LEARNING TO SPIT

Our house stood at the top
of Temperance Hill where

the road to Lititz intersected
with Fruitville Pike. Every day,

at precisely seventeen minutes
after five, a grey car would

arrive at the stop sign. The driver
would open his door, lean out

and spit on the macadam. My
mother, her face twisted

in disgust, explained that
the filthy habit of chewing

tobacco required frequent
expectoration. When she

wasn't looking, I'd sneak into
the kitchen, grab a handful

of raisins and tuck them
in my cheek. I practiced

by pretending to drive
a car and opening a pretend

door at a pretend stop sign.
Spitting, I was sure, was part

of what it meant to be a man.
My mother just didn't understand.