Jan 13, 2014, 11:06 AM, Posted by Jeff Meade
When I was a little kid growing up in Norwich, N.Y., I earned candy money by helping out at Saturday night bingo, held in the basement hall of St. Bartholomew Church.
By "helping out," I mean taking orders (and collecting tips) from the little old ladies who were so focused on their bingo cards that they could not leave the table long enough to get themselves a drink or a snack.
Virtually all of those old ladies smoked. A blue-gray haze hung over the room like a dingy veil. I might as well have been chain-smoking Lucky Strikes the whole night.
When those old ladies placed their orders, their vocal chords coarsened by decades of smoking—“Get me a meatball sandwich, will ya, hon?" —they sounded to my impressionable young ears like the tough-guy character actor Broderick Crawford. (The little mustaches, perhaps, completed the illusion.)
People younger than I am probably can't imagine what it was like to live in that world, a world in which smoking was ubiquitous.