The Music Box

THE MUSIC BOX

ED WOOTEN

I heard music as I entered the room, but all that was there was a music box, and it was on the floor. I hurried to retrieve it.

Whew, neither the lid nor the hinges were damaged. I knew the musical mechanism was intact due to its “greeting” when I entered the room.

I didn’t need a detective to tell me “who dunnit”; heck, even Stevie Wonder could see the culprit.

Going to the bedroom, I confronted the guilty party. He was curled on top of my pillow, looking oh-so-innocent. His beautiful green eyes seemed to say, “Welcome home, anything wrong?”

“Hi, Fritz. How’s my boy?”

He rolled on his back and waited for me to rub his stomach. I’m sure in his cat’s mind, he was thinking, “Maybe he didn’t notice the jewelry box on the floor.”

The music box is very special to my wife. I bought it for her during our first tour to Germany, a hand-crafted, walnut jewelry box with rose inlay. It has survived two boys and seven permanent-change-of-station moves during our military service. I’m beginning to wonder if it’s going to survive Fritz’s nine lives.

I removed my suit coat and tie and hung them in my closet. I panicked momentarily when I realized that I hadn’t stopped by the dry cleaners on my way home. I perused my shirts and ascertained that I did have a couple of clean ones for the next day. Ahh, crisis avoided.

Fritz jumped from the bed, rubbed against my trouser leg, and purred. How could I be upset at such a lovely creature? He and I headed to the living room, but I detoured to grab a beverage from the refrigerator.

I set the Coors on the coffee table and walked over to the music box. I twisted the key on its underside and raised its lid. “Raindrops Keep Falling on my Head” filled the air.

I settled in my recliner, closed my eyes, listened, and was transported back to 1969 when I was in college and working at my dad’s country store, beer joint, and gas station. B. J. Thomas’ rendition of this song was part of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid starring Paul Newman and Robert Redford.

Two scenes from the movie triggered my curiosity with chewing tobacco. One was just before the knife fight between Butch (Paul Newman) and another member of the Hole-in-the-Wall Gang. Sundance (Robert Redford) was observing while sitting comfortably in the saddle atop his horse. In response to a comment by Butch, Sundance nonchalantly moved the tobacco in his mouth to one cheek, smiled, and said, “Love to, Butch.”

In the other scene, Butch and Sundance used dynamite to breach the Union Pacific Flyer railroad car. Box car pieces, as well as the safe and dollars, flew through the air. Sundance looked at Butch, rolled the tobacco in his mouth, made a deliberate chew, and asked, “Use enough dynamite there, Butch?”

Both scenes were so cool and were magnified by Sundance’s chewing and spitting. Aha! A thought formulated--I, too, could be cool if I chewed.

In 1969, Redman and Beech Nut were popular chewing tobaccos. My future brother-in-law chewed Redman, shredded tobacco packaged in a foil pouch, while my grandpa chewed Brown Mule which came in 3” x 6” pressed, hard plugs.

At the store, Grandpa saw me putting a packet of Redman in my blue jeans and asked, “You startin’ to chew instead of smoking them cigarettes?”

After timidly answering, “Yes,” he offered guidance on the finer points of tobacco chewing.

“If ya gonna chew, you should go with “real tobacco” like Brown Mule and not sissy stuff like Redman or Beech Nut. Also, when you chew, don’t spit a lot, let the tobacco juice drain down the back of your throat.”

I thanked him, but quickly rejected his advice. First, Brown Mule was strong enough to knock the hair off Superman’s chest, so I chose Redman. Secondly, tobacco juice draining down my throat was tantamount to choking, so I opted for frequent spitting.

At Dad’s store, we used 55-gallon, metal drums to consolidate empty beer cans and trash. About once a month, two of us would haul the 55-gallon drums to the trash dump to empty them. We’d stand at the pickup truck’s tailgate, pull a drum to the edge of the tailgate, and with one of us on each side of the drum, we’d lift it (one hand under the bottom of the drum and the other hand on the top lip of the drum) and flip it upside down to empty the contents.

On one visit to the trash dump, we were behind the truck emptying the 55-gallon drums. My co-worker was smoking and held his cigarette between his teeth. I was chewing and had a big wad of Redman in my jaw—chewing and spitting. Very cool.

On the third drum, my pal’s bottom hand slipped just as we started to flip the can. The momentum caused the bottom of the drum to strike my body just below my navel and just above “my privates.”

An involuntary gasp occurred, followed instantaneously by swallowing. Oh yes, the entire wad of tobacco was enroute down my esophagus. It didn’t remain long. It immediately made its way back up and exited. The tobacco was followed by “stuff” I had eaten three weeks prior; it completely purged my digestive system. I turned a fine shade of green during the “heaving” process.

We took a break. My pal finished his cigarette as I sat down to recover from my trauma. We finished emptying the other metal drums from the truck, returned to Wooten’s Store, and I quit chewing tobacco.

Fritz jumped on my lap and jolted me from my trip down memory lane.

I opened my eyes, stroked Fritz’s fur, and smiled at the memory.

I popped the top on the beer can and took a long, cool, refreshing slug of my Coors. The golden liquid, brewed with pure Rocky Mountain spring water, was refreshing and a far cry from Redman.