My Mother Tried to Kill Me.

At least once a month, my mom tried to kill me.
She didn't lure me to an open field and put a gun to my head.
No, she did it right out in the open.
She tried to smoke me out.

They say second hand smoke kills.
What about five women chain smoking for 5 hours and directing their collective smoke to my upstairs bedroom?
My dad, in an apparent desperate attempt to save my life, installed a ceiling fan in our split level home built in the 50's, but his frugality got the better of him.

Air conditioning was the answer, but my father would look at a price tag and go into septic shock.

No, it was every man for himself.

My dad excused himself for the evening and went bowling, his regular escape from being smoked in.

My sister and I slept in our bedrooms left to die.

Four Crack.
Three Bam.
East.

I have no idea to this day what those terms meant or do I have motivation to find out today.

I have managed to live into my sixties.
I have never smoked.
I don't drink booze.

Still, every once in a while, a doctor will take a look at my chest X-Ray and say to me:

"Have you ever smoked?"

And I sort of smile and say to him:

"Doc, do you know much about Mah Jong?"