In the same way that pipes bring back memories to me, cigars just take me away to another time too. Here we go with a another distinctively and unapologetically male rant and walk down memory lane.

So many people are fond of pipes and pipe tobacco. It reminds them of their dads, uncles, neighbors, professors and I wrote about it in a previous blog. (http://happyhour.blogtownhall.com/2008/11/15/masculinity_disappeared_with_the_pipe.thtml )

My readers really liked and responded to that particular piece even though it was written slightly tongue-in-cheek.

There is a cigar culture. It’s a more sophisticated culture than the cigarette culture, if there is such a thing.

Here are a few thoughts on cigars.

You can’t hurry a cigar. You choose your cigar knowing that you must have the time set aside to enjoy it. Once you light it, you can’t hurry it or it ruins the experience. You cannot put it out and finish it later. Actually, you only do that once…. And you clearly remember that experience. It’s like touching the stove or putting your hand in a snow blower. You do it only once and learn. A re-lit cigar is fairly nasty and does not give you anywhere near the experience that you originally set out to have. So, if you don’t have that 20 to 90 minutes set aside, you don’t do it. No such thing as an impulsive cigar smoker. Cigar and Impulsive don't fit in the same sentence. 

You can’t hurry it, you have to plan. It forces you to think ahead ... or a least think. There’s no such thing as a cigar break. All your co-workers run outside for a quick smoke break to get their nicotine fix…but not you. You have self control. You don’t smoke a cigar for the nicotine. There are more efficient ways to get nicotine if that’s your thing. A cigar is planned and thought of as a reward for your hard work at the end of the day.

It’s similar to a pipe with all the fussing and gadgets. The cutters: should you cut it or just nip the end or like the three stooges did, just bite the end off. Is it properly humidified at 70% and kept at 70 degrees. Affectionately known as “70-70” to aficionados.

What wrapper are you going to have? The Cameroon, the Maduro, or the mild Connecticut? Each has their own distinct aroma. Does it have long or short filler? Is it machine made or hand rolled? I love the sign for See-Gars, a classic Nicaraguan cigar whose motto was “lovingly rolled on the thighs of Nicaraguan virgins” Oh my…how could you possibly not fall in love with that cigar? The mental picture of that young Nicaraguan as she sacrificed for you is just overwhelming….OK, now…snap out of it! Let me finish my article!

How you light it is important too. You either use a wooden kitchen match or butane lighter. Never … ever … use a Zippo. The Zippo would impart a petroleum-like smell to the cigar thus ruining the experience. If you’re gonna do it, do it right.

Now, the purists will tell you all about the humidification, the richness of the smoke, and the actual aroma of the cigar before it is lit. They will talk about aged tobacco, the island or country it was grown on, and the length and ring size. The length is exactly that. The ring size is actually the diameter of the cigar. See, I told you there was some intelligence involved here. Cigars make you smarter in math. Cigars are measured in 64ths of an inch. Sooo…a cigar with a ring gauge of 28 is about the thickness of a “Sharpie” marker. A cigar with a ring gauge of 55 is little smaller than a diameter of a quarter. My preference is a 5x54 which means I like a cigar that is 5 inches long and has the diameter of a nickel, maybe a little bigger. That is good for about an hour if you smoke it correctly. One puff about every two minutes is good. Never inhale, and never hold the smoke for too long. You will gag, get high or sick, or have to lick the ground to get the taste out after, or all of the aforementioned. Again, you only do that once, maybe twice.

Bigger cigars burn cooler than thinner cigars. You would think it’s the opposite, but it’s not. Cooler is better. I know it sounds counter-intuitive, but there is nothing worse than a burnt cigar flavor. What you really smell in a cigar is the oils that occur naturally in the tobacco leaf as they are being combusted.

Try to keep an ash of about an inch on the cigar. For some reason that’s the ideal length to keep the ember at the proper temperature.

Many guys will carry a cigar all day and occasionally take it out and smell it and then put it back in its cellophane wrapper or tube case. I enjoy that. I love the smell of a good cigar even before it is lit. That’s part of the experience for me. I enjoy that experience maybe once a week, when I have time, and always outside on the back step.

