Rolling Down the Highway

My Dad went to veterinarian college in Guelph, Ontario.

Some time during the Dark Ages.

Okay, yes, he tells me that my time periods are a little off.

But I'm writing this story.

Dark Ages, it is.

Moving on . . .

Sometime during his years there, he had occasion to hitch-hike to Toronto.

It was his first time.

And it was an adventure.

Let me explain . . .

A gentleman stopped to pick him up.

A pleasant fellow.

Travelling salesman.

They visited for a while.

Then the driver decided it was time for a smoke break.

Or at least for a smoke. Why bother to actually make it a 'break'.

Better to just keep on driving.

In today's world of pre-assembled cigarettes, this wouldn't have been a problem.

But in the Dark Ages, people 'rolled their own'.

Seriously.

They got out a little piece of speciality paper.

Carefully shook a tiny bit of loose tobacco onto said paper.

Spread out said tobacco.

Rolled everything up.

Licked the edge of the paper.

And stuck it down.

Voila!

Cigarette.

Now, imagine doing all of that while hurtling at sixty miles per hour down the highway.

Talk about distracted driving . . .

The driver could easily accomplish it, though, with a little help from his hitch-hiker/new buddy.

“Here, son, could you please take the wheel?”

Dad stared at him. Was he serious?

“Please?”

Apparently, he was.

Gingerly, Dad reached over and grabbed the steering wheel.

“Good.” The man let go and proceeded to roll himself a cigarette, without compromising speed at all.

Except when Dad started to weave a little.

Then he slowed . . . slightly.

Finally, the job was done.

“Thank you,” the man said, taking a drag from his new cigarette. He once more took control of the wheel.

Dad sat back, relieved in both body and spirit.

A short time later, he was duly delivered at his destination.

Slightly smokier and a tiny bit wiser than normal, but safe.

Dad never took up smoking.

He said it was too dangerous.

Now you know why.