Teach Your Children Well
2001, North Central Texas
By Mary Salerno
I’m at the beauty salon with my adult daughter, Laura. She has the most beautiful hair I think I’ve ever seen. It’s brown, you might say, but then you get a little closer, not even right up on her, just closer; or perhaps you put on your glasses, or finally move that stray contact that you swore went back into your brain but no, there it is now, right over your pupil where it belongs. Then you will not say her hair is brown.
You’ll say her hair is amazing, that it is brownish, with reddish or coppery highlights, all mingled into her thick, luxurious tangle of waves and curls. You’ll try to follow a highlight that catches your eye somewhere near the part, and you’ll be able to see it until it dips down under another curl, only to resurface on that little wave, just over her ear. How lush and lavish her hair is, and I don’t know where it came from.
The small salon is on the top floor of a rickety old house in our little town. The bottom floor is occupied by a tea room that really serves such things as cucumber sandwiches and raspberry tea. As you creak your way to the second floor - the creaking possibly coming from your knees, if you’re “of an age,” or from the tired old stairs - the relatively small room that houses the shop comes into view.
Inside, there are only two stations and two stylists. Rita, a “good old girl” whose name would be Bubba if she were a guy, has a heart of gold. She is a no-bull, hard-livin’, cigarette-smokin’ woman sort of rough around the edges. Camille, in her 20s, has dyed-red hair, porcelain skin, and between 8 and 10 piercings about her ears and face. She is very funny, very sweet.
Camille is ours, and she’s just starting to cut my daughter’s hair when Rita comes dragging in. Rita has just had a baby, well - two weeks prior, anyway, and is already back at work lugging that little baby around with her, standing on her feet who-knows-how-many hours a day. All this after a cesarean.
I don’t know if I should burst into a fine rendition of “I Am Woman” when I see her or if she’s just dumber than a box of rocks. She has her fast-food lunch in one hand and the baby cradled in the other arm, and being a sucker for babies, I offer to hold the little tyke while her mama eats her lunch.
If Rita were capable of displaying a characteristic other than extreme fatigue, she would have been ecstatic. As it is, she fairly plops the baby into my waiting arms and shuffles off to her station to eat while I cluck and coo over the baby, thinking of years gone by in my life.
Babies are delicate. They are soft and lovely, even when they’re kind of ugly, as some newborns are. My now-beautiful son was remarkable in his ugliness, and I sometimes commented on it back then. My poor grandfather took this to mean that I didn’t like the child, which couldn’t have been further from the truth. He tried to console me once by telling me that I’d learn to like him. Not, you will notice, by telling me my child was beautiful. No. That would have been lying.
At any rate, this little girl of Rita’s is small and delicate with a good little head of hair, long fingers, big old feet and, well, she is lovely. And she reeks, I mean reeks of the smell of cigarettes. The smell permeates her cute little dress, her blanket, her hair. She doesn’t smell baby-sweet. Nope. Cigarettes.
My heart aches. No, I mean really aches. It feel like it is going to split. I look at the sleeping child in my arms and judge her little lungs to be maybe 3 to 4 inches long.
I look at the baby’s mama and wonder if it would do any good to beg her not to smoke near this precious little life. I look at my daughter, around whom I had smoked most of her life and who later took up the habit herself. My daughter, with the gorgeous hair that is being cut off in anticipation of it falling out because of the chemo she’s taking for her lung cancer. I wonder if I could convey to Rita how it all feels. Sadly, I realize that I could not.
Mary Salerno lives in Texas, where she works full-time and enjoys sculpting, writing, and playing with friends in her free time. Although the creative-writing group she started is now defunct, she continues to write for pleasure and is a regular contributor to a monthly newsletter. Laura lost her battle with cancer in February 2003.
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20 Responses to “Teach Your Children Well”
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July 11th, 2007 at 5:01 am
This just hits me for so many reasons. I came across a photo of Laurie with hair the other day and realized how hard it is for me to remember what she looked like with hair. I remember the day I shaved her head–how there was some initial laughter until the gravity of what we were doing pulled us back down. I hated cutting her hair and seeing it fall to the floor in your bathroom; I hated everything that happened to my big sister after that day.
I’m definitelty glad to see you writing, though. You’ve always been good with a reveal, and this particular essay has always been a fave.
Christopher
July 11th, 2007 at 6:32 am
Mary, a very heartfelt story.
I lost both my parents to lung /throat cancer. As a kid, I thought it was normal people kept cartons of cigarettes in the freezer. The truth is, they smoked so many packs a day they could hardly keep enough around.
As for me, I write and I cough. For whatever reason, I have never smoked. Never even experimented.
I’m glad you had the courage to tell your touching story. Who knows? One person reading it may decide to quit smoking! I hope so.
July 11th, 2007 at 9:32 am
To Christopher, I know. I remember all those days more than I want to. Thanks for your encouragement and support.
Roberta, thanks for reading and commenting. I, too, would like this story to have an impact on someone. Although I quit smoking 10 years ago, and although Laura may very well have smoked even if I never had, the thought stays with me. I regret that you, too, had to walk through a lung cancer death. I think of my son, who not only watched his sister die this way, but his father as well. Tough stuff. Thanks again.
July 11th, 2007 at 11:00 am
What a beautiful story. I was enjoying the lyrical way you described Laura’s hair, and wondering “where is this going?” as I settled in to the down home feeling of hearing about Rita and your grandad and babies and then WHAM. What a shock.
Thank you for sharing this very touching story, for your bravery and your honesty.
July 11th, 2007 at 11:51 am
Such a beautiful story — short, to the point, and lovely. I’m so sorry for the loss of your beautiful daughter.
