I grew up in a cloud. Back in the 1950s and ’60s, everybody smoked. Parents, siblings, aunts, uncles, cousins, neighbors – even the minister inhaled. I doubt if I ever saw anything clearly – and I’m certain that I always smelled like a Winston. Tobacco ruled. Fancy cigarette boxes, engraved lighters and oddly molded ashtrays were prized possessions. There was no escaping it. Everyone on television smoked. Everyone in the movies smoked. Cowboys in white hats, black hats, jeeps and saloons all lit up the “tobaccy” as they tamed the Wild West. Danny Thomas, Donna Reed, Jack Parr – you name it. Smoke was everywhere. Humphrey Bogey’s Casablanca was awash in it, adding to its intrigue with a magical, swirling haze.
It’s always been a rite of passage for young people. I missed that voyage, having never tried it. I’m lucky I guess. Hard on the lungs. Ask Bogey.