Papa had an eighth grade education, which just goes to show that sometimes capital 'E' Education isn't necessary. These days eighth grade won't even get you a job at the Golden arches.
When she was alive, my Nana did most of the talking. She'd sit with us at their kitchen table, dealing game after game of solitaire, telling us about the latest family gossip. Papa would sit quietly in the corner, carefully packing tobacco into the cigarette roller, straightening out any dents in the empty tube and making two neat cigarettes, always one for him and one for Nana, before carefully sweeping up any spilled tobacco and brushing it back into the can. Then he'd shuffle out of the kitchen to smoke, leaving the girls to continue their chat. Sometimes we hardly noticed him leave.
He always smelled like fresh tobacco, even after he smoked. It's one of my favourite smells.
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