Thirty Sticks in Thirty Days
Echambers
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As many of you know (mostly because I won’t stop talking about it) I’m getting married in thirty days. To count down the days, I’ve selected 30 sticks to smoke -- one each day (think about a grown-up version of “How to Eat Fried Worms”). I’ll document what I smoke here rather than one of the “What did you smoke...” threads so people that are interested can read and those that are not don’t have to put up with my self-absorbed dribble.
Most of the sticks i’ve chosen are ones that I’ve been sitting on for a while, looking for the perfect moment to smoke. In all but a few case these have been given to me by members of the forum. Each day I’ll tell you what I smoked, where it came from, and why I choose it. You’ll also learn a little something about who I am--probably more than you want to. I promise to be vulnerable and if that’s too much for you I’ll understand if you don’t want to read.
Day One: Romeo y Julieta Coronito en Cedro courtesy of Stubble
A Tragedy, Averted.
As I write this, Frank Sinatra is crooning, “Love is lovelier, the second time around” and I have to stop working for a minute to pray to God that he is right. My first marriage ended poorly and the resultant divorce proceedings were tragic. A tragedy, is an event that causes “great suffering, destruction, and distress.” Most people see divorce as an issue between the soon-to-be unmarried couple and their children (if they have any). But divorce affects all aspects of your life--my kids and I suffered, to be sure, but so did my friends, my colleagues, my staff. For the first two years after the divorce I felt like I was poisonous. Everything and everyone I had a relationship suffered because of me and for the majority of them, the desire not to suffer with me was stronger than their desire to stay. I lost most of my friends during those first two years. it’s easy, of course, to say that if they weren’t willing to stick with me during the bad times they probably weren’t true friends. But they were and it was my fault they left.
Most everyone knows the story of Romeo and Juliet and most everyone knows why it is a tragedy: Juliet feigns her death, Romeo thinking her really dead swallows a vial of poison. Juliet wakes up sees her love dead and plunges his dagger deep into her heart uttering this famous line, “Oh happy dagger, in me rust and let me die.” I think a lot of people get caught up in the love story party and forget that this is really a tragedy.
So why pay homage to a such a ‘story of woe” by smoking a Cuban RyJ? Because I almost lost my Juliet, not to a vial of poison or a “happy dagger” but because I almost lacked the courage to act at the the moment I needed to. I have long held that fear controls most of our actions (love and lust the rest) and while I had walked up to the line that had me toe to toe with my Sweet many times, I was so battle scarred, I almost didn’t cross it. But then, in spite of being scared, in spite of not wanting to get hurt again, I took a step forward and haven’t looked back. If I hadn't taken that step I would most likely be in some crappy bar drinking crappy beer, and feeling….well, feeling “tragic.”
By the way, my last “day in court” with my ex was on St. Valentine’s Day after nearly three years of fighting. I took back the day last February 14th by proposing to my sweet.
Here is my smoke (and thanks again, Stubble!)
Most of the sticks i’ve chosen are ones that I’ve been sitting on for a while, looking for the perfect moment to smoke. In all but a few case these have been given to me by members of the forum. Each day I’ll tell you what I smoked, where it came from, and why I choose it. You’ll also learn a little something about who I am--probably more than you want to. I promise to be vulnerable and if that’s too much for you I’ll understand if you don’t want to read.
Day One: Romeo y Julieta Coronito en Cedro courtesy of Stubble
A Tragedy, Averted.
As I write this, Frank Sinatra is crooning, “Love is lovelier, the second time around” and I have to stop working for a minute to pray to God that he is right. My first marriage ended poorly and the resultant divorce proceedings were tragic. A tragedy, is an event that causes “great suffering, destruction, and distress.” Most people see divorce as an issue between the soon-to-be unmarried couple and their children (if they have any). But divorce affects all aspects of your life--my kids and I suffered, to be sure, but so did my friends, my colleagues, my staff. For the first two years after the divorce I felt like I was poisonous. Everything and everyone I had a relationship suffered because of me and for the majority of them, the desire not to suffer with me was stronger than their desire to stay. I lost most of my friends during those first two years. it’s easy, of course, to say that if they weren’t willing to stick with me during the bad times they probably weren’t true friends. But they were and it was my fault they left.
