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Smoking may disappear within a generation, analysts predict
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<blockquote data-quote="RSteve" data-source="post: 558786" data-attributes="member: 164"><p><span style="font-size: 18px">Apologies if I've told this tale previously, but Angie's baseball bat reminded me.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: 18px">My mother died after several years of illness and a botched surgery when I was nine years old. My older brother and I were separated and farmed out to various relatives while my father got his s*** together. He was 52 and had no clue or desire to be a single parent. He usually traveled for work, weeks at a time. I was a difficult child, by nature, non-complaint (as I still am) and quick to anger and fight (which I was, but have mellowed with age and patina.) After being tossed from several relatives homes, I wound up with my paternal grandmother, my aunt and her husband, and a bachelor uncle, all living in the same house. My grandmother was probably in her early 80s and tough. She had eight children who lived, but had given birth to many who had died in infancy. The youngest of the eight, were she alive, would be 113 this year.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: 18px">One afternoon, Grandmother was rolling out some kind of dough on the kitchen table, I was seated watching her. Her rolling pin was old style, no handles and bearings, just like a ball bat, tapered on both ends. I don't know what I said or what she thought I said, but in a flash she swung that rolling pin and hit the side of my head with a loud crack. Then the world went blank. My next recollection was my aunt putting ice packs across the swelling on my noggin and having to vomit. Later, hearing my uncle telling my grandmother not to tell anyone what she'd done.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: 18px">Grandmother died in 1960. I was asked if there was anything of her possessions that I would like as a keepsake. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: 18px">The rolling pin is in a drawer in my kitchen.</span></p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="RSteve, post: 558786, member: 164"] [SIZE=5]Apologies if I've told this tale previously, but Angie's baseball bat reminded me. My mother died after several years of illness and a botched surgery when I was nine years old. My older brother and I were separated and farmed out to various relatives while my father got his s*** together. He was 52 and had no clue or desire to be a single parent. He usually traveled for work, weeks at a time. I was a difficult child, by nature, non-complaint (as I still am) and quick to anger and fight (which I was, but have mellowed with age and patina.) After being tossed from several relatives homes, I wound up with my paternal grandmother, my aunt and her husband, and a bachelor uncle, all living in the same house. My grandmother was probably in her early 80s and tough. She had eight children who lived, but had given birth to many who had died in infancy. The youngest of the eight, were she alive, would be 113 this year. One afternoon, Grandmother was rolling out some kind of dough on the kitchen table, I was seated watching her. Her rolling pin was old style, no handles and bearings, just like a ball bat, tapered on both ends. I don't know what I said or what she thought I said, but in a flash she swung that rolling pin and hit the side of my head with a loud crack. Then the world went blank. My next recollection was my aunt putting ice packs across the swelling on my noggin and having to vomit. Later, hearing my uncle telling my grandmother not to tell anyone what she'd done. Grandmother died in 1960. I was asked if there was anything of her possessions that I would like as a keepsake. The rolling pin is in a drawer in my kitchen.[/SIZE] [/QUOTE]
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Smoking may disappear within a generation, analysts predict
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