IS TELEVISION RUINING ME FOR REAL LIFE?

If you have ever watched Grey’s Anatomy (my guilty pleasure a few years back), you will remember that at least once in each episode, one character or another will step onto an elevator that is empty except for another character with whom they share a story arc.  The ensuing elevator ride will be long enough – quite long, usually – for the characters to have a conversation or dispute that will move the story forward.

 

I mention this because my experience is nothing like this.  There are almost always multiple people on any elevator I enter, and beyond the exchange of a few pleasantries on the occasions where I am riding with someone I know, nothing is raised or resolved.  Indeed, on an elevator full of strangers, nothing is said beyond, “Excuse me.  This is my floor.”

 

So, am I missing opportunities for life-changing conversations or is it just that TV is nothing like real life?  Certainly, Grey’s Anatomy--where surgeons perform MRIs and CT scans, and provide bed-side care following surgery, and where there is not a nurse in sight, except for that one nurse who is always in the OR—bears no resemblance to the workings of any actual hospital.

 

I find that I have a fairly high tolerance for the silliness of shows such as this. Throw in the fact that Grey’s Anatomy is more a soap opera than anything, and I’m in when I need an escape.  

 

I can’t go there, however, when it comes to shows about lawyers.  I was, after all, a lawyer prior to retiring.  I watched one episode of The Good Wife, then tuned out after the main character, who had not practiced law for a decade, was was sent off to try a case her first week at her new job.  Spoiler alert:  This is not how law firms operate.  She would have sat at a desk, doing research and drafting trial memos, for a very long time before setting foot in a courtroom.  But, you didn’t want to know that.  You’re in it for the entertainment, as would I be, if I just didn’t know too much.  

 

I’ll tell you the truth about lawyering as I experienced it.  Most of the time, there is precious little action.  Very few cases go to trial.  Of course, it wouldn’t do to make a TV show that features lawyers drafting contracts or legal briefs– it would be like watching paint dry.  So, I understand the need to jazz things up.  I just can’t watch these souped-up shows when attorneys are involved.  

 

Here's another thing that happens on TV that I never experienced in my working life.  Remember The West Wing?  Great show, where, thanks to Aaron Sorkin, characters were forever walking down hallways, having deep and critical conversations.  No drying paint there.  

 

“Why,” I remember asking a colleague as we headed toward the break room, “are we not having an important conversation right now, like the characters on The West Wing?"  He looked at me oddly, and said, “I just want a cup of coffee.”

 

Fair.

 

And then, there is The Diplomat.  Another great show.  More walking and talking.  Never an unimportant or less-than-clever conversation, even when it is only the main character and her husband alone in their room.  Why, I keep asking my husband, isn’t our repartee this scintillating?  

 

In fact, why don’t we have repartee?  

 

Here’s another thing about The Diplomat.  The diplomat in question—American Ambassador to the UK (played by the brilliant Keri Russell)--never brushes her hair.  Seriously.  Not to meet the Prime Minister.  Not to greet the public.  (She is forced, against her will, into an updo for a photo op, but that is it.). We are meant to understand that she disdains the trappings of the diplomatic life.  We get it.  I’m sure she wouldn’t primp for an audience with King Charles.  

 

So, I have a thought.  If I stop brushing my hair, will my IQ rise in direct proportion to the messiness of my appearance?  Will I become a clever conversationalist?  A mistress of the bon mot?  A quick-witted solver of unsolvable problems?  If it works for Keri, will it work for me? 

It's worth a try, don't you think?

 

 

 

 

 

 

THANKSGIVING BLESSINGS

I am remembering a Thanksgiving morning 31 years ago. My then-husband and I had just moved into a new-to-us house.  We had yet to tear up the orange shag carpet in the living room or replace the orange countertops in the kitchen.  Ditto the bordello-red paint on the downstairs-bathroom walls. The yellow plaid wallpaper in the kitchen remained in place, as did the yellow walls with orange trim in one bedroom and the chartreuse walls with royal blue trim in another. We will not speak of the olive drab walls and trim in the master bedroom. To say that the house needed "refreshing" would be an understatement.

 

We had been in the house for only two or three weeks.  We would, nonetheless, host Thanksgiving dinner, shag rug be damned.  In those days, when our daughters were young and we had little nearby family, we would often have twenty-plus people for dinner.  Orphans, mostly, by which I mean friends whose families, like ours, lived far away.  

