From time-to-time I will publish photo essays, or my poetry, and of my life on this curios planet, Earth. Time on Terra is precious and it is a mark of dignity to record it as much as possible for others to read, or in this case see and read.
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The third born, my older brother Curtis Allen Smith, age seventeen. The banner photo is of Walt tinkering, and the painting on the wall is one of my earliest works of our Randolph Missouri County Courthouse, I won 1st place in the 1970 high school contest, beating out my art teacher and my girlfriend.
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My Brothers, Curt and Walt
My brothers taught me everything. Curt was the one who taught me to smoke. We would hide out behind the chicken coop and smoke our cigarettes, Curt like Camels unfiltered. I liked Salem menthols. He even taught me how to role my own cigarettes, and man, was I ever a big boy, plus I had slick Curt to protect me. After we were done smoking Curtis said, "Now suck on this lemon drop to hide the smell of smoke from Momma, and wash your hands first, and then rub them through your hair to get rid of the smoky smell when she comes work from work. If she thinks we've been smoking she'll cut a switch off the willow tree, and switch us within an inch of our lives." I was beginning to think that hanging around Curt wasn't such a good idea.
Momma always came home about five-thirty p.m., on this day she was tired and a little out of sorts. "Hi boys, what did you all do today?"
"Ah, nothing much mom."
"We just played around," Curt said.
"Boys, I smell cigarette smoke."
Momma's sense of smell was very acute, she could smell things the rest of us couldn't. I thought to myself. "Stick close to Curt, he'll surely save me."
"No mom, we just lit a fire in the trash barrel and burned some paper," Curt said.
I thought, "Good save!"
"Curt that's not paper smoke I smell. Come here, Curt. Let me smell your breath." She put her long slender hand on his face, with her thumb on his left jaw, and fingers on the right. Closely, she inspected his face and with a little squeeze, and his mouth dropped open and Momma sniffed his breath. She then sniffed his face and hair. "Well Curt, I don't smell any smoke on you. Olan, come here."
