I was a Smoker (for one day in 1972)

      I WAS A SMOKER

       For one day in 1972

       Eugene Oliver Crawford died in 1976. He was 67 years old; as of the writing of this essay, I am 67 years old. My father suffered at least three heart attacks finally succumbed to a simultaneous heart attack and stroke. The interesting I absolutely knew the instant that dad left this life. I awoke from a sound sleep with the thought Dad had just died. The day I found the time of death to be the exact time I awakened.

        In 1972 I was sitting at 1366 East 59^th street Los Angeles California smoking a Newport. I was 17, my dad walked out on the porch and saw me smoking and asked, "What you doin BOY!" It was too late to attempt to hide the smoke from my dad. So, he continued. "Smoking ok smoking what son and asked for the smoke. At that point, he had stopped smoking for a couple of years. Looking down at the smoke, he laughed and said," Newport's, that kind of junk is that, if you are going to sit on the porch like a man, then you need to smoke a man's cigarette." Newport's? he said in disgust, shaking his head. 

            Well, son, let's take a walk to the corner to get a man's cigarette. No son, we are here to introduce you to a cigarette for men, and he grabbed a carton of Lucky Strikes. I was kind of excited because I would have my first official man's cigarette. We walked and talked to the liquor store on the corner where he stopped me from buying a carton (yes, a carton) of Newport's. Walking home, he still made me proud of becoming a man; what we would do together as men were beaming inside as my father was the most important person in my life. Before that, he bought me my first trombone, encouraged me to pursue music, and joined the LAPD Jr Band, then the Velvet Knights Drum and Bugle corps. When accepted to Cal State University Fullerton, Dad took a second job to pay for my room and board. (More on that later.)

            Lighting up, I did not know what was coming next, but I was about to find out. After inhaling the first drag, I knew something was wrong. I started coughing and felt suddenly ill trying to put the cigarette down. My dad said, "Not so fast, young man.. You wanted to be a man, so here you go" having the first cigarette behind me, he lit the second and handed it to me. SMOKE! Young man. So, I smoked the second cigarette. By the time I had finished the third cigarette, I was visibly ill. I was sick; if I could see myself, I would have had a greenish hue. I left to hurl in the flower bed at the front of the house. I walked back not to a man excited to have his first cigarette with his eldest son; I saw the stern taskmaster; he was not happy. He laid into me about his heart attacks and that I was going down a path that would not be good for me and never to pick up a cigarette again. He came down hard on me. he asked, who told you this was ok, who told you this was a good thing, is this what you are spending your money from part-time jobs? (I was at that time a Dishwasher at LAX working for HOST international at one of the many airport restaurants)

            Dad laid it on me heavily and told me to go back to my room. He had the phrase he said when I messed up badly and paid a physical price for my foolishness. "I would whip your ass until I gave out in mine, but you are suffering much better than you would if I beat your azz" He then turned on a dime and held me and said Well, son, we know better now, don't we. Taking the Lucky strikes next door and gives them to his father-in-law Bill. What's this? My grandfather asked, and dad said Oh, Manny bought them for you; he saw the partially opened pack, and I saw dad and my grandfather have a moment. Grandfather smiled at my dad and then me and said, "That's real thoughtful of you, boy" Shook Dad's hand smiled, took the carton, and went back into the house that was next door. Lesson learned. It should be noted that every time I receive a physical examination, I vividly remember this day and answer yes, but it was for one day in the summer of 1972.

            Four moments are indelible memories of my dad. The first was him giving me a popsicle that I dropped into the sand and encouraging me to wash under the faucet. It was a banana popsicle twin pop. I was about 3 or 4 after he saw me crying; he pulled the other half of the popsicle and told me to be careful this time. The second was him on the porch seeing me chased by three boys and running to the house. I was about nine years old. He stood by the door, not letting me in "what is this?" these boys want to fight, and mom told me under no circumstances should I get into fights, so I ran. Unmoving sad said, "if you run now, you will run for the rest of your life, and I don't appreciate that, so go out there and handle your problem. I said, dad Ill get in trouble!!! Then he gave me another one of his sayings, "Son, if you ain't in trouble with me, you ain't in trouble.

I walked outside the gate, looking to hurt someone. I felt like someone had turned loose. I beat all three boys, and I did not know my dad was standing near me as I felled the last person I was about to deliver the final blow, but my arm hung suspended in mid-air may dad had me by the wrist and said, "that's enough Boy" The third was when I moved into the dorms at CSUF, my dad was beaming. This was the same man that dropped out in the 8^th grade to work on his dad's farm. The man that taught himself to be a welder served in the 92nd division with the 3^rd Army in WWII, whose son was going to California State University Fullerton. The moment was almost missed when I saw him walking back to the car when the man I never saw openly wept seeing his son going to college. And the last memory was my dad in his Deacon blue suit looking at me getting married just a few months before he died.  

            It is a significant reason I am where I am today (literally) in Plain City, Ohio, being Papi for three boys requiring adult supervision. The eldest and I are communicating at a non-verbal level, approaching telepathic thought, and the others are getting there.   Most men I see in sports say hi, mom. Not me, it will always be Hi DAD. I will remember you always. When he became old, this child did not depart from your teaching; it just took a long detour to get here.