I probably started smoking when I was about fourteen or fifteen. I didn’t look any I was any older than I was, but for some reason the guys at the gas station never asked me if I was old enough too smoke. Those were simpler times. I didn’t want my parents to know I was out there puffing behind the garage in the morning and I went to some lengths to hide my habit.
The problem was I always forgot about the matchbooks in my pockets. Fortunately I had a working mom who trained me early on to do my own laundry. Unfortunately, every once in a while she would help me out. When she found a match book or two in my jeans, she asked me what I was doing with matches. I told her I was starting a matchbook collection and asked her to pick me up a couple whenever she went out. It didn’t take long before I had a fine collection. I kept them in a fish bowl in my closet. She brought me quite a few, but she didn’t bring me these.