Most everyone knows the story of Romeo and Juliet and most everyone knows why it is a tragedy: Juliet feigns her death, Romeo thinking her really dead swallows a vial of poison. Juliet wakes up sees her love dead and plunges his dagger deep into her heart uttering this famous line, “Oh happy dagger, in me rust and let me die.” I think a lot of people get caught up in the love story party and forget that this is really a tragedy.
So why pay homage to a such a ‘story of woe” by smoking a Cuban RyJ? Because I almost lost my Juliet, not to a vial of poison or a “happy dagger” but because I almost lacked the courage to act at the the moment I needed to. I have long held that fear controls most of our actions (love and lust the rest) and while I had walked up to the line that had me toe to toe with my Sweet many times, I was so battle scarred, I almost didn’t cross it. But then, in spite of being scared, in spite of not wanting to get hurt again, I took a step forward and haven’t looked back. If I hadn't taken that step I would most likely be in some crappy bar drinking crappy beer, and feeling….well, feeling “tragic.”
By the way, my last “day in court” with my ex was on St. Valentine’s Day after nearly three years of fighting. I took back the day last February 14th by proposing to my sweet.
Here is my smoke (and thanks again, Stubble!)
Comments
Though I have never been through a divorce, I have been married since right out of high school (1989) to my 7th grade sweetheart, it hasn't always been easy, and we did have some Real trouble about 10 years ago that was as close to it as I would ever care to come.
Looking forward to more of your insights.
My Father’s Day Tale
Today is my father’s birthday. He’s 72, married to a women younger than me, and is raising twin eight year old girls. For forty-four of my forty-eight years he lived in a different state from me but recently retired and moved to Bellingham, about 15 minutes from my house. Over the span of my life he and I made some great memories--from meeting Cal Ripken, to almost getting arrested (long story), quite a bit of traveling,and so forth. But there are also lots of things we’ve never done. Indeed, until last week we’d never been camping together.
Almost every day I’ve spent with my dad over the last year has been a new experience, from watching out first ‘Hawk’s game together, driving him to doctor’s appointments when he needs it, to just hanging out in a bar talking.
Sitting around the campfire this past week, warm from the whiskey, our glasses reflecting the coals from the fire, we talked a lot about fatherhood (and sonhood too, I suppose). He confesses that he wishes he could have been a better father and I confessed that I wish I wish I could have been a better son. He apologized for “abandoning” me and wondered aloud how I turned into such a devoted father when I had no real role models. I wondered, also aloud, whether I was the father he really thought I was, knowing that in some ways I too abandoned my kids when I filed for divorce and that even though in the end I got custody of my kids my daughter announced the week before that she wanted to move in with her mom across the state. I told him that, besides, none of that really mattered right now--or least it didn’t matter enough that neither of us should get caught up in a forest of regrets. What does matter, I said, is that right in that moment he and I were sitting around a campfire, our families already asleep, talking about important things. Besides, I said, we’re both a little drunk and we have to figure out how to manage the undulations of the forest floor to find a tree to pee on. Peeing in the woods with my dad, by the way, is another first!
I knew I was going to smoke a My Father today. That I had one from Vinny’s New Baby Pass made it all the more meaningful. Here is what I smoked:
Summer Loving
While summer doesn’t officially end for another few weeks, us Pacific Northwesterns know that calendars are not always good predictors of weather. Living in Washington State I’ve both napped on the beach in shorts and a tshirt AND snowshoed to the mailbox in the middle of February. Seasons in the Pacific Northwest are fickle with the only true test of “summer’s beginning” and “summer’s end” is how damn cold (or warm) you are.
