Sometimes a Cigar is . . . MORE Than a Cigar

I'm no longer a smoker, thank God. The moment I threw out my last pack of cigarettes -- after a particularly medieval dentist visit back in the year 2000 or so -- was a sincere one, and I have no urges to return to that sort of butchery. Not to mention the less visible damage that I did to my insides.

However...I will admit there have been moments in the intervening years during which I've entertained a flirtation with cigars. Yes, the stinker and I have had an on-again-off-again relationship since 1993, on my 30th birthday, when I went into Village Cigars in Sheridan Square. It was a cold night and I was pretty well bundled up as I recall. I had the salesperson clip the end of my stogie -- probably something inexpensive like a Garcia y Vega -- and made my way out into the December night.

I get why smokers smoke. I don't defend it; I'd encourage anyone reading this to try and quit. However I refuse to judge anyone for smoking, because I've been there, and I recall not only the addiction and sense of relief when lighting up, but also the privacy it affords. Those five minutes it takes to smoke that cigarette are mine and mine alone. Time stops during the cigarette break, and one can reflect, as they watch their cloud open out from their lips and nostrils.

With a cigar, those five minutes are expanded to 15, 20, 30 minutes, depending on your hurry. My winter walks in the West Village were lovely -- those red-brick brownstones lit up for the holidays in the crisp night, but the cold sometimes cut those walks short.

Last Saturday night the boys and I went to a dinner party at a friend's place, and our host was kind enough to offer me a cigar to chew on as we watched football on his large-screen TV in the living room -- children and dogs running noisily around.

At one point, after enough beers had gone in me, I thought it would be a good idea to go out into the mild Texas evening and light the Bad Boy up. I grabbed some matches from atop my friend's fridge and -- with the burn ban solidly in mind -- I went out on his back deck and lit up.

There, in the glow of my cigar ash, as I puffed, locomotive-style, a memory came to me like a shot. It emerged from far deeper down the well -- much earlier than 1993. This flash was more like '73, and I was in my grandparents' living room at 42 Maple Hill Drive in Larchmont, New York. My "Opa," Bill Fuchs, sat in his favorite chair, feet up on the ottoman, puffing beatifically on his cigar. I'd forgotten my grandfather was an aficionado. I don't know what brand he smoked (he was in the import-export business, so I'm sure it was a good one), and now have a notion to ask my uncle and aunts.

No one complained about his smoke -- partly because it was the early 70's and the tobacco industry was still running full throttle. Mostly though it was all any of us had ever known. That room without cigar smoke would be as sad and lonely as if it had lacked Bill himself, which it would do, sadly, not too many years later.