JANUARY 28, 2021 – My first “chew” was Juicy Fruit—Dad’s brand. Occasionally, Mother chewed gum (her favorite was Chiclets), but Dad was our family’s main gum-chewer. He never chewed alone. He always offered us kids some Juicy Fruit too. Dad’s generosity, however, was limited by frugality: he himself never chewed a whole stick of gum, and he wasn’t about to offer any of us a full piece. “Want half-a-stick o’ gum?” he’d say.
By second grade I realized that if gum had been meant to be chewed by the half-stick, it would’ve come in that size.
One fateful summer Saturday brought a chance to try a full stick. While playing inside Dad’s Buick, parked in the driveway, I discovered an opened package of Juicy Fruit on the center of the front seat. I checked the package contents and found four-and-a-half sticks out of the original five. Temptation struck. Why not chew a whole stick—the way as it was supposed to be enjoyed? That’d leave three-and-a-half pieces, which looked close enough to four-and-a-half to keep me out of trouble.
On the other hand, Dad always paid close attention to detail, so I devised a back-up plan: blame my sister Elsa, the family’s second biggest gum-chewer. I then pulled a full stick of Juicy Fruit from the package, pulled it from the wrapper, and finagled it into my mouth.
As my young jaws chomped, saliva oozed from the corner of my mouth and down my chin. I experienced the same kind of insecurity as when I’d stolen a ride on my oldest sister’s big bike—sitting on the seat and reaching the pedals were mutually exclusive. I now understood why Dad always offered half a stick of gum.
Suddenly, the screen door of the house opened and closed. Through the windshield, I saw Dad heading straight for the car. He was about to catch me—thief that I was. There wasn’t time to flee, and since I was about to be caught at the scene of the crime, my original back-up plan—accusing Elsa—wouldn’t fly. As Dad reached for the door handle, I . . . swallowed.
“Hi, fella,” he said.
I’d never before tried to swallow a piece of gun, and here I was—a full stick of it stuck halfway down my throat. In a panic I swallowed again, extra hard. I felt my eyes get very big.
“You okay?” said Dad.
Miraculously, I was. “Uh . . huh,” I managed.
“I’m going up to the hardware store,” he said. “Wanna come along?”
“Okay,” I said, surrendering the wheel.
Dad turned the car on, then picked up the package of Juicy Fruit from where I’d left it on the seat. He pulled out the half-stick, and said, “Want half-a-stick o’ gum?”
While I unwrapped the half-stick, Dad pulled out a full stick and tore it in half for himself. In the next moment, father and son were chewing away in half-stick heaven. If the father was none the wiser, the son certainly was—by a half-stick.
(Remember to subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.)
© 2021 by Eric Nilsson