Today, I am wearing a sweater for the first time in months. Today, I had to turn on my heater in my corner of the garage where I smoke when it’s too cold or wet to sit outside. Today I put away my sandals and cover the patio furniture. Today I say goodbye to regular lawn games in the park with my neighbors.
Summer is over but I’m not quite ready to let go. When I moved back to the Pacific Northwest twenty years ago I knew that summers were ephemeral and part of me really liked the change in seasons but as I get older and more reflective, the changes are harder to manage and harder to make sense of. But there is no easing into this fall season I am afraid -- the rain and the cold willingly offer themselves up as warrant for my argument. It would be easy and predictable to make some analogy about the summer ending and a new season beginning as I am less than a month away from my wedding but that’s not the point. So, in this dreary gray day, I go about my work as usual: church, chores, a little time in the gym in a futile attempt to hold onto a little bit of my internal spring, as much time for my family as they will allow, and, of course, time for a cigar. Today I picked a Viaje Summerfest because, to paraphrase poet Dylan Thomas, I won’t go gently into this good night…
Here is what I smoked:
Labor Day
Labor Day began, ostensibly, in Chicago at Haymarket Square on May 4, 1886. What began as a (mostly) peaceful protest quickly became what would be know as the Haymarket Massacre after a protester threw a stick of dynamite at a crowd of police officers. The blast killed seven officers and four civilians. Many more were injured. President Grover Cleveland, pressured by the Central Labor Union to designate an official holiday to honor the worker, agreed, picking the first monday in September rather than May 4th for fear of an annual repeat of the violence in Chicago. Now, once a year, government wonks like me (and a few lucky others) get eight hours off in honor of the other 2,072 we grind away.
I’m using part of my eight hours to reflect on the variety of jobs I have had over the last 30 years:
Book seller
Lawn mower
Dish washer
Box maker
Crabber
Paratrooper
Shoe salesman
Baker
Restaurant manager
Archaeologist
Barista
Teaching assistant
Research assistant
Group home attendant
Youth correctional officer
Vocational rehabilitation counselor
Intervention specialist
Adjunct instructor (WWU)
Adjunct faculty (UW)
Development specialist
Development officer
Director of Evaluation, Planning, and Development
I’m sure I am missing one or two…and this doesn't include countless volunteer jobs ranging from museum curator to president of various non profits to Eucharistic minister.
So why this cigar? Of the hundreds and hundreds of available cigars, this is one of the few made in America.
Here is what I smoked
By the way, here is a bonus picture of me and Jose Ortega:
Scotch
That I am smoking a Room 101 today is a result of a series of random events that cumulated in the moment I reached into my humidor to grab a stick. No premeditation on my part -- in fact the only time I gave my choice of sticks any thought today I thought for a moment I would grab a Camacho. Such, I suppose, is life: to have a nascent plan only to be thwarted by the flap of a butterfly's wing. To honor the random nature of my pick I'll tell a random story. This one is about the first time I tasted scotch.
Back in the days when cougars were still considered stalk-and-ambush predators of the Genus Puma and the species concolor rather than stalk-and-ambush predators of the genus homo and the species sapiens I found myself sitting in a hotel bar in Washington DC having just been jilted by the woman I drove six hours to see. I was her first love and assumed that that would be enough to make her overlook that fact that I had been absent from her life for the past two years and a jerk when we were together. Clearly it was not enough. While I’ve developed better coping skills as I’ve grown older, on this particular night I opted to drown in some silly cocktail in a hotel bar full of silly politicians. I had more hotel than I needed, especially now that I was most assuredly sleeping alone, and more money than common sense.
