The first time I had one, I was only 11. It was me, Amber (my childhood best friend), her little brother, Ote, his friend, Jon, and our buddy, Jeff. The basement of the former church on Marvel Road (1984) was the perfect environment for the genesis of addiction: dark, dank and uninhabited. In the bowels of the church, “all bets were off.” We were like early transformers. Putting aside dodgeball games, Big League chews and Garbage Pail kids’ cards, we morphed into early substance abusers. The sweet innocence of youth was replaced by rebellion and lighter fluid. To this day, I can’t pass by a liquor store or gas station without the impulse to have one, just one. But the experience of positive 12-step preaching and adulthood has alerted me to my weakness. Quitting smoking is rumored to be harder than withdrawing from heroin. It wasn’t easy to abstain. I wish that I had never started. I wasn’t a chronic user. After my early enthusiasm, aided by forged parental notes at the former Gilbert’s Pharmacy on Central Avenue, I forget all about the “thrill,” and didn’t start again until my early days at High School in the Community (1990). Back in the day, the school permitted smoking in the parking lot, and I soon fell prey to the availability of clove cigarettes and wanting very badly to fit in. I’m still not sure why I would pursue smoking as opposed to alcohol or dope or whatever was available back then. To this day, I abhor the taste of alcohol and I’m squeamish about needles unless there’s a super kind phlebotomist who withdraws my blood for an A1C or triglyceride test. I could easily demolish a Nestle Tollhouse Pie (no help needed) or a whip cream cake from Lucibello’s, but offer me a Scorpion Bowl? I’ll gag. Fall 1992. I was lighting up outside my dorm at Saint Joseph College and “Sister Sassafras,” the former dean, lectured “you’ll never grow up if you smoke.” For the first time, I learned that nicotine stunts growth. I never was a heavy smoker; I’d be surprised if I inhaled. I toyed with smoking for the next decade, more of a hobby than an addiction. It wasn’t until 2002, at which point I had graduated to half a pack/day, when my therapist cautioned: “If you keep on smoking, you’ll get wrinkles. Women smokers in their 20s look like they’re in their 30s, 30-year-olds can be mistaken for 40s, etc.” That was enough to cut it, cold turkey. Then, I didn’t enter a program, but I successfully quit by replacing the cancer stick for a butterscotch button (hard candy). Every time I wanted to light up, I’d grab one of my butterscotch friends and go outside to enjoy it. And, ta da! — no more yellow fingers, bad breath or disapproval from my Mom and Dad. Recovery is tricky. Nothing is glamorous about cigarettes, but I still have an urge when I read about characters in a novel, who are getting their “fix” or when I watch “Rebel without a Cause,” (for the 35th time) or when I vacation in Provincetown or Ogunquit and just crave “one,” for the beach. There’s just something mesmerizing about waves and the glow of a cigarette at sunset. There are many good reasons to quit, but the major one is staying strong enough to enjoy bicycling. Additionally, there are dire consequences of misdiagnosis amid the pandemic. You start coughing and sputtering in public these days? You’ll be treated like a leper. Fall 2022: Heading south again for another visit with Mike and Sue (my parents), I can only imagine how “thrilled” they’d be if I lit up in their backyard. Despite my upcoming 50th birthday and being an adult, I still want their approval. They can manage a raid on the refrigerator for leftover cake and noodle kugel, but seeing their daughter followed by a trail of smoke would certainly upset the prospective tranquility of the trip. Considering their advanced ages, the illicit activity might even provoke a stroke. Given that it’s now a synagogue, returning to the church on Marvel Road is moot. Nowadays, my Westville activities are limited to getting an iced coffee at Deja Brew or walking Gracie, the family Schnauzer. Highlights of the walk may include chatting with the eclectic neighbors, the professor who just got a motorcycle license or the gregarious mailman, who greets the aging Gracie like a graceful monarch. Returning to my “old stomping grounds” can be accomplished triumphantly. Any inhaling activity will be limited to Mom’s traditional “no pudge fudge,” brownies or Mike’s biannual pig roast in the backyard. Rachel Allison Eisner is a writer in New Haven.