Looking out my Backdoor: This week I started smoking again

I used to have a photo of my Dad in his crisp uniform, just back from Overseas. “Overseas” is a lost word, known to us older folks. Dad was in the Army Air Force in WWII. I was eight months old when he got home. In the picture, Dad held me in one arm, me in my cloth coat with matching winter pants. In his other hand he held a cigarette. I don’t know what happened to the photo.

My Dad had smoked since he was eight years old, rolling corn silk out behind the barn. He lived in the Ohio River Bottoms, where tobacco fields grew the main cash crop. He quickly graduated to the real stuff.

So I smoked from the time I was eight months until I left home to get married at eighteen. Dad quit smoking sometime in his early 50s. But those years I was home, he smoked. In the house. In the car. In the fields. Okay. For me it was second-hand smoke but smoke is smoke.

Smoking back then was what men did. By the culture and the class-system in which I was raised, men smoked and women did not smoke. That was then. And we never gave it a thought.

In my adult life, I was seldom around people who smoked. Cigarette smoke smelled disgusting to me. At the same time, a muted whiff triggered good memories. And I’ve never had a cigarette between my lips. Perhaps Dad cured me.

This week the State of Jalisco burned with five major wild fires as well as numerous smaller blazes. Our little Municipality of Etzatlan sat right in the middle.

Several of the smaller fires were only two or three miles away. One of the larger conflagrations was just outside Ahualulco, a fifteen minute drive on the highway, none further than an hour drive.

Add the normal nightly field burns for harvesting the sugar cane to the wild fires.

For three or four days the mountains over toward Magdalena disappeared totally. The mountains in my back yard, the backdrop for our town, muted into a fuzzy blur of blue. The sky turned brown.

Normally, I spend a good part of my day outdoors, even if I’m simply sitting on the patio or out under a tree, book in hand. So, yes, I knew the fires were close. I knew the fires filled the atmosphere with smoke. But I did what I normally do. For the first three days.

By nightfall, I was exhausted. What was wrong with me? Other than usual household chores, all I’d done all day was breathe.

My lungs are healthy. My lungs are clear, despite my smoke-smudged childhood. Seasonal allergies pass me by. Yet, sitting amidst wildfires, breathing, just breathing, wore me out. For the first time in my life, I now have a smidgeon of understanding of what people with compromised lungs go through just to breathe.

My son had fairly severe asthma as a child. He’s outgrown a lot of it but still must be careful and has medicines if needed. Ben said that when he was in the hospital with the COVID-19, he felt like he was underwater, drowning.

My daughter used to be an Emergency Red Cross Trauma Counselor Volunteer. She was on the first plane out of Seattle to New York when the Twin Towers went down. For two-and-a-half months, Dee Dee worked right alongside the police and fire personnel, down in the pits. Her lungs will never heal themselves.

Several close friends have severe allergies or asthma or other breathing concerns. I’ve never been dismissive of their problems but I certainly had no real understanding. Now I have more empathy.

This being one of the times I exhibited traits of a slow learner, I finally heard myself. “All I’d done was breathe.” The next day I kept the door and windows of my little casita closed. I stayed inside. I didn’t go outside to smoke.

Today one of the major fires and several smaller ones are out or under control. This year the underbrush and grasses are unusually thick. The atmosphere is dry. We’ve not had a rain since last summer. There will be more fires.

Wind brings smoke close. Then wind carries smoke away. I limit my time outside. My windows are closed. My house stays cool. And relatively smoke-free.

Today is my birthday. I’m old enough to smoke but that doesn’t mean I like it.

——

Sondra Ashton grew up in Harlem but spent most of her adult life out of state. She returned to see the Hi-Line with a perspective of delight. After several years back in Harlem, Ashton is seeking new experiences in Etzatlan, Mexico. Once a Montanan, always. Read Ashton’s essays and other work at http://montanatumbleweed.blogspot.com/. Email [email protected].