I can’t stand the smell of lit cigarettes. My throat just closes instantly. When I was growing up, since both my parents smoked, it was sometimes difficult. At least I had my own room (smoke free) that I could retreat to.
My mother finally quit smoking for good after she and dad divorced. She probably added a few years onto her life.
Dad never could quite quit the habit and died at age 54 from a variety of complications, due in most part to his smoking. When we left his funeral, and left Branson, MO where he died, I thought I would never smell cigarette smoke again.
I should have known better.
Dad, who always thought I was the more metaphysical one, and I were talking on the phone a few months before he died. He reminded of the time we’d talked about Harry Houdini and how Houdini had created a secret code that only his wife would know, if it appeared, after his death. Dad had a theory that the reason it never worked, that no mediums or what-nots could reach Houdini in the beyond because he himself had been far too much of a skeptic.
Dad told me there were things that went bump in the night, and that he began to believe more in such supernatural things as he got older. The really cool thing was that he wasn’t afraid. Not one bit. It’s too bad that shows like Ghost Hunters wasn’t around while he was still alive; he would have gotten a kick out of them. Heck, I think he would have volunteered to work with the TAPs guys.
Dad told me that time on the phone that since he did believe, he was going to visit whomever he could and however he could. I’ve talked to several family members, including his mother (grandma – to us kids) and they have all reported either dreams, or sensing dad’s presence, or smelling aromas that they associated with dad.
Aunt Sue, dad’s littlest sister told me that for a few months after dad died she’d be walking into the kitchen (which would be empty and quiet) and her eyes would start to prickle and her forehead would break out in a sweat. Aunt Sue’s husband and dad cooked “real” Mexican chili every now and then, and for any hapless wanderer who didn’t have a beer with them during the cooking process, would experience similar effects.
I think I wouldn’t mind the chili aroma…. maybe.
And that leads me right back to cigarette smoke. When I feel my dad’s presence, it’s always heralded by the odor of cigarette smoke. I cannot see the smoke, but I begin to cough, and my throat wants to close up. The minute I acknowledge that it is dad nearby, the disagreeable odor fades away, and I’m left with a smile. I know he’s wandering off, and he’s probably chuckling to himself.
After all, dad succeeded where Houdini didn’t, and who wouldn’t laugh over that?
