When I was in 5th grade, I got to start playing volleyball. I wasn’t ever very good at it, but my dad loved that I played and would take off work to drive me and my friend Leia to the out of town games. I particularly remember the drive to one game; I think it was in Brenham and I’m pretty sure this was before he was diagnosed. Those details don’t really matter. What matters was the song on the radio (Brooks and Dunn’s “Brand New Man”) and the “strange smell” that consumed mine and Leia’s conversation. As we sat in my dad’s maroon F-150 – which was his pride and joy – the scent of beer filled the cab. At least, I thought it was beer. Leia and I talked the rest of the trip about how in the world that was possible and all of the potential scenarios that would create that phenomenon.
Years later, once I was in high school, I realized that smell was never beer at all. It was snuff. My dad dipped like no other, but wouldn’t admit to me that he was doing it, since he was supposed to be quitting. (I’m pretty sure he was supposed to have quit years and years before that, but you know how that goes.) The funny thing is, the kid that helped me figure this out sat behind me in class with his Skoal can in his pocket and was a complete jerk. He made me cry one time because in an argument about how tobacco can give you cancer, I mentioned my dad’s pre-cancerous spots in his cheeks, and Matt’s response was, “Well did your dad die?”
It’s funny how even someone that makes you cry can make another memory much more special.
