A couple of weeks ago, one of us at the Optic wrote an editorial applauding efforts to make more and more public places smoke free. As an ex-smoker, I am among the worst critics of the habit, but it’s not a fit of hauteur that motivates me; frankly, I hate the smell of the noxious weed that I used to inflict on others, without even asking, “Mind if I smoke?” The editorial mentioned the reality that entire families on their way to dinner at a restaurant may never even step into the restaurant because of one person near the door who’s lit up.
In the late Œ50s, when the National Guard unit I was attached to would train in Fort Bliss, Texas, those of us with liberty would hop into a 6×6 truck and head for El Paso or Juarez. It was twilight; I was the last person to jump into the back of the truck. I opened a fresh pack of Luckys, unfiltered, packed with every guardsman’s kit of C-Rations. I soon realized that every other person in the truck — I counted 17 — was smoking at that same instant. What are the odds?
My recollection was that whenever the sergeant called for a smoke break, all of us took advantage, and the one person in the group who opted for clean lungs was considered weird. A pack of cigarettes cost about 30 cents in those days.
Today is the 20th year of my being smoke-free. In about nine more years, my period of abstinence will equal the number of years I smoked. My anniversary brings into focus two offshoots of smoking and quitting: side effects as well as a change in customs and manners. Giving up smoking restored my sense of smell. But beyond that, my recollection of smells has returned and, I believe my memory has improved. Let me explain:
Yesterday, as I drove by my childhood haunt, Railroad Avenue, I recalled having bragged about having been in every house on that street, from the 700 block north. The same for Pecos and Commerce streets, as I had an Optic route in those days.
Had I been blind-folded, I would have had no trouble identifying the house I’d entered in order to collect for the paper. One house, on the 700 block of Railroad (and the houses are only on the west side), contained the smell of burned spaghetti. Another house must have contained a clove-growing business; another smelled of garlic.
And even though while a smoker I recalled certain residential scents, I was unable to “capture” them until shortly after kicking the tobacco habit. So I tried an experiment: I went up to the spaghetti house, not knowing what to expect. I’d planned to explain that I once lived in that house, rather than I simply wanted to take a whiff.
The confrontation never happened, as nobody was home. Yet, as I left the property, something triggered the same scent I inhaled as a boy of 12, and with it, vivid memories of growing up in that neighborhood.
An acute, regenerated sense of smell has its down-side too. Decaying dogs, which people are wont to dispose of in my current neighborhood, because it is more “rural,” is not an olfactory treat. It sometimes makes me wish my smelling weren’t so keen, but not at the expense of whipping out a Marlboro. When you grow up in a culture that not only condones smoking but encourages it, you develop different attitudes about what constitutes courtesy. At home, did I ever ask for permission to smoke or apologize for it? No, not when almost everybody else did.
Dad smoked only cigars and pipes, letting those of us with “more plebeian tastes” have cigarettes. Uncle Juan smoked a pack a day and quit around his 85th birthday. Mom, a heavy smoker, quit by “smoking a whole pack in five minutes and getting so sick I never went back,” she said.
Mom, Dad and Uncle are gone, but when the rest of us get together, it’s like a convention of the Temperance Society. Not a cigarette in sight.
Like many people, I picked up the habit on a dare. I discovered that I hadn’t died after that first ghastly inhalation. So I tried another and got hooked by the third attempt. Soon I was emulating Robert Mitchum; I became one of many smokers in high school who tried to mix nicotine with athletics with academics. In my early school days, I recalled having heard a nun, my homeroom teacher, explaining the difference in vows taken by priests and nuns.
“Nuns must take the vow of poverty,” she said. “Priests don’t.” And she added, “You never see a sister smoking.” She was right, but does that also mean we never see a priest without a smoke?
My recollection is that adults, role models, and even priests lit up regularly. Yeah, sure, we can blame tobacco addictions on a bad example set by our elders, but that would be a cop-out.
So, where are we now? It’s 20 years and 730 cartons, 7,300 packs and 146,000 Salems ago. And though I’m almost 30 pounds lighter than when at my peak, I still have 25 pounds to go. It would be so-oo easy to blame the weight gain on quitting smoking and thus rationalize taking up the habit again. That too would be a cop-out. A restored olfactory system, which in turn sharpens my remembrance of things past, gives me more fodder with which to fill future Works of Art.
Meanwhile, congratulate me on my 20th anniversary, encourage me to keep fine-tuning my keen sense of smell, and whatever you do, please don’t offer me a cigarette.
And remember — especially you young people who equate smoking with sophistication — it’s bad for you.