Enhanced Whittling

“Come ‘ere and set a spell!” G’ampy whistled from the porch, indicating the straight chair beside him. “Ya’ gotcher knife I give ye?”

“Yessir,” I said, proudly producing the blade from my tenth birthday.

“Don’t tell yer Mamma,” he said, passing his package of tobacco, concealed under whittling wood. “You jest git you a li’l plug, ‘cause I don’t wanncha turnin’ green.”

I stealthily sliced a piece and savored its strong, sweet taste.

“That block there’s cedar,” he said, “so save yore shavin’s.”

My knife turned, riding the waves of nicotine, and slowly revealing what the wood-block wanted to be.