Without cigarettes, I would not have survived my childhood. My mother smoked a pack a day—more than a pack when our circumstances grew dire, and/or she was bound to the state via a prison cell, a mental ward, or the welfare office. Bump that pack up to a pack and a half. She could only buy them pack by pack. Never could afford the savings bundled in a ten-pack carton. She took it day by day, every night, making sure she set aside at least one to have with her morning cup of Folgers.
Without the snug fit of a cigarette between her index and middle fingers to weigh her down, my mother’s anxious thoughts would’ve carried her away, mistrals of the unfortunate winds careening through both the front and the back door and every closed window of the house, leaving my mother heels over head in a heap on the floor. When the dust devils whirled in, kicking up crisis after crisis, it was hard to hold steady. A cigarette gave her something to hold on to, something to wield as a weapon—a sword and shield made of smoke to choke out despair.
This blog has been around since 2009. I had just stepped down as managing editor of FireDogLake (one of the larger progressive blogs of the time) after editorial direction disagreements. Running FDL was a seventy hour a week job for not very much money, you had to really believe in it. I had for most of my run, and under my editorship readership increased about 70%.
