On 06 Jan 2022, I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt what memory was going to be at the heart of the birthday message I’d be writing today.
Like many things in this world we live in that dredge up memories we’d thought long forgotten, the inspiration for this story comes from something that would lead to an unspeakable tragedy for a friend who has seen and endured so much these past few years whilst dealing with working during the pandemic and caring for her family as well as her elderly mother.
Cigarettes.
In my opinion, there is nothing good that has ever come of them.
I’ve heard all of the arguments arguing for the sale of tobacco through the years: how smoking is supposed to calm the nerves, all of the tax revenues and farm income that comes from tobacco farming (particularly in North Carolina where Tarheel farmers have topped the table of pounds grown pretty much since records were kept and usually by wide margins), and the sponsorships of sport and other cultural endeavours by the tobacco conglomerates.
Certainly, the money sloshing around often into the pockets of politicians on behalf of Big Tobacco would buy more than a few third-world countries which is why it is the only product legally available for purchase in this country that when used in accordance with the manufacturer’s directions actually kills the person using the product.
It doesn’t help matters that the nicotine is artificially enhanced to dramatically increase the chances of the person getting addicted to the cigarettes and stay addicted.
That would be bad enough but then there are the effects of second-hand smoke upon others, many of whom are non-smokers who should at least be afforded the right to breathe reasonably clean air being more important than someone’s perceived right to smoke.
I ought to know…I’ve got enough memories of being round cigarette smoke from people I loved dearly whilst growing up to last me a lifetime or more.
My stepfather was a heavy smoker most of the years I knew him where 1-2 packs a day was not uncommon. I actually asked him when I was ten years old about what pleasure would come from smoking a cigarette and he decided the best way to explain it was to let me try one myself.
I tried one small drag and then spent the next five or ten minutes wondering if my lungs were going to become external organs after all. It was nearly constant coughing and choking and when I could actually speak again, I told him I was no closer to understanding the “pleasure” than I was before.
He shrugged and then proceeded to finish off the cigarette that nearly killed me. Waste not, want not…
The irony is that he was a nurse and knew full well what smoking does to the lungs (and his father who was also a heavy smoker would develop quite pronounced emphysema). You’d think they’d be truly on board with the Surgeon General’s warning…and you’d be quite wrong!
It was actually the rare one in the ER he worked in that wasn’t a smoker and I can only imagine it was due to the stress of being a trauma junkie. On a busy night, the area outside the doors would be almost as bad as a third-class railway compartment!
Life in the Army was equally stressful and I’d imagine that my father’s second tour in Vietnam and then the domestic strife on the home front after he came home was the reason he took up the habit.
Indeed, cigarettes used to be included as part of the C and K-rations until 1975 and they were certainly readily available in the combat zones.
His cigarette of choice was Pall Mall and I remember the various ashtrays spread throughout the house though his favourite was actually this contraption that looked like a squat tin can with a wide bakelite funnel on the top for extra capacity and time between emptying.
I remember it well…one of my chores was to empty the various ash receptacles that Dad and my grandmother Rose (“Bam-Bam”) would contribute to on a regular and routine basis.
When they’d both have a lit cigarette, I truly wished for the house to have those oxygen masks that drop from the ceiling but the only relief to be had was to leave the house.
This ultimately came to a head in 1982 when Dad was stationed at Ft Sam Houston in Texas. He had been there for three years as an instructor at the Academy of Health Sciences and his PCS orders would come down soon for him to do a tour in Germany starting later in the summer.
It’s the morning of my 12th birthday before it’s time for me to head off to school and we’re in the kitchen of the house we lived in on post. That house was totally old school having been built in the 1880’s and the kitchen was nice and spacious.
That’s when he asked me a simple question: “what would you wish for your birthday?”
What he didn’t know was that I’d been thinking of that question for weeks and there was only one answer that was worth giving.
I didn’t say a word.
Instead, I went over to the pile of Pall Mall cartons in the little alcove for recipe books and picked them up. From there they made the short trip to the Rubbermaid bin and gravity did the rest.
I’m pretty sure the look on my face was one of outright defiance.
I know that the thought “yeah, I did it…now let’s see you do something about it!”was going through my mind at light speed.
The look on my father’s face was priceless.
So many conflicting emotions roiled across his features as time seemed to take forever.
He started out with a very visible shocked look that I had dared to do what I had done.
Then there was a brief moment of anger that disappeared just as quickly and was replaced with a neutral expression.
At this point, I didn’t know what to make of that. The shock and anger I expected and I was seriously wondering how badly this was going to go. But that neutral expression was one I’d rarely seen and that’s what made me a little bit worried I’d taken it a step too far.
I was half expecting him to retrieve the cartons and then suggest quite forcefully I never pull a stunt like that again.
It couldn’t have been more than 30 seconds from the time of binning his cigarettes to the moment he turned on his heel and left the room.
A minute later he comes back in with the few stray packs that were near his chair and in his office and without a word goes to the bin and chucks them in with the cartons.
That was when I saw the single solitary tear.
Next thing I know, he’s enveloped me in a bear hug that darned near crushed me and he whispers in my ear so that only I could hear him that he would never touch another one as long as he would live.
As far as I know, he never did.
That my friends was easily the best birthday present I ever got in my life.
Hands down.
Mind you, learning that the Hartford Whalers would announce their plans to relocate to Raleigh on my birthday in 1997 really ruled.
But as nice a present as that was, knowing my father was willing to endure the agony of nicotine withdrawal *COLD TURKEY* and then making that promise come true was a gift that I appreciated in ways I cannot adequately express in words.
I have no doubt that the many more years I’d have with Dad were helped along by trashing those Pall Malls that morning so that he would live to eventually see his grandchildren that he treasured above anything else in this world.
I didn’t win every such battle…my stepfather and Bam-Bam would be smokers until the day they passed away with very few interludes where they’d try to kick the habit.
Uncle Walter (my stepfather’s father…step grandfather was way too much for a four year old!) would eventually quit smoking and drinking cold turkey at the same time after his cardiologist made it abundantly clear that either they go or he’d be dead soon after with his emphysema. And he succeeded when very few of us gave him much odds of success.
But you appreciate the victories where you get them and having my father give me such a precious present is one I will never forget as long as I shall live. 🙂