 

In the years since that long-ago Thanksgiving, my then-husband and I divorced, and my daughters grew up and moved out, The house is now 64-years-old and I am older still. There will, however, be no shortage of guests for dinner tomorrow.  My husband of twenty years and I will host my daughters and two of his sons, along with their spouses.  There will be six grandchildren, and, oh yes, two ex-spouses, his and mine.  They are, after all, the people with whom we raised our children. They are family and belong at the Thanksgiving table.  

 

The shag carpet is long since gone, as are the other decorating horrors. My daughters will prepare the feast, with contributions from other family members.  The four grandchildren aged three and under will provide joyful chaos, while the two older grandchildren will bring a welcome touch of sanity.  

 

I don't know about you, but Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday.  I don’t view the holiday as a re-creation of the first uneasy coming together of settlers and natives. For me, it is simply a celebration of gratitude, a time to gather with family and/or friends to share a meal and appreciate one another. 

 

And I love that there are no gifts involved.

 

Look, it has been a tough year politically, but I'm not going to let that stop me from finding things to be grateful for.  Here is a partial list of my current gratitudes:

 

Family

Friends

Community

A warm house and hot, running water

A functioning body and brain

Books

My garden and my writing projects

Hope, however guarded

 

(Would it be frivolous to add chocolate?)

 

I hope you all have much to be grateful for.  And I hope we can find ways in the coming year to assist those who are lacking some or all of what I have listed above.

 

Namaste and Thanksgiving blessings.

 

                                                   Photo by Debby Hudson on Unsplash

STILL SLIDING AND GLIDING: Some Thoughts on My Recent Birthday

 

Sometimes I forget how old I am. 

 

I don’t mean that I can’t remember the number.  It’s just that sometimes I will be with 40- or 50-somethings and will think for a moment that I am one of them. And then I will find myself confronted by a mirror.  

 

My memory is quickly restored. 

 

Here’s the thing. Although I turned 75 last week, my psychic age, as I have written before, is 45 or 50.  You can see where the confusion comes in.

 

There was a moment, though, last week when I was starkly confronted by my age.  My husband and I were preparing for a trip to Hawaii to celebrate my birthday.  The day before the trip, I found myself uncommonly tired while packing.  The travel day was long, and on our first full day in paradise, I was horrified to find myself too exhausted to do much of anything.  I was beside myself.  It seemed that upon turning 75, I was falling off a cliff straight into decrepitude.  Were my traveling days over?  

 

Happily, the next day I woke up with a cold.  Happily?  Well, it wasn’t that I wanted to be sick; it was just that I was delighted to realize I wasn’t on the doorstep of assisted living.  Soon, the blessed sun dried up my cold, and I was back to feeling like myself again.

 

So, I am pleased to report that I am still feeling pretty good.  Can I make this time last?  Is there an elder equivalent to the teenage years, I wonder?  A last fling before the doddering years?  I intend to find out. 

 

Still, there is no doubt that time is passing quickly.  Five minutes ago, I wrote a post about turning 70, and now I find that I have, improbably, turned 75.  In that earlier post, I quoted from James Taylor’s song, The Secret ‘O Life.  Please indulge me while a re-share a few of the lyrics:

 

       The secret of life is enjoying the passage of time

       Any fool can do it

       There ain’t nothing to it

       Nobody knows how we got to

       The top of the hill

       But since we’re on our way down

       We might as well enjoy the ride

 

.  . .

 

       Isn’t it a lovely ride?

       Sliding down

       Gliding down

       Try not to try too hard

       It’s just a lovely ride

 

. . .

 

Everything I feel about turning 75 (along with the full lyrics to the song) was included in my post about turning 70. Things haven't changed much. I may be on the downward side of the hill, but as was the case five years ago, my life is rich and full. In fact, it is fuller, as I have gained four grandchildren in the intervening years. They are helping me with my sliding and gliding skills, and keeping me young, even as they wear me out. They certainly know how to put everything into the ride.  

 

And so may we all, regardless of age, and in spite of the many challenges along the way, enjoy the ride.  And may we lend a hand to those who are finding the ride bumpy and rough. 

What else is there for it?

                                    photo by Getty Images

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

OF DECIDUOUS TREES AND PIZZA

What, you may be asking yourselves, do deciduous trees have to do with pizza?  Allow me to explain.

These are two of the things (along with people, of course) that I miss from my early years in New Jersey.

 

In truth, I am happily ensconced in the Pacific Northwest, and don’t think much about New Jersey.  Still, there are a few things I dearly miss, and deciduous trees and Jersey pizza are among them.  