I was drinking a cocktail called a Sea Breeze, which I admit to only for the sake of historical accuracy. It really is a silly drink of vodka and cranberry and grapefruit juice served over ice in a tall glass. Perhaps not silly to one sitting on a beach with the sea breezing through one's hair but in a hotel bar in Washington D.C. it was silly. The bar was crowded for three o'clock in the afternoon but as everyone knows, there is nothing more lonely than sitting alone in a crowded bar. I was about to order another drink when a women twice my age leaned over and whispered "why don't you let me buy you a real drink?". Free booze? Well of course! (so long as I could get over the fact that she could have kids my age).
She ordered two Dewar's, then two more. When I told her this was my first experience with scotch she ordered a Chivas, then a Johnny Walker Black and a Johnny Walker Red, and then something else. We drank them neat, with just a slash of water to "wake them up." We ended our brief relationship over a couple of Blood and Sands. What's a Blood and Sand, you might wonder? Scotch, orange juice, sweet vermouth, and Cherry Heering. "That kind of sounds like a breakfast drink, Eric." Yes. Yes it was.
Here is what I smoked:
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"Underpants"
Admit it. You have you're favorite pair of underpants don't you? It doesn't matter if you wear boxers or briefs; leopard skin bikini briefs or tighty whities; Calvin Klein or Fruit of the Loom. I'd doesn't even matter so much if you wear ladies underpants (even if you're not a lady). You, like everyone else, have a favorite pair. I, for one, like to save my favorite pair of underpants for special occasions so they are most certainly not "everyday" underpants.
The only thing that comes close to wearing your favorite pair of underpants is wearing a brand new pair. When I was a little kid we would go clothes shopping about a week before school started. I'd get a three pairs of new pants, a half dozen shirts, a new coat, a 12 pack of white cotton socks, and a 12 pack on brand new underpants! Oh, the feeling of the fresh cotton against my...but wait I digress.
The point I am trying to make is this: While it feels nice, indeed I would argue essential, to get new underpants every once in a while, we shouldn't be so enamored with the new underpants on the market that we forget all about our favorite pair stuck in the back corner of our chest of drawers.
Tonight I dug into the back corner of my humidor and grabbed a Padron 5000. It might not be my absolute favorite cigar but it is one of my top three or four to be sure. Like my favorite pair of underpants, the Padron 5000 fits me so f'***n' well.
Here is what I smoked tonight:
Okay, Day Seven and I am pretty pumped given that the Seahawks just kicked the Packer’s a$$ (and I am a little drunk) so forgive me if I get a little sappy but…
...I love you guys, Really, I do. Even Rain (or perhaps that should be “especially Rain”?).
Two months ago I was driving down Cemetery Road looking for the house of a guy I met on the Internet. Yea, that is as weird as it sounds. Weirder still that the man I was driving out to meet was none other that the BigShizza! (yea, I know you are all jealous). And this weekend, if all goes as well, I am going to “hook up” with JuneBug. To put this in context, if my teenage daughter told me she was going to meet some guy she met on the Internet, I would likely lock her in a nunnery until she was old and gray. So what is it about this forum?
I have seen so many acts of kindness and support this last year that I still have trouble reconciling it all. It doesn’t matter so much if we are democrats or republicans; Catholics or Lutherans; a doctor or a mechanic. Every time someone has seriously needed help, people helped. And the forum isn’t just a crisis center -- we’re here to celebrate new babies, new jobs, birthdays, graduations, and everything in between. The forum is not perfect of course--we sure do have our share of fresh galoshes sloshing around and mucking things up, but by and large the majority of us are here because -- crap, I guess I don’t really know.
Why are we here? I suppose I am here because sometimes I want to be a part of something that is bigger and better than me and in spite of our flaws, I get that in this forum.
So why a 7-20-4 lancero? The Hilk sent this to me for my birthday--with a signed box by Kurt Kendel with a special birthday message. It would have been easy to send some randoms sticks that he pulled from his humidor but to take the time to send me something so personal? That’s what the forum is about.
Here is what I smoked:
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I'm not entirely sure, maybe hes trying to create a new saying, but I'm pretty sure he's insulting newbs. Or he's drunk. lol