It is amazing how some lessons in life stay with you. Driving through the Natchez Mall parking lot the other day I saw a familiar sight. Outside the theater a group of teenagers gathered around cars. And there she was, a vision from my teenage years.

Cute clothes, latest haircut, one hand on her hip and the other one holding a cigarette.

Don’t worry. I have had the talk with my children about smoking. We have covered how it makes you and clothes smell and how you are literally taking your life in your hands every time you light up.

But cigarettes and the cancer connection was not the prevailing issue when I was growing up. I did not learn about lung and breast cancer until I got to nursing school. My high school health teacher had told us about nagging coughs, emphysema, and shortness of breath. Big deal, we thought, those are old people problems.

Both of my parents smoked when I was growing up. My mom smoked Salems and my dad preferred unfiltered Pall Malls. And I can remember hugging my dad and smelling the smoke on his clothes and hair.

One Saturday morning, bright and early, my mother announced to me in her cheerful &uot;go ahead and confess because you are already caught&uot; voice, that only a mother can use. &uot;I saw you and your friends downtown last night.&uot;

Keep in mind that in Mendenhall, downtown consisted of a main street with one traffic light and a few blocks over two gas stations and a hamburger joint. My mind raced over the previous evening – football game, riding around, me and my friends sitting on our cars on Main Street whiling away another Friday night. So far so good, I wasn’t anywhere I wasn’t supposed to be and there had been no alcohol in sight.

Then it hit me, a cigarette dangling from my hand while leaning up against a car. I knew as far as my mother was concerned this was the epitome of tacky, which I thought was kind of hypocritical since she smoked herself.

Not to worry she assured me, she had decided that she really wasn’t really angry. After all she and my father smoked; and it was probably their fault that I was giving it a try. But she felt sure I wasn’t doing it properly and (here’s the catch) she was going to help me learn how to smoke properly you know inhale and the whole bit.

Like most smart-aleck teenagers, I shrugged my shoulders and thought &uot;big deal.&uot; Even though I usually just kind of held the smoke in my mouth, how hard could this be?

That was when she brought out a carton of my father’s unfiltered Pall Malls and a big box of matches.

A few hours later my perspective had changed. I think nowadays my morning would have landed me in the hospital with nicotine poisoning. As it was, I thought I was going to die.

Even as I turned a lovely shade of green, had long passed the throwing up stage and moved into the dry heaves, my mom in her state of kindness continued to help me light up and work on my inhaling.

One week later, another Friday night, football game over and teens congregating, one of my friends lit up and offered me her cigarette. The reaction was swift and I ran, with my stomach rolling over, from the smoke. Even as I write this I have chill bumps from the memory and a desire to stop and tell the teenager in the parking lot &uot;now take a deep breath and suck that smoke in.&uot;

Christina Hall is the lifestyle editor at The Democrat. She can be reached at 445-3549 or by e-mail at christina.hall@natchezdemocrat.com