Smoking is bad for your health. I know this. I tell friends and loved ones this when they smoke. I encourage them to quit. I do not advocate for smoking in any way. Except that I freaking love the smell.
Pipe smoke and cigar smoke have always been important smells for me and my nose. I remember being very young and visiting my dad in his basement office at the church in Cokesbury, New Jersey. It was always cold and damp in the basement, even in the summertime, but I liked to visit because I got to smell the things in his office. (I was a weird little kid.) I particularly liked the smell (and sounds) of his typewriter, but more importantly I really liked the smell of one specific sweater. It was a dark maroon thick knit cardigan sweater with big brown buttons and it was always hanging somewhere in the office. That sweater always smelled of pipe smoke. I loved that smell. It was a very Dad smell.
Likewise cigar smoke has always appealed to me. My dad smokes cigars from time to time to keep bugs away and to assist in the moving of heavy objects and/or the mowing of the lawn. I’m not sure how the cigar helps with these tasks, but it always seems to be a needed accessory at those times. But long story short, cigar smoke has never bothered me either. It is a smell that I do not attempt to avoid and always enjoy.
Cigarette smoke has never bothered me either. I’ve had many friends, very close friends, who have smoked, often right in front of me. A few of them even manage to not smell like smokers, as if they miraculously are able to prevent the scent from being absorbed by their hair and clothing. I swear these people smell better than I do, it’s rather unnerving. (There have been a few occasions where I’ve encountered someone who smoked cigarettes so much that they themselves smelled almost sour. The scent was so strong that it was almost impossible to breathe around them without the gag reflex kicking in. This reaction is not limited to the smell of cigarette smokers, however. Someone doused in any kind of perfume or cologne receives the same reaction from my olfactory glands. Is it a gland? A node, perhaps? Obviously I didn’t pay enough attention in Biology.) In the end the smell of smoke of any variety has never disgusted me and usually calls to mind quite pleasant memories.
So the Iowa Clean Air Act presents me with quite a dilemma. Out here you are not allowed to smoke in any public buildings, just like at home. In addition, however, you must be a certain distance away from the entrance of any public building before you can light up. In New Jersey, this wouldn’t really work. For the most part if you are twenty five feet away from the entrance of one building you are more than likely less than twenty five feet away from another building’s door. We’ve crammed too much into too little a space so we all have to smell each other’s smoke, among other things. But in this much larger state with far fewer residents per square mile, it is entirely possible to go weeks without catching the scent of a cigarette.
Since I moved in about a month and a half ago I think I have gotten a good whiff of smoke maybe twice. Once was at the state fair, but I was still getting over a cold so the nose was not running at full capacity and I wasn’t able to get the full scent. The second time was just the other day outside the Starbucks where I had to practically restrain myself from hovering around and sniffing the guy who was smoking.
Believe me, it’s not like I haven’t been out in public. I’ve been going to school twice a week, I’ve gone to three job interviews, I’ve gotten gas maybe five million times (there’s lots of driving out here), and I’ve been shopping at both grocery and retail stores more times than I can accurately recall. Had I been doing all these things in New Jersey I would certainly have encountered a cloud of smoke many a time, most likely every time I walked out of a public building. But here I swear you have to actively try to catch just a whiff of smoke. That clean air law really works, man.
This is supposed to be a good thing, I know. No one seems to understand my need to experience this particular smell. It’s kind of like going to a public gym specifically to take in the odor of sweaty wrestling mats. It’s weird, I get that. And I fully understand that it is much healthier for everyone to not be exposed to clouds of toxic and carcinogenic smoke; I’m not advocating for secondhand smoke here. It’s just that I’m so used walking into the occasional cloud that I actually miss it.
The air out here always smells clean and refreshing (unless you’re driving past a hog barn), but a deep breathe here does nothing to satisfy me. The fact that I never have that acrid smoky smell around makes it impossible for me to appreciate its absence. Back when I worked retail in New Jersey I walked through that smoker’s scent every time I went out into the parking lot. I would hop in my car and take off down the back country roads over the mountain that stood between work and home. Then I would roll down the windows and take in deep breaths of clean air created by the thousands of trees flying past, a freshness that inevitably would fade once I drove back into a town. But in those moments I could inhale to the fullest capacity and love every minute of it.
Fresh air in New Jersey is far easier to appreciate. It is at times fleeting and hard to find between the clouds of smoke and various other odiferous items. It is not ever present, and therefore far more enjoyable when it is found. Out here I can’t seem to revel in the freshness of the atmosphere with such a lack of pollution. My lungs find little joy in a deep breath. I have been poisoned by my eastern upbringing.
It doesn’t help that every time I do manage to catch that elusive whiff of smoke I am immediately flooded by the good memories my brain has associated with that smell, particularly the memories of certain people or places. Every time it happens I am reminded of how you never really appreciate something until it’s gone, or is at least very far away. It’s got me wandering around the countryside like a bloodhound on a hunt. I find myself desperate to hear someone striking a lighter or packing a pack against the palm of their hand, just to get a hint of that smoke and feel a little closer to home.
But my lungs, I’m sure, appreciate all the fresh air, even if my brain and nose are completely insane.
Jersey Goes West 