BROOKINGS – Cap Nohner, the late weekly newspaper editor in Hayti, once described the approaching session of our state’s Legislature as one where politicians will meet with great “expectorations.”
He was referring to the practice among men back then to chew and subsequently to expectorate weighty wads of pretty soggy tobacco juice.
Pierre’s Capitol building in those early days, crowded with men liberated from living rooms governed by officious housewives, must have had its marbled walls fairly dripping with misguided bank, rim and dunk shots fired at an army of copper spittoons that were strategically situated wherever lawmakers gathered.
Custodians then were really underpaid.
I bought a battle-scarred spittoon at an auction once, and to my surprise it had the state’s inventory brand on the bottom. So I suppose it had been through that era of “spettooowee” experts that gather in Pierre.
We shined up our spittoon, and it was a thing of beauty in our house, leaning off to one side because of being beaten down repeatedly by varied muzzle velocities and different weights of Red Man, Horseshow and Beachnut.
Admirers fairly swooned over that antique.
I doubt if kids today even know what a spittoon is. People don’t expectorate as much as they once did, except professional baseball players.
Now it’s chewing gum that is expectorated, especially on the sidewalk outside our downtown eating places. It is obvious many diners headed for pizza or burgers expectorate their gum before entering. Look for the black sidewalk blobs as you approach a downtown restaurant if you need proof.
I’ve also noticed a practice now for youngsters expectorating their chewing gum on the sidewalk before entering certain buildings. Take, for example, the sidewalk entry to Briggs Library at SDSU.
My granddad was a great expectorator. He chewed what was called plug tobacco. Using his jack knife, he whittled it off from a brown plug the size of a deck of cards that looked a lot like the heel of a shoe.
He slipped the carving off the knife blade into his mouth like the launching of a sailing ship.
Inside our house he dribbled his great expectorations out over his stained chin into a well-stained Maxwell House coffee can he kept next to his easy chair.
Out of doors, Gramps’ expectorations were unpredictable. Yelping dogs scrambled from his path with tails between their legs. Birds stopped singing when he showed up.
He had great range. And he sure did take the enjoyment out of going barefoot in our yard.
On summer Sundays, my Dad, Gramps and my little brother and I would pack up bamboo fishing poles, jar some worms or grasshoppers and head for the stock dams for some bullhead fishing.
My brother and I rode in the backseat, and Dad and Gramps visited up front. It was always hot, so all the windows were rolled down.
The passenger side window was Gramps’ fishing trip Maxwell House coffee can. We kept a careful eye on Gramps so we could know when he let fly. When he did, time seemed to stand still, or shift down to low gear.
We sat mesmerized as that expectoration – all golden brown against the bright flatland sky – arched out over the grass and the meadowlarks and the scampering gophers.
Then, like the tail of Halley’s Comet, parts of the chaw curved back right into our cherubic little faces.
I often hypothesized this mathematical problem.
Assume Gramps, standing still, expectorated chaws at a speed of 20 miles an hour. If he did the same thing in our old car going 50 miles an hour, did that chaw and its misty comet’s tail reach a speed of 70 miles an hour before it splattered back into our faces?
And if so, would it be fair to assume that if the old car was going 50 miles an hour in reverse and Gramps let fly, would his chaw and its comet’s tail fly back into his craggy face at 30 miles an hour?
I secretly hoped so.
If you’d like to comment, email the author at cfcecil@swiftel.net.
