“We had barely gotten on the highway when Steven turned around in his seat and pretended to be looking for something in the back. A horrible-smelling smoke suddenly filled the car, but it was too cold outside to open the windows. I yelled at Steven to stop what he was doing, but he said he “wasn’t doing nothin’!” This was how he responded to me as a child twenty-five years ago.
As we headed west on Interstate 15, my eyes began to itch from the smoke. Adding to my frustration, Steven could not sit still. It was like having a rabid ferret strapped to the front seat. If he wasn’t twisting and turning, he was endlessly fooling with the dials on the radio.
To my horror he was soon kneeling on his seat and facing the rear window again. He lit his pipe less than fifteen minutes after the first time. “Steven, stop that. And lower the radio!” But it was like talking to a wall. When he attempted to light up a third time, I was so furious I tried to grab the pipe out of his hand. He roughly swatted at my arm, causing the car to swerve dangerously.”