 

A number of years ago, while my husband, Bill, and I were visiting New Jersey, my brother and his wife took us for a stroll around the Princeton campus.  It was winter.  The trees were bare, and I walked around exclaiming over the beautiful, symmetrical shapes of the branches against the winter sky.  

 

My brother and sister-in-law thought I was nuts.  Bill was also a bit perplexed.  

 

Earlier this month, we visited Indianapolis to visit Bill’s siblings.  I once again spent a lot of time oohing and aahing over the airy profiles of deciduous trees. I was delighted by the openness of the views.                    

An Indianapolis street view

 

It’s not that we don’t have deciduous trees out here.  We do.  On our property, in fact, we have a weeping cherry, two maples, a Japanese snowbell, a Korean dogwood, a clarodendrum, and a winter hazel.  

We also have six enormous Douglas firs (“Doug firs” to locals). These majestic trees are over 150-feet tall and over 100-years-old. They house birds and squirrels, and give our back yard a park-like appearance. I am deeply grateful that whoever built our home (and the other homes in our neighborhood) 60 years ago chose to leave these trees standing, rather than taking them down as is so often the practice.  

 

Here’s the thing, though.  I love the Doug firs, and they are problematic.  They make our neighborhood what it is, and they are dangerous. Every year, at least one major windstorm comes roaring out of the Columbia River Gorge and takes out one or more Doug firs in our neighborhood.  One came down in a nearby yard a couple of winters ago, landing on and uprooting an enormous big-leaf maple in an adjacent yard.  A huge chunk of the maple landed in our backyard, killing several bushes, and creating a huge mess.  

 

It's not the danger or the mess that is bothering me lately, however.  Being surrounded by these trees is worth the risk.  I’m also happy with the evergreens on our property, intermixed as they are with deciduous trees, shrubs, and flower beds. It’s something else that is bothering me (and I hope my saying so won’t get me in trouble with my PNW friends).  Come winter with its gray skies, the endless lines of evergreens on the horizon can feel a bit, well, lumpen--a bit depressing.  Here, for instance, is the view beyond our front yard from an upstairs window.  

 

I don't wish to be rid of our evergreens; I just wish for more deciduous trees to open up the winter skyline.  I prefer the ratio of deciduous trees to evergreens that I grew up with in New Jersey.  I suppose that’s what comes of uprooting oneself. If I had grown up here, my heart would likely swell at the sight of an unbroken line of Doug firs.  

Ok, enough about trees. Let’s talk about pizza.  Jersey pizza. I have eaten healthier pizza – is that an oxymoron?  Heck, I have made healthier pizza. But, give me a Jersey pizza, thin-crusted and drenched in so much olive oil you have to pat it with a napkin to take off the excess.  

 

Now that’s pizza.  I make a bee-line for it whenever I visit my home state.

 

I wasn’t always a pizza afficionado, though.  I didn’t grow up eating it.  My British parents eschewed it, and, never having tried it, I assumed I didn’t like it. Hah! My first close encounter with a pizza was at the home of a friend over 50 years ago.  We were young enough to still be living with our parents, and this friend’s parents had a pool in their basement, where several of us had gathered to swim.  Someone ordered a pizza, and I, getting out of the pool without looking where I was going, stepped squarely on the poolside pie.  Was that mortification what finally got me try a slice the next time one was offered? I don’t remember.  Whatever it was that got me started, I have been a fan ever since. 

 

Here are a few other things I miss from my home state:  

 

Thunderstorms.  Despite the many thunderstorms you may have seen on Grey’s Anatomy, intended to convince you that the show is set in Seattle, we hardly ever have thunderstorms here in the Willamette Valley.  

I love a good thunderstorm, as long as I am indoors and out of danger. Every time I am back east, I wait in vain for one to appear. Sadly, I seem always to just miss them.  I well remember the way the New Jersey summer sky would turn an eerie almost-yellow, followed by, thunder and lightening and drenching rain. (Wait. Was the yellow sky caused by pollution?  This was before the Clean Air Act.)

The Jersey shore.  Sure, it often took my friends and me four or more hours to drive to the closest shore points, a trip that would have taken less than two hours if the Garden State Parkway hadn’t been perpetually bumper-to-bumper. (I can only assume the trip is more arduous now.) But, it was so worth it to bask in the sun (before I understood about skin cancer) and to swim in a swimmable ocean.  (The Pacific ocean off Oregon and Washington is, to put it mildly, rather chilly.)

 

Proximity to New York City.  No explanation required.  