July 11th, 2007 at 5:08 pm
Maura and Shawna, thanks so much for reading my story and for responding. I appreciate your kind words and am honored this story had an impact on you.
Best,
Mary
July 12th, 2007 at 5:15 am
Mary - what a lovely remberance of days spent with your precious daughter. A very moving story and one of your best……she would be so proud of you!
July 12th, 2007 at 8:52 am
Thank you Dianne. I appreciate your encouragement, always!
July 12th, 2007 at 7:17 pm
Mary,
Like Maura, I found myself reading and wondering what’s happening in this story…I need to keep reading and then I knew. We can’t underestimate the power of the word nor the importance of the message.
Love ya!
July 13th, 2007 at 4:24 am
“We can’t underestimate the power of the word nor the importance of the message.”
Not just in this story but in all the supporting data. PJ, you’re a joy in my life. Thank you! Love you, too.
July 14th, 2007 at 10:52 am
Mary,Thank you for this great story.I would like to take this time to say sorry for your loss.
Both my parents smoked while I was a child growing up both my sisters had to live with their somke as well.I think that is why my sisters and I have asthma
Both my parents have died because of thier smoking.My Dad died at the age of 58 due to a heart attack in 1984.My Mom suffered from lung cancer and died in 2003.The bad part was that she had quit smoking about 5 years before she died.
So I guess what I’m trying to say is that we all are touched by the beast that is called tobacco in some way or other.I even smoked for 20 years before I finally quit smoking my self,some 13 years ago.I just hope that what ever damage I did to my self,that by being a non-smoker that some of the damage can be reversed by not smokeing.
God Bless you for the courage to share you story.Mike G.
July 14th, 2007 at 5:08 pm
Thanks for you kind words and your insight, Mike, and may I say that I’m sorry for the premature loss of both your parents. Wonderful that you quit! I did too, ten years ago and looking back, it seems the smoker, Mary, was a completely different person. I can’t even imagine smoking. Perhaps you find that to be true as well.
I appreciate your taking the time to read and comment on my story. Thank you.
July 25th, 2007 at 10:07 pm
Mary,You bet the smoker Mike was a different person.I started as a teen(who didn’t) I quite in 1994 on my second wife’s birthday.Man i made it misrible for her.
On December 17,1990 I completed an other milestone in my life,I sobered up!
This January I turned 55,My marriage has lasted 27 years.
So to say that I greatful for all the good things in my life is an understatement.
God Bless,MikeG.
July 29th, 2007 at 7:31 am
I’ve never been a smoker, but I married one (though we’ve recently separated). My new boyfriend is a reformed smoker and he is adamant that hubby shouldn’t smoke around my two children. Last fall the baby (not quite two) had a very bad ear infection. The specialist asked if anyone in the family was a smoker. I told them hubby was but “I made him go outside to puff” — the doctor then asked if hubby smoked NAKED on the doorstep. I looked at him like he was out of his mind and said no, of course not!!! And then the doctor said that going outdoors for a smoke didn’t do any good because the toxins would cling to your clothing, hair etc. Really hit home to me… You don’t realize how bad smoking is as it is socially acceptable. I am sorry for the death of your daughter… she looks like a lot of fun in the photo at the top of the story. It’s hard to lose the ones we love… Keep writing. This was a good read and a good message.
July 31st, 2007 at 7:59 pm
Since we have the same name I was reading your story and it brought a smile to face rembering the times I go to the hairdrsser with my daughters and brought back wonderful memories. As I got to the end of the story I felt your pain finding that you lost your daughter to cancer and it brought tears, thinking how painful it must of been and still must be for you.
Mary Salerno
August 13th, 2007 at 7:56 am
Mary,
What a beautiful remembrance of a wonderful daughter, a loving mother, and a grief so strong because of a love so deep. You are an inspiration to me.
Carol
August 13th, 2007 at 4:15 pm
To Mike, Denise and Mary Salerno…forgive me for not responding sooner; I just popped back in after my friend, Carol, mentioned she had read this.
Mike, you’ve really overcome some challenges and I’d like to wish you a Happy 17th Birthday on December 17! Good for you! And 27 years married is certainly a testament to you and your wife. Thanks for checking back……I appreciate the additional info.
I’m sure your doctor is correct, Denise. The smoke clings and moves around with the smoker. I truly didn’t realize that when I smoked. Good for you for not allowing smoking around your children. Thanks for your kind words about my daughter.
Well, Mary Salerno, I must say your email confused me for a moment because even though I read that we have the same name, I still ended up thinking…..wait, I didn’t write that : ) Thanks so much for sharing your feelings about what I wrote.
Best to all,
Mary
August 13th, 2007 at 4:17 pm
Dearest Carol, thank you. And I could not have walked that path without you in my life; I’m eternally grateful for your friendship.
Love,
Mary
August 13th, 2007 at 4:18 pm
Dearest Carol, thank you. And I could not have walked that path without you in my life; I\’m eternally grateful for your friendship.
Love,
Mary
December 1st, 2007 at 11:12 am
I do not want the light hearted poem, written to a smoking friend many years ago,
take away from the senseless tragedy portrayed so well by Mary.
ODE TO A WEED
Look at them smokers puff them weeds,
Don’t they know where puffin’leads?
See them smokers walkin’ by?
Watch ‘em squint from smoke in their eye.
Hear ‘em cough, hear them hack,
Now they open another pack.
They think we worry about their
Early death
But what we hate is that awful breath.
It sure stinks
And we all told ‘em
Yet they’d smoke in their sleep,
If they had somebody to hold ‘em.
JIM LINDSEY