Highlights, Boy’s Life and Superman comics were reading material for young boys in the 1960s. In them one could find engaging puzzles, instructions on tying knots and starting campfires, and a virtuous hero with super powers whose only weakness was an imaginary green element, Kryptonite.
But besides their more prosaic uses, if one read carefully the small print in the back of the comics, you could find ads for all sorts of oddities, including sea horses, Charles Atlas strong man training, small items you could sell and be rewarded with a BB gun, and of all things, explosive loads for cigarettes and cigars.
This last one was just too much of a temptation for my brother Steve Daugherty, and myself.
My Dad smoked cigars. He could almost always be found when working with a smoking brown Tampa Nugget. The smoke would curl around his face and drift into the atmosphere. He was a successful businessman at a family business, General Oils, which sold fuel oil to thousands of homes and businesses in the Chattanooga area.
He did well, becoming a national leader in that sector. Once, he was invited to give a speech at the National Oil Man’s Convention in Philadelphia at a large convention hall. His oration was well thought out, typed, and rehearsed. It was a signal event in his career. He bought a new suit, tie, grey felt trilby hat, shined his black leather wing tips, and by all accounts was well prepared.
What he didn’t know was that his two youngest sons had also prepared. We had ordered explosive loads from a comic book, and, Oh yes, we did put them in my Dad’s cigars before he boarded the plane at Lovell Field. (These little loads looked like small white spikes. We had a small tin of them.)
When Dad, dignified and honored, took to the stage he was introduced, told a joke or two and prepared to report important data and trends in the business realm to several thousand people. In those days, it was unremarkable for a man to publicly smoke in such circumstances. My father, Harry M. Daugherty, Jr., lit his stogie, cleared his throat, and began.
“Fellow Oil Men of the United States,” he began. “I come to you with good news about the future of our industry.” He lifted his right arm and pulled from the blunt. The tip lit bright red. KAPOW! Cinders, grey ash and brown leaf went everywhere” Startled – I can only imagine - my Dad stood there, cigar in shreds like a horizontal mushroom, at first perplexed, but then he did something quite extraordinary, he laughed as did the entire crowd.
It was the high point of the convention, the one thing everyone told their friends and families back home. I can only speculate that it was the only reason we never, never were punished. In fact, it was never brought up in my presence.
When I think of my Dad, or even my father’s father, Harry M. Daugherty, Sr., one thing I think of is cigars. They both enjoyed them. When I recall this signal prank, I reflect on his humor and humanity. He certainly appreciated the honors, but somewhere there was an even deeper appreciation of the strange humor of little boys.
-----
dedsr1952@gmail.com