 

Listen, I know Jersey gets a lot of bad press, but as you will have surmised, I believe this is quite undeserved.  It’s true that, after so many years on the west coast, I won't be moving back, but I am glad I grew up there and got to eat that delicious pizza under a deciduous tree.

 

 

THE YEAR'S LAST, LOVELY SMILE

(The poet William Cullen Bryant called autumn “the year’s last, lovely smile," and, as I can’t think of a better description, I hope his soul won’t mind my stealing it as the title of this post.)  

 

Hooray! My favorite season has arrived.

 

Well, not officially, but it's in the air.  And yes, this photo, taken in October of last year, is aspirational, but it’s keeping me going. 

 

Sure, there's something to be said for each season.  Winter has its charms, at least until after the holidays.  And I love spring with its lengthening days and explosion of blooms.  (I'll get to summer in a moment.) 

 

But it is autumn that has my heart, autumn that suits my soul. And it's not just that I am in the autumn of my life.   I have loved this season for as long as can I remember.  

 

When I was a child, autumn signaled a new school year, new school supplies, new clothes, and – in those days before such burning was illegal – the smell of leaves going up in smoke.  As an adult, I love the rituals of getting out sweaters, preparing the garden for winter, and planning indoor projects.  I love the chill in the air and the change in the light, as it slants low across the late afternoon sky, showing scarlet and orange leaves to their best advantage. I welcome the early closing in of each day.  I feel called to turn inward myself, to allow the introvert in me to prevail.  

 

 

This year in, particular, I have been longing for autumn since July, so, please bear with me while I detour to address what has become my unfavorite season.  As I trudged through midsummer this year, I heard myself saying more than once, I don't like summer.  I was surprised.  And then I wasn't.  It wasn't a case of hyperbole.

 

I meant it.  

 

Before you start in on me, let me explain.  I used to like summer. I liked it until four or five years ago.  Here is the back story.  I left New Jersey almost 50 years ago, in part to get away from the miserable heat and humidity of its summers.  

 

Moving to the Pacific Northwest was a good choice.  Such a temperate climate.  Maybe one snowstorm and one heat wave a year here in the Willamette Valley.  Yes, it rains in the winter, but summers are dry, and all that rain means we are living in a paradise of greenery.

 

Well, we were.  

 

This beautiful place is changing.

 

Instead of one heat wave a year, we now have several.  And then there's the smoke from forest fires.  Not here in the valley, but close enough for it to come our way.  I am now running two air purifiers whenever the smoke starts to drift in.  

 

And don’t get me started on watering.  Oh, the watering.  As noted above, our summers are dry, and for reasons unclear to me, I have never installed a sprinkler system in the 31 summers I have lived in my current home.  Watering was a chore in the past, but now, with episodes of extreme heat, it is overwhelming--my garden beds and large trees are facing an existential crisis.  What was once "native" flora is no longer suited to our changing climate.

 

But enough about summer and its discontents. 

 

Give me autumn, with its occasional rainfalls.  Give me changing seasons, especially this one.  Let me exchange summer’s toils for the year’s last, lovely smile. 

 

And allow me to leave you with these words, put in the mouth of her young heroine, Anne Shirley, by the author L. M. Montgomery: “I’m so glad to live in a world where there are Octobers.”   

 

Me too.  So very glad.  And grateful.

 

How about you?

 

 

 

SOME THOUGHTS ON WAR

When I was a child, my mother frequently referred to “The War,” by which she meant World War II, the war she and my father had survived in Glasgow, Scotland. 

 

I did not know what war was, but I had a vivid imagination, or so my mother always said.  Here is what my four- or five-year old mind came up with:  I pictured two single-file lines of men facing each other.  The men at the front of each line would step forward and engage in a sword fight. (Why swords?  I have no idea.). When one fell, the next person in line would step forward.  If it rained, everyone would put on raincoats.  This would continue until one line was empty. The men remaining in the other line would “win.”  (A bit like the card game War, only more bloody.) 

 

I don’t remember when my early vision of warfare was replaced with something closer to the truth.  I was seven when Nikita Khruschev declared to representatives of several Western countries, “We will bury you.”  That was pretty scary. (Of course, I pictured the Soviet leader with a shovel . . .. )  I was almost 12 by the time of the Cuban Missile Crisis.  Certainly, by then I knew enough to be terrified by the thought of missiles attacking New York City, which was only a few miles from my New Jersey home. Also terrifying was the dawning realization that our earth bristled with nuclear weapons, poised to wipe out whole nations.  I remember thinking – These weapons are everywhere, and no one asked if I wanted them.

