Why Do You Want to Die, Daddy?

You stopped smoking, why won’t you stop drinking?

I remember it well. Mom and Dad would always say, “Run upstairs and fetch a pack of cigarettes, Honey.” And we did.

It felt important and grown up to be the ones to fly up the stairs, open the big top bureau drawer and breathe in that tobacco smell while taking the next pack of Lucky Strikes out of the carton.

We did that, my sister and I, over and over. Till we got the word. 1965. The word came down from on high — smoking is bad for your health. Just like that. One day it was cool and oh, so grown up. The next day it was deadly.

How did we know? The TV said so. And the TV back in those black and white days had serious messages. How to duck and cover in the event of a nuclear attack and that smoking is now known to be bad for you.

So once we got that message, we headed it. We were too young to say, “Get your own damn cigarettes.” But we did say, “Nope. We’re not going. They’re BAD for you!”

And you know what? It worked. They didn’t start fetching their own goddamn cigarettes, they stopped smoking. Altogether.

Well, my dad continued with his pipe. For years. But no more cigarettes after a few times of us holding the line.

This might be why it worked

I believe this worked because we were in sync with a national smoking cessation and awareness movement. It was quite successful in many demographics.

Unfortunately, the tobacco industry moved on from mainstream suburban America to more vulnerable populations, including the youth market and poor people of color. Picture Joe Camel characters just like Mickey Mouse at Disney Land handing out sample packs outside of rock concerts. Do they still get to do this?

At one point the U.S. led the world in smoking cessation public education. Between bans on smoking in commercial and organizational buildings, higher taxes on tobacco products, the surgeon general’s warnings on the packs themselves and a variety of educational and cessation assistance programs, it still is a thing.

Not so much with booze.

Funny Mom and Dad never said, “Run upstairs and get me a beer.” Mainly because The beer and the martini pitcher weren’t upstairs. They were in the refrigerator which was in the kitchen. They didn’t have to go very far at all!

The three crystal decanters containing gin, bourbon, and scotch were on the buffet in the dining room. Occasionally we’d be asked to go into the kitchen and grab some ice cubes for a vodka gimlet.

It never crossed our minds to refuse. There were no national promotions on booze being bad for your health like there was for the cigarettes.

And Mom and Dad didn’t leave their drinking up to our approval. They just drank. Alone, together, with friends, after work, on weekends…more and more as time went on.

They even tried to get us to join them

Being bridge players, they were eager to have their daughters learn the game which takes four players. So at ages 11 and 13, we got bridge lessons. I remember sitting around a card table in the living room, learning to count trump — the highest-ranking suit of cards that was bid, not the president.

In addition to wanting bridge partners, they wanted drinking buds. So they tried spiking our Shirley Temples with gin. Yuck! Nasty! That didn’t last long as it was so very bitter.

Maybe that early taste helped me not be curious to try it as an older teen, though I certainly had my fill of Boone’s Farm and Strawberry Hill out on dates as a 16-year-old.

By then, my dad’s heart attacks had started. He repeatedly got told not to drink or smoke — his pipe, remember? He eventually had to have a triple bypass and didn’t live much past that.

My one shot

Did I ever tell him or ask him not to drink? Once. We’d gone out to eat, just the two of us at a Victoria Station. Remember those? An upscale restaurant in a railroad car — a caboose it was.

After our steak dinner, we climbed up the ladder to the lookout deck and had dessert. Plus he had an aperitif. Brandy probably. Having already had a few refills on his Scotch, he was a little tipsy.

That’s when I asked him the question.

“Why do you want to kill yourself, Daddy?”

I don’t remember his exact words. He skirted the issue and fortunately did not yell at me. But I clearly remember him falling off the ladder on the way down.

Given his growing interest in law, I wanted to shout, “See! I rest my case!”

I was right and I knew it.

He retired from the Air Force and went to law school at night. By day, he studied at home where he could start in with the Bloody Marys first thing in the morning while Mom was at work.

One time I remember him saying, “You’d almost think I was an alcoholic.” Duh!

Was it preventable?

I don’t know for sure, but maybe, just maybe, if there’d been a national campaign for drinking cessation he might be alive today. My mom is. She stopped. That’s another story for another day.

It’s too late for my dad but not too late for our country. All we need is to put down our drinks and get busy. And stand up to a multi-billion dollar lobby. What are the chances? Slim, very slim. But not impossible. It’s been done before.

AA and Al-Anon which I respect and admire very much subscribe to the principle, Attraction, rather than promotion. That’s on an individual basis.

Rather than continue to promote images making it cool, lubricating the commerce and love-making of our whole society, why not have a huge public campaign like we did and do for tobacco?

No, we can’t make anyone quit, but maybe we can encourage them with a concerted national message. And tip off the kids. Sure couldn’t hurt.

If you enjoyed this, you might enjoy reading about my Mom’s sobriety success:

Marilyn Flower writes fast fun reads with a touch of magical realism to strengthen the imagination of socially conscious folks. Clowning and improvisation strengthen her during these crazy times. She’s a regular columnist for the prison newsletter, Freedom Anywhere, and five of her short plays have been produced in San Francisco.