It’s a time I look forward to. I watch the smoke rise and disappear. I think about the day I had. I think about my life. I ponder possibilities and dream a little. I’m in no hurry and when I am done, I feel like I just got out of a Jacuzzi, had a 90 minute massage, the best therapy session, and a thousand compliments from my closest friends. I know many men feel the same way but would never admit it…or say it in those terms. If you can have that experience with a friend or two and maybe enjoy a favorite adult beverage, then it is absolute bliss.

I said all that to say this. Cigars are so much more than the experience for me. Yeah, I like the fussing, the routine, and the outcome. What I really get out of it is the memories it stimulates for me.

My grandfather smoked a cigar. I loved my grandfather…cigar and all. It reminds me of him. People I liked as a kid smoked cigars. Every Italian guy I knew smoked a cigar. There were some who I thought had one surgically attached to their mouths because they were never without one…ever. At six o’clock every night you would smell the aroma of cigars wafting through the neighborhood which only meant that all the working class men were done eating dinner and were outside having their cigars. You could stick your head out my front door and look to the left or the right and see the Dads with their cigars on the front stoops. Some had newspapers with them. Some were indulging their kids in Red light-Green light or Simon Says. Some watched as their kids performed the latest pop tune or skipped rope or listened as their son told them about their day at school. It forced the tired, weary, calloused-hand dads to slow down for a moment and be an audience to the ones who loved him more than anything else on earth. Dads up and down the block chuckled at impressions, dances, magic tricks, and silly songs from kids who were not allowed to perform those things twenty minutes earlier at the dinner table. He loosened his laces, sat there in his work pants, a t-shirt or muscle shirt and his hair slicked back. He sat there on that stoop with a cigar in one hand and with the other hand felt a little boys bicep when the boy said, “Hey Dad, feel my muscle”. Every Dad had the same response. “Wow, you’re strong”. A few of the Dads would then say, “How about this?” as they flexed their own biceps and their little kids swung on them like a monkey with a big grin. Yes, it was six o’clock. I didn’t know it from a clock or watch. I just knew because it smelled like six o’clock on my block. The beautiful smell of six o’clock, Dads, grandfathers, and neighbors. We didn’t know what a ring size was. We didn’t know short from long filler. We didn’t care what wrapper it was. We didn’t care what vintage or what island it was from. It was the smell of an era long gone.

Now I’m a father. A man nearly a half century old. My Dad is a grandfather now four times. I live in a world now where few friends still have both of their parents. I have both of mine, thank the Lord. The memories I have of my grandfather are “aromatic” memories. The sights, sounds, and yes...the smells. Only few sights and sounds take me down that memory lane. But it’s the smells that bring me there in a split second.

I’m sure my Dad doesn’t remember this, but I remember sitting out back with him one night in Florida where they have lived for 25 years. Mom had gone to bed a couple hours earlier. I said to Dad, “Let’s go outside and have a cigar”. He poured some Crown or Chivas on the rocks for both of us. We sat out back with cigars in one hand and glasses in the other. The lights were out. It was pitch black so the Florida bugs wouldn’t eat us alive. I do remember they were Bauza Cigars from Mikes Cigars. They were a 5x50 Robusto. Both were lit. All I could sense of Dad was what I could see and smell. I could smell the aroma of the cigar. I would see it glow brighter as he puffed on it periodically. I could hear the jingle of the ice in the glass as it tipped up every now and then. We didn’t even speak much. I have no memory of the conversation at all, but I do remember the smell, the sound, and the sight. I’ll never get that out of my head. As a matter of fact, I tell that story to one friend and he starts to tear up saying to me he wishes he had that kind of relationship with his Dad and I never once mentioned anything about relationship. It just happens with a cigar. Sometimes just sitting with someone and having a cigar is all you need. You don’t even have to talk.

The other weekend I had the kids. It was about 9 PM. We were all watching TV. I thought I would go sit on the back step and have a small cigar. My daughter was dozing off and I told my son I’ll be out back. I went out back with a cigar and an iced tea. I sat there quietly and enjoyed my cigar. When I was near done, I turned around and there was my son in the doorway just standing there quietly. I asked how long he had been standing there. He replied “The whole time”. I asked if everything was OK. He said “Yeah, I was just watching you”. All he saw was a Dad at the end of his day…relaxing…looking at the stars, thinking about his successes, failures, his future, and how he could make a better life.

I said “You tired?” He said “Yep”. I got up and we both went in.

I’m probably the only person that can romanticize a cigar, but don’t we all do that with something?