She died three years ago at age 83. I was sitting at the sewing machine this afternoon thinking about her and smiling.
Doris smoked everywhere-she never saw a problem with it. She grew up during a time when smoking was glamorous and acceptable.
Ava Gardner, Lauren Bacall, all the sirens smoked. In her heyday, Mom was a siren-she frequented the speakeasies of San Francisco when booze was illegal, wore minks to the country club and her sense of entitlement never left her.
She smoked walking in the streets, threw her cigarette on the ground in front of Albertsons, smoked in the state and national parks as she oohed and ahhed at the scenery and smoked her way around the world. She visited almost every country existing, smoking and enjoying it.
She was also a fabulous seamstress. Many hours of hearing that buzz-buzz-buzz -the needle climbing to it's goal-as she smoked and sewed.
That's what reminded me of her today.
I'm sewing my meager, sad little hems wondering how she did it. She had the machine working overtime and that cigarette burning in the ashtray. I'd hear a pause, for about one minute and the needle would roar to life again. Smoking and sewing-smoking and sewing...
No, she didn't die of lung cancer. Genetically gifted with healthy Nebraskan parents who lived till the age of 91 or 92-she never worried about the hazard's of smoking. In fact, as she got older and could not drive, her second husband, a non smoker used to make it hard for her to buy cigarettes-not much deterred her-he certainly didn't-she was a stubborn smoker and kept a stash of money so she could call me and I'd run to store to buy her a carton.
Ironically, she forgot she was a smoker. She slowly disappeared behind that hazy world of Alzheimer's-forgetting she ever smoked a cigarette.
Just smokin and sewin...
