I grew up in an atmosphere of cigarette smoke, like many children in the 1950’s and 60’s.
My mother smoked Salems (filtered), two packs a day, although she often had one cigarette burning in the living room and one in the kitchen, so, giving her the benefit of doubt, maybe she only smoked a pack or a pack and a quarter daily. My dad smoked unfiltered Chesterfields, which were my mother’s brand also until after Daddy died in a tragic vehicle collision when I was just shy of seven. She felt that mentholated Salems were easier on her throat and lungs.
My mother and I were members of the Mormon church (technically, Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, or LDS). I left the church when I was nineteen, partly because it just didn’t resonate with me, but Blacks being unable to hold the priesthood (until someone had a “vision” rescinding that doctrine) was unacceptable to me in 1967. One of their doctrines is something called the Word of Wisdom, which dictates or suggests, depending upon to whom you speak, that members do not smoke tobacco, drink alcohol or caffeinated drinks, or drinks that are too hot, or consume too much meat. My mom had a cup of brewed Folgers’ and then later, instant Yuban coffee every morning, and drank it throughout the day. Every time she had a cup, she had a cigarette. She sat exhaling smoke toward the ceiling with one elbow on the kitchen table, wrist bent with hand at a right angle, the cigarette between her index and middle finger. Whenever I think of her, this is how I see her, in our small California Central Valley town, at our 1960’s Formica kitchen table with its tapered copper-colored metal legs.
When I got old enough to think about things, I asked her why she smoked if she was a Mormon. She told me that her first husband (my sister’s and brother’s dad) had dared her to start smoking when she was twenty-five, so she did. He had been a Mormon too and had started drinking and going out to bars which eventually led to their divorce. (He met another woman whom he married, and my mother met my dad.) This kind of religiosity or lack thereof is called being a “jack” Mormon. (Originally, the term was applied in the 1830’s derogatorily to people friendly to Mormons who were not members of the church; it later shifted to members who didn’t stick to church standards of conduct.) As a girl who was in the 50’s and 60’s religious and a believer in that church, I didn’t like it when my mother was called this, but had to admit that it was true.
When I was about seven or eight, I took it upon myself to hide her carton of Salems. When she couldn’t find them, I was implored to confess, having never learned to lie (I still find it impossible although I have withheld information sometimes). I got paddled for it, which to me seemed inappropriate even then, given I was not the one going against church doctrine. Well, aside from “Honor thy father and thy mother,” which I suppose eclipsed Mormon doctrine given it was an Old Testament commandment.
Mother used Sen Sen’s, a strange licorice concoction compressed into tiny squares which one let melt on the tongue, which minimally masked bad breath. When we walked or rode the three blocks to church every Sunday, she popped one into her mouth and offered one to me as well, which I thought of as a treat. As I matured, I realized she was doing this to cover the smell of cigarettes on her breath and also saw that the little morsels turned our tongues black, so I began foregoing them.
I eventually realized that I could smell the aftereffects of tobacco smoke in our clothes, hair and bath towels. My mother changed our towels each Saturday, but they always smelled a little rank, even in the bathroom linen closet, given the constant smoke which got into the closets as well. (I now know that bath towels start to grow bacteria after five days of use, and I change ours every four days. So, it may not have been just the tobacco that had the towels smell unpleasant and on the verge of mildewy.) I am fairly sure that Mom’s nose was not efficient anymore, and that she didn’t realize that we and our home were malodorous, musty, smelly. I think she would have been embarrassed had she realized that.
And I hated sitting in a cloud of smoke every morning at breakfast. I just hated it.
More to come in Part II.
I never noticed the smell of smoke at your house. But, of course, my dad smoked cigarettes at home so I was probably used to the smell. As a child, when I played dress-up, I always used a pencil as my cigarette. I remember my dad laughing about that. Then I started smoking when I was in eighth grade.
I didn’t notice it either until I was a bit older. It was mostly in our clothes and linens, and of course in the room where Mother was smoking. Almost all adults smoked in those days, so I think we were all used to it. Your mom smoked too when you were really little, but I think she stopped early. I can barely remember her ever smoking, but she told me once she used to smoke about a half a pack a day. Maybe at work. People smoked at work then! I got those candy Lucky Strikes at the grocery store as a child and pretended with those, even when I didn’t like Mother smoking!