The bus stop I was standing at in Indianapolis has a sign: “Your neighbor helps you to keep this shelter clean. Please use the trash can.” On the sign is a picture of my neighbor, someone I do not recognize. The ground around the bus shelter is littered with trash, with cigarette butts being the leading litter. And for that, I apologize.
Unlike many people who smoke cigarettes, I did not start as a teenager. My father smoked, my mother did not. My exploratory puffs were with friends who had mastered the habit, and those explorations continued. I smoked for about 10 years, then quit. I began to smoke again about ten years later, inspired by someone whose company I enjoyed. I damaged my body, the bodies of those in close contact with me, and the planet that sustains us all, for about 23 more years. I quit as a gift to my eldest child, who asked me to stop when I called to wish her a happy Mother’s Day. I extinguished the habit that day, May 9th, 2010. I’ve not returned to it.
I can remember stepping outside of the department store where I worked in St Louis and lighting a cigarette to accompany me on whatever stroll I was taking. I now have a vivid memory of dropping the butt onto the pavement and grinding it out with the heel of my shoe. Or, if I was feeling frisky, I would place the butt between my thumb and forefinger and arc it into the street. On the rare occasions that there were urns filled with sand, I would place my trash into them.
The smoking policy at Famous-Barr was that if one had an office with a door, one could smoke in that office. When I was promoted to assistant creative director, I was given a bigger office. The person who inherited my old office complained loudly about the smell of smoke that came from it; the company repainted the office for her. I learned nothing from this and continued to smoke in my new office. I smoked in my apartment and my car, in bars and restaurants and on the streets, oblivious to the stench that wafted from my clothing.
When I moved back to Indiana in 2012, Marion County had a ban on smoking in bars and restaurants, but Mooresville Indiana, where I lived and played league pool, allowed smoking anywhere, anytime. I would come home from league play and strip naked at the bottom of the steps and march up and into the shower. I knew about smoke stink now. I know a person who is a chain smoker and gets angry when I note the odor from the clothes the person wears. And I am saddened about the years upon years that I spent stinking up my world, mindlessly punishing the planet with my cigarette waste.
When the weather is good, I spend a lot of time ambling about my neighborhood and step onto and over, many discarded cigarette butts. I see other people walking up and down the streets, smoke curling about their heads, hands cupped over a tube of tobacco. Even on the Pennsy Trail I am likely to see smokers and discarded cigarette butts. And these days, I lament the countless number of times that my habit contributed to the detritus of the walking paths I have traveled, both with and without my two youngest children, whom I routinely subjected to smoke. Which is my great and lasting sorrow.
I am heartfully sorry for those, my misdoings; I apologize.
cjon3acd@att.net