 

The Vietnam War was raging while I was in high school and college.  I marched with others trying to convince our government to bring the troops home.  Before that war was over, around 50,000 American soldiers--my peers, and God know how many Vietnamese civilians, had been killed.  

Since then, America has been involved in two Gulf wars and a war in Afghanistan, and we have continued to arm nations all over the world.  

 

I am thinking about war today, as battles continue in Gaza and Ukraine and Congo and Darfur, among other places.  And as I think about war, here are some of the questions that come up for me:

 

What would I do to defend my family?

 

Is it different to defend a nation?

 

How exactly should we define “defense”?  Where would I draw the line?  (Our Department of Defense was called the Department of War until 1949. Was that more honest?). 

 

My parents’ city was bombed during WWII.  Should they have waved white flags and become German?

 

Is there a difference between self-defense and revenge?  

 

Is revenge still sweet if it leads to an endless cycle of violence?

 

Is it ok to go to war to rescue people who are being oppressed, imprisoned, or tortured?  

 

What about the fact that the military straightens some people out?  Gives them a career path.  Does this justify what Eisenhower called the Military-Industrial Complex?

 

What is a "just war"?  Who gets to decide?

 

What does it mean to have "rules of war”?  If we can come up with rules of war, can’t we come up with another way to sort things out?

 

Are we the only species that attacks itself?

 

Japan and Germany were our sworn enemies 80 years ago, and now they are close allies.  Can’t we find a way to skip the enemy stage and go straight to being friends?  

 

Candidates are vetted for military service.  Could we also vet them for compassion and diplomatic skills?

 

If we’re going to send young people to war, can we at least take care of them when they get home?  Mightn’t there be a need for some help with adjusting to civilian life after serving?  

 

Can we fully fund the VA before spending more money on military hardware?

 

Come to think of it, can we make sure everyone in America is fed, clothed, and housed before we build any more missiles?  

 

 

I don’t think I ever shared my early understanding of war with anyone.  As methods of managing conflict go, it may seem bizarre, but really, is it any more bizarre than raining bombs on civilians? Might it not be more efficient and less costly to wage war in the manner conceived by my childish self?  If we must go to war, could we maybe ask for a dozen volunteers from each side to engage in the sword fight, and have that decide the matter? 

 

Just a thought.

                                    Photo by Provincial Archives of Alberta on Unsplash

 

THE 100 THINGS

 

A few years back, I read the novel Asymmetry by Lisa Halliday.  Among other plot lines, it is the story of a romance between a woman in her twenties and a much older man, loosely based, or so I have read, on the real-life romance between the author and Philip Roth.  I liked the book, but this is not going to be a review.  Instead, I point to it only for one line. Here is how I remember it -- When it’s time to get ready for bed, the older man announces to the young woman that he must start to do “the 100 things.”   I found this line amusing when I read it.  Five years on, it is starting to feel a bit too close to home.  

 

Of course, I have always brushed and flossed my teeth, washed my face etc. before going to sleep.  So, why does this routine suddenly feel more onerous?  I guess it’s just that I am a bit older than I was when I read the book, and by the time I am ready to go to bed, I am (surprise!) tired, and these simple tasks are an unwelcome roadblock on the path to sleep. Damn, I say to myself, I still have to do the 100 things.

 

So, I have cleverly taken to doing my ablutions soon after dinner.  I don’t know quite how to describe the pleasure it gives me, when, heading to bed later in the evening, I realize I don’t have to pause to do the 100 things.  As an added bonus, early tooth brushing discourages me from eating after dinner. 

 

Win. Win.

 

In truth, though, it is my morning routine that feels more like slogging through 100 things.  Before beginning my day, I again brush my teeth, then embark upon a series of stretches.  Go ahead -- ask me how much I want to do these stretches.

 

You guessed it.  I don’t want to do them at all.  I want to go downstairs and have a cup of tea.  Still, I spent too many years visiting my mother’s assisted living center to be able to kid myself that sitting still is a good approach to healthy aging.  

 

In addition to stretching, I walk most mornings, and, in summer, when the days will heat up rapidly, my walk must also be accomplished before breakfast. And then (again in summer), watering must be done early before high sun brings on evaporation.  

 

Before I know it, half the morning has been eaten up by the 100 things. (My husband , who has to swallow a bunch of medications, calls his tasks the 1000 things. As Bette Davis once opined, getting older is not for sissies.)

 

And while I’m counting the 100 things, let’s not forget the annoying tasks that seem to take up more and more of my time throughout the day, such as:

 

Paying bills 

 

Deleting, answering, and unsubscribing from emails.

