Posted by I have never been interested in smoking.
Thanks, Dad.
By David Chmiel
Dads teach us many things, consciously or subconsciously, for good or bad.
My Dad, George, has given me invaluable lessons through his words and actions: Give love unconditionally, you can find humor in any situation, and always do the dishes, to name a few.
In 1969, he taught me two things: You can accomplish anything you put your mind to, and smoking sucks.
I was almost eight years old. Mark had just turned six. Richard was an infant. Megan was only a gleam in the eye of our Mom, Rhoann.
Dad had started smoking when he was a kid and never got any feedback that perhaps it wasn’t a great idea. Uncle Sam made sure he got plenty of cigarettes with his U.S. Army rations, and all the movie tough guys showed him how cool it was to be framed in smoke. There were ashtrays all over the house and there were precious few family photos in which he or Mom didn’t have a cigarette in their hands. Hell, our first cat was named Salem, an homage to their favorite brand.
Like virtually anyone who’d ever smoked, he’d quit, only to fall off the wagon 90 tense minutes later. But one day, he just decided to stop. Every day, for 21 days, we wished he’d relapse.
Dad is about as mellow as they come. We have occasionally messed with his equilibrium, and he’d respond with varying degrees of garden-variety, fly-off-the-handle Dadness. But never had we seen anything like this from him.
He would bounce between cranky and caustic and silent. Well, not quiet silent. Not welcoming us to jump on his lap, not taking us out to play Wiffleball, to play catch or shoot baskets. I had two thoughts: Why is he telling Mom to put out her cigarette — she didn’t quit? and I will never, ever smoke.
Over the years, when my friends would steal away into the woods to smoke cigarettes they’d pinched from the parents, I would volunteer to stand lookout so they wouldn’t get caught. Soon, it was easier to get away with not being a smoker. We had seen the dissected lungs blackened by years of cigarette smoke, and we learned about the Surgeon General’s warning.
When my friends began to smoke something, well, “skunkier,” I claimed I couldn’t because of my allergies. Again, I stood sentry, watching their backs while really just protecting my own. No small feat in the ’70s, or today, for that matter. No judgments; I just decided that it’s not for me.
Dad has never shared why he decided to quit. He has said that, in the early days of this break from nicotine — and once in a while, even today — the smell of cigarette smoke would trigger a primal urge to light up a butt. But in nearly 50 years, he’s never cheated.
In nearly 57 years, I’ve never taken the bait. My siblings have never gotten into it, either.
My physicals include admonitions over burgers, beer, French fries and Tastykakes (one monkey Dad unapologetically has no intention of getting off his back), but I get a gold star for my virgin lungs.
Thanks, Dad. I hope our boys noticed what you did for me.
