Nowadays, cigarette
is a dirty word.
And mostly rightfully
so. If smoking
a cigarette affected only yourself, it would be your business
and nobody else’s. But cigarette smoke, breathed out, affects
everyone in range. Kind of like what the military calls "collateral
damage." So smoking is prohibited in public places and in most
private work places. You’ve no doubt seen tobacco addicts and
their ilk standing on the sidewalk outside of a building stoking
their habit. And likely as not getting disapproving stares from
us self-righteous passers-by.
But it was not ever
thus.
Time was, cigarettes
were celebrated in song and story. Smoking was glamorous, sophisticated,
romantic. They wrote love songs about it:
- Smoke Rings— Where do they go, the smoke rings I blow?
- While a Cigarette Was Burning—My heart was burning,
too.
- Two Cigarettes In the Dark—Only a flame and a spark.
- These Foolish Things (Remind Me Of You)—A cigarette that
bears a lipstick’s traces.
Even country music
got in the act. Cigarettes, Whiskey and Wild, Wild Women.
And in the movies.
What could be more romantic than lighting up? One memorable movie
scene became famous, an example of sophisticated courting. I forget
the name of the movie and the actors. Was it Paul Henreid who
stuck two cigarettes in his mouth, lit them and handed one to
Bette Davis in Now, Voyager? The tears flowed like wine.
Newspaper reporters smoked to show how tough they were. Soldiers
under fire lit up (except at night when it might reveal their
position) to show how brave they were. Men facing a firing squad
were offered a cigarette before dying (justice being unable to
wait for the smoking itself to do the job).
Cigarettes were a really
big deal in prisoner of war camps in Italy and German. They came
in Red Cross parcels along with food and POWs could be sent them
in personal tobacco parcels. POW’s next of kin got special coupons
from tobacco companies entitling them to substantial discounts.
In the camps, cigarettes were like money. POWs often traded some
of their food for them. I bought a copy of Dicken’s Dombey
and Son for cigarettes (I didn’t smoke cigarettes). Bought
it from a British fighter pilot who was shot down in full uniform,
with three library books he had intended to return when he got
back from his mission. I rented it out for others to read for
two cigarettes.
The first song I remember
to buck the trend about smoking was a country song, Smoke,
Smoke, Smoke That Cigarette—Tell St. Peter at the Gold Gate
I just hate to make him wait but I gotta have another cigarette.
In the movies now, if an actor or actress smokes, it’s usually
supposed to make a character point and a lot of people in the
audience object to it.
I never smoked cigarettes,
even when it was manly and romantic. I smoked a few cigarettes
when I was about 12 but quit when I got sick and threw up. Dody
never smoked cigarettes. My mother did, but never in public. Ladies
didn’t smoke in public in those days, though an old aunt of mine
did, and she used to use rouge and bright red lipstick and curse
in public. Aunt Hannah. She’s the one who taught my mother to
smoke.
I did smoke cigars
until I had heart surgery and my doctor cut me off. In my cigar-smoking
days it was considered politically correct to smoke cigars in
restaurants, especially if you asked people at adjacent tables
if they minded. One time, at lunch with our son the vet, Eric,
and his wife, Karen, I lit up after all those around said they
wouldn’t mind. Our daughter-in-law said, "You never ask me," and
I realized I never had, and she’d never liked it. So I quit smoking
cigars around her before I quit everywhere else.
Eric and his wife never
smoked but his brother, Fred the agent, and Fred’s wife, Susan,
did but gave it up years ago. So nobody in our family smokes cigarettes
except one granddaughter in her late 20s who won’t listen to anyone
about the perils of smoking. Or anything else, for that matter.
I don’t know if she thinks it is glamorous, sophisticated or romantic.
At least she goes outside to do it.
I guess that’s something.
David Westheimer lives
with his wife of 57 years, Dody, in the same Los Angeles apartment
they moved into from Houston, Texas 40 years ago. Their son, Fred,
is a Senior Vice-President at the William Morris Agency and his
younger brother, Eric, is a veterinarian. Succeeding generations
include five grandchildren and two great-grandchildren. As a journalist,
David worked for Oveta Culp Hobby. At 83, David Westheimer continues
to write, and not just for Senior Women. His latest effort, "The
Great Wounded Bird", his recollections of World War II, winner
of the Texas Review 1999 poetry prize, was published this year
by Texas Review Press and may be ordered from Amazon Books, where
it was 1,458,159th on their sales list, from Barnes & Noble and
Borders Books. He is a novelist and a retired Air Force Officer.
He can be reached for a repertoire of feigned curmudgeonly remarks
at: DWestheime@aol.com.