 

Dealing with computer issues.

 

Waiting on hold, while trying to resolve computer issues.

 

Waiting on hold while trying to make medical appointments.

Doing laundry.  Folding laundry.  Carrying laundry up and down stairs.

You get the idea.  How did I manage to do all these things while working?  Oh, yeah, that aging thing again.  And wasn’t there less waiting on hold ten years ago?  

 

I guess I should be grateful I still remember that I need to do all of these things. . . .  

 

I’ll work on that.

 

Anyone else over the age of, say, 60 feeling at all daunted by your own 100 things?  Did I leave any out?  Please comment, telling me I am not alone.   

                                                                                                        Photo by Anne Nygård on Unsplash

 

RING OF FIRE: SOME THOUGHTS ON MY SMOKE-FILLED YOUTH

I stepped out of my car in a parking lot yesterday and walked straight into a cloud of cigarette smoke.  I nearly gagged, although the smoking culprit was a car's-length away.  It amazes me that cigarette smoke affects me so, given that I grew up in a haze of the stuff.  My father chain smoked--lit one from another from the time he woke up until the time he went to sleep.   And in those days - the 1950s and ‘60s - he and everyone else smoked inside the house. We had a small home, which means I effectively smoked until my father quit cold-turkey when I was fifteen.  

And people didn’t just smoke at home.  They smoked in their cars.  And at work. And on airplanes. And anywhere else they damn well pleased.  (Sure, airborne smokers were eventually confined to the back of the plane, but, come on, there wasn’t a plexiglass divider.)

Kids these days nag their parents to quit.  This never crossed my mind.  Almost everybody's dad (and some of the moms) smoked.  Most homes had pedestal ashtrays – tall brass affairs that cradled shallow glass bowls.  Then there were the DIY ashtrays that I crafted during my New Jersey childhood.  I would collect large seashells when we went “down the shore,” and color them with crayons, before proudly presenting them to my father to use as receptacles for his cigarette butts.  

I am sure my hair and clothes smelled perpetually of smoke.  But, again, I was so used to living in smoke-filled rooms that I didn’t notice the odor.  After all, smoking was normal.  And not just normal.  Smoking was adult.  Smoking was sexy.  In those pre-internet days, television was king, and smoking was all over television.  Newscasters smoked.  Television personalities smoked.  I can still see Dean Martin with a drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other.  

And, oh, the ads.  The Marlboro Man rode on horseback across our screens, admonishing the viewer to “Come to where the flavor is; come to Marlboro country.”  Marlboro country was a mythical place, where men were rugged cowboys, and smoking was cool.  

These ads, of course, were aimed at men.  Women were meant to be enticed by Virginia Slims ads, which co-opted the nascent women’s movement.  

Despite the Surgeon General’s 1964 report linking cigarette smoking to cancer, bronchitis, and other diseases, it wasn’t until 1970, that cigarette ads were banned from television and radio. By then, I had witnessed countless hours of said ads, not to mention dozens of old movies that made cigarette smoking look sophisticated.  These days, only lowlifes and baddies smoke in movies and on TV, but it wasn’t always so. 

My love of old movies and the best efforts of advertisers notwithstanding, I never did succumb to the siren call of cigarettes. Well, there was that one time. I was maybe 18 when, on a whim, I bought a pack at Walgreens and, standing outside, took a few covert puffs before choking and throwing the rest of the pack in a nearby garbage can.  That was the alpha and omega of my smoking career. 

I’m glad smoking is no longer acceptable in restaurants and offices, at least in our part of the world.  I’m glad I no longer have to stand in a pall of smoke while waiting to use the loo on an airplane.  I’m glad my experience in the parking lot yesterday was unusual enough to be noteworthy.  And I hope that scenes such as the one I am about to describe will one day be a thing of the past.  

My mother lived in an assisted living facility for 12 years.  Those residents who wished to smoke were shunted outside to a gazebo, where they would huddle with their cigarettes in all kinds of weather.  I was especially saddened by the elderly women, for whom smoking had been so glamorous in their World-War-II youth. Seeing them wizened and furtive always gave me a pang. They had not had the benefit of the Surgeon General’s report.  I doubt they knew they were engaging in an addictive activity. I hope that smoking calmed them and gave them courage during the war, and I am sorry it burdened them in their final years. I hope their children and grandchildren have found other ways to self-soothe.  

And I hope you will breathe free tonight, cozy inside a smoke-free home.