My grandfather Ellsworth Hall was a good man with a small vice. He smoked cigars.
Ellsworth with a cigar, 1904
The smell of cigar smoke can bring the farm back to me in an instant. I can picture my Grandpa Hall walking toward the barn, hat on head and cigar in mouth.
Ellsworth Hall, walking to the barn, around 1958, photo courtesy of Tom Teter
The stumps of his cigars perched on the porch ledge, smoldered in the living room ashtray, and adorned his mouth as he went about his daily chores. I don’t think he smoked in the barn, but he kept the cigar between his lips and chewed on it a bit.
Modern grandparents would probably never approve of a soggy piece of cigar resting on the living room mantelpiece. But my grandfather was quietly in charge of his domain. He loved his cigars, and my grandmother loved him, so she let him be.
But she worried about him falling asleep in the big armchair with a burning stogie in his mouth. So my brother and cousins were given a job. On Friday nights, when professional wrestling was on and Grandpa Hall sat in his green chair to watch, Grandma Hall told my brother or whatever cousin was handy, “Sit next to Grandpa, and if he falls asleep, take the cigar out of his mouth and put it in the ashtray.” There was not always a helper around to do this, and there must have been accidents, because I remember that big green leather chair being full of little burn holes.
Grandpa Hall watching wrestling, photo courtesy of Nancy Teter Smith
On Monday: Aunt Hattie
Men of that generation were more likely smokers than not, in my experience. My own grandfather, Elisha Walter Ledyard, rolled his own cigarettes with loose tobacco, rolling papers, and a nifty little machine that he let his grandchildren operate. It was so much fun, and an early introduction to mechanics, I guess. Such encouragement for children to accept smoking would never happen today in my circles.
My grandparents’ house, too, had a distinctive smell of tobacco and Grandma’s cooking that I remember so well. Olfactory memories are deep, deep.
I have a vague memory of my own father rolling cigarettes. He smoked cigarettes, a pipe, and the occasional cigar, but none of them very seriously. But the adults then never hesitated to smoke around the kids, and I remember every car ride associated with the smell of cigarettes. Yikes!
Smoking can become so much a part of every routine, besides being physically addictive. One of my enduring memories of my great grandmother is the ever present cigarette in her hand. As she got into her nineties her ashtray had to grow in an attempt to catch the falling ash before it reached her dress. At 96, she was living at the Masonic Home, covered with an asbestos apron and using a salad bowl.
I wonder if Masonic lets anyone smoke these days? I suspect not. A great grandmother in an asbestos apron would certainly be something a kid would remember!