I was about seven when I began noticing that my Grandpa, Alvin Bates, chewed snuff. All-day. Everyday. I never asked him about it, but I had questions. When I was about to leave for Texas after college to start my life in 1984, I asked him if I could have a pack of his Red Man tobacco to remember him by. He smiled as he handed it over – I never got the story about his habit or why that specific brand.
I do not have many things leftover from my childhood, sadly. This pack of tobacco is one of two things actually given to me by an adult family member (my dad gave me his pocket knife). When my grandpa gave me his tobacco, I was moved to deep gratitude. I had no idea that moment would be the last time I would see him. When he died a year later, I dug the tobacco out of my keepsake box and set it on my coffee table for a couple of days. Ran through all the memories I’d collected of him. It helped.
Not sure if this is the item I would save if the house was on fire, though. I think it is so strange that we grow attachments to inanimate objects as if a spirit lives within them. Like it’s not quite enough just to have the memories of the people you lost.
