Love Letters From The Other Side: Menthol Cigarettes
I loved my uncle very much. Still do. I think about him from time to time and ask him for guidance when the mood strikes me, but it took time, faith, and a small miracle or two for me to realize that this was something that was available to me.
I come from a pretty traditional southern, Black family so naturally, we called him “Uncle Bubba”. He was tall, maybe about 6’2”, and handsome with a smooth, soothing voice and demeanor. To say that he was resilient would be an understatement! He had a very pronounced limp from contracting polio when he was 2 or 3 years old. Some of the neighborhood kids assumed his limp was from a driveby shooting or something dramatic like that. (Gangster rap was definitely trending in those days.) This always made me giggle inside because he was one of the most gentle and loving humans I knew. I never bothered to correct anyone though.
At times, I thought he understood me the most. I remember having these very involved conversations with him in my formative years. I have one vivid memory of sitting with him in his bedroom one evening (he lived next door to my mom, grandparents, and I at the time), having a very soulful conversation about the concept of the word “forever” and what that really meant. We discussed our ideas of what that would actually look like and pondered the vastness of the universe as it stretches on for “forever”. I was 12 years old at the time. He must have been 44. When I think back on those conversations I think, “He must have been a stoner!” Ha!
His death was sudden and took us all by surprise. I was 17 years old. He didn’t show up to work that day so a family member went to his home to check in on him. We discovered that he had died of a heart attack in the night. I remember waking up that morning to my grandmother delivering the news. “Uncle Bubba died last night.” I was instantly numb. You know that scene from one of those war movies that shows a bomb strike and upon impact everything goes silent? It was like that. Complete destruction, but no tears. I had never had an experience like that before. Processing the death of such a treasured loved one is a strange, varied experience. I grieved for him little by little over the many years that passed.
One thing that Uncle Bubba always wanted for me was to get my driver’s license. I was always too afraid to try to practice driving around -- even on the riding lawnmower in our backyard. I could tell self-sufficiency was very important to him and he wanted me to have it for myself. Eventually, after his death, I did in fact get my driver’s license. It was only fitting that I would be gifted his car after the way he hounded me for months to practice driving. I drove that car through the rest of my high school years and on into the first part of my college career.
My Uncle Bubba was a chain smoker. If I remember correctly, he smoked about 2 packs of cigarettes a day — menthols at that. He smoked in his house, in his car, everywhere! My grandma would get on to him about it from time to time. It’s no wonder he was in such poor health, but no one could convince him to do anything different. After Bubba’s death, his car had to get majorly detailed to get the smell of smoke out. Whoever cleaned it did an amazing job because not a TRACE of smoke smell was left. The car was like brand new!
After school on a typical blazing hot Texas summer day, I walked back to my car with plans on making the short drive home. I had been driving the car for about 8 months at this point. I opened the car door only to be met with the MOST overwhelming menthol cigarette smoke smell that I had ever experienced since Uncle Bubba’s death. That thick stench pretty much smacked me in the face! I was immediately frozen with confusion and a little fear. I had been driving this car around for months! That whole time I never noticed even a hint of smoke smell and now this?! It was like someone had smoked a full pack of cigarettes with the windows rolled up. (Incidentally my uncle loved smoking with all the windows up in the winter. I never understood how he could take it.)
My sufficiently stunned mind frantically tried to search for some logical reason why that smell would have appeared that day, but nothing satisfying ever came to mind. I just had to take it as a sign from him. I think he wanted to let me know that he was still with me. That he still loved us and he still cared and could still be called upon for a little guidance and direction. And he’s been with me ever since.
