snow like ashes series txt] 📗

Well, Grandpa had told him that very few cars—at the beginning of the war—had actually featured automatic transmissions. Well then, were they all Oldsmobiles? Apparently. Automatic transmissions, he surmised, had been almost unheard of.

Jason had always believed that there had been absolutely no 1942 models manufactured. Not of any car lines. Grandpa had said—on any number of occasions—that he’d “never seen a ’42 anything”. Of course, Richard Piepczyk had been only nine-years-old, at the time. So, Our Boy guessed, allowances had to be made.

Another World War II item—of which Grandpa had always made a big deal: He’d said that Lucky Strike cigarettes had advertised—incessantly—that “Lucky Strike Green… has gone to war. And there, before him, was an ad—proclaiming just that!

As Our Boy had understood it, the green on the “Luckys” 1941 packages (as well as previous packages) had contained some sort of green foil-like “something-or-other”. Whatever that had been, was deemed critical to the war effort. And the government had confiscated all of that particular substance—that was to be found. Grandpa had never figured it out—but, as the war had gone on—“Lucky Strike Green” had, indeed, “gone to war”. And, apparently, it had never returned. (One of many war “casualties”—apparently.) The newer packages had been produced, in mostly white—with red trimmings. The latter color, mostly formed a kind of bulls-eye circle—surrounding the black “Lucky Strike” name. The “green” must have clashed!

Still, the man—sitting two stools down from him, at this glorious Marcus restaurant—had plunked down his package, on the counter. And “Lucky Strike Green” had not—yet—gloriously marched off, to serve its country. Well, at least, that particular “Lucky Strike Green” had not enlisted. Could cigarette packages—be considered “draft-dodgers”?

That particular ad! Its presence was something else—that took Our Boy a little aback. Beginning in the late-seventies, or early-eighties, there had begun a whole, massive, overwhelming, national campaign—to, militantly, restrict the “nasty habit” of smoking.

Many groups had raised all kinds of money (and all kinds of hell) in those various, relentless, media—and law-reform—crusades. Movie stars were, piteously, reviled—if they deigned to ever smoke, in their flicks. Radio and TV spots stopped barely short of calling you all kinds of names, if you were schmuck enough to ever light up.

Cigarette companies had been unable—under law—to advertise, on the air! For years! The Marlboro Man—who’d become an advertising icon—was, incessantly, reviled. NASCAR was no longer able to host a very-popular competition—called (gasp!) The Winston Cup.

Apparently, the hated Winstons—didn’t even exist, in Jason’s new, early-forties, era. Those unrelenting, constantly-bellowing, voices—the ones behind all those give-no-quarter, terribly-strident, anti-smoking, movements (all of which had evolved—in steamroller fashion—a few decades before the turn of the 21st century)—had seemed to become more and more shrill, as time had gone by, in the sixties and seventies and eighties.

Jason had always wondered—as the top-of-the-lungs battle had raged on, almost nonstop—why (if cigarettes “were so damn lethal”) tobacco products were not simply, flat-out, outlawed! Made unlawful! Banned—altogether! How could a substance—that was perfectly legal—be such a God-awful blight, on unsuspecting humanity? And remain—within the law?

“Because of the government,” his grandfather had, sagely, advised him. “The governments!” All of ’em! State and national! Hell, even the cities and counties! They would lose out . . . on a helluva lot of tax money! They’re certainly not going to bite a cash cow, in the butt. The politicians’ll bitch . . . and piss, and moan… about smoking. But, they ain’t never gonna stop the flow… not of all that tobacco-tax money! The revenue… that keeps blowing, into their coffers. The gift… that never stops giving!”

Hardly anyone—to whom Jason was close—had a smoked. Even “Aunt Debbie”. Especially “Aunt Debbie”. It had been a monumental struggle—for the “love of his life”, to “swear off”! But, she had quit! His personal hero! Jason, himself, had never started “the filthy habit”. Had never really wanted to. Zero desire to ever “light up” The fact that he’d never had enough money, to buy “a deck of butts”—was never a factor.

Actually, the only exception—in his non-smoking world—had been his own mother. And “Aunt Debbie” had never gotten off the woman’s case, about the addiction—once she, herself, had kicked the habit. But, even Sheila had cut back from two-packs-a-day—to a “more-healthy” one-and-a-half. Predictably, she had never ceased to complain—about the price of a package of “the damn things”. It did seem, to Jason, that the price for a “deck of butts” had increased—if only by a few cents—each and every time, that he’d had to buy a few packages for her.

Sheila had, eventually, stopped smoking the prime Marlboros. She was lighting up the cheaper, generic-brand, featured—at the local convenience store. Her son—whom, she’d maintained, simply didn’t understand—had always referred to the newer “coffin nails”, as the “Breathe-No-More” brand. He couldn’t tell, for sure—whether his mother was actually enjoying them any less. It certainly didn’t seem so.

Grandpa Piepczyk had—for years and years—smoked a pipe. He’d, proudly, possessed six or seven of them. One had always been his favorite. It was an old meerschaum—that he’d paid “way too much” for. His grandmother had lamented—endlessly—that the old man had spent $70.00 for “the damn thing”. It had been a beautiful, pure-looking, snow-white, gem—when Grandpa had first gotten it. Over the years, however, the “dreaded” tobacco juices had infiltrated. Had soaked clear through—to the outside. And the ghoulish, brown, “residue” had transformed it, into a rather-smarmy-looking “mess”. Grandpa had, laughingly, gotten to where he’d, constantly, advise Jason—that he’d hoped the Board of Health wasn’t going to confiscate it. And, perhaps, “throw my butt, in jail”.

Still he’d loved that venerable relic, of a pipe. Relished it! Would sit—in his ragged old recliner chair, in the corner of the basement—and listen, to that scratchy old Victor Young, movie-music, album. While his grandson would while away his time—playing engineer—the old man would, contentedly, sit there! Languish there—and, reflectively, puff on that wondrous old pipe. Filling the entire area with the glorious, bakery-like, fragrance—produced, by that wonderful, ever-so-aromatic, Captain Black tobacco. Jason had always loved the smell, of pipe tobacco. Especially Captain Black.

Those