Today I was watching a movie about Samuel Clemens. He was getting into a stagecoach and smoking a cigar. It annoyed the female passenger next to him, but instead of throwing it out the window, Samuel simply waved his hand at her and told her she’d get used to it.
At first I chuckled, then I got choked up, because at one time I hated the smell of cigars … until Walter.
Walter was the original owner of our house in Ortley Beach. I never knew him, while he was alive anyway, but I met him in a different way during my writing weekends in our little cottage. In the middle of winter, when my summer neighbors had all headed home for the colder months, I would often sit down at my writing desk at night and suddenly smell the aroma of cigar.
The first few times it happened, I would go outside to see if any neighbors were around, but there was never anyone there. Our house was set back from the street so there was little chance of anyone walking nearby, especially in the dead of winter when winds from the ocean magnified the bitter cold.
At first, the experience was a bit disconcerting. Except for one friend, who lived four houses away, I was alone, in the house and in the neighborhood.
One afternoon, while visiting my friend, I had an opportunity to chat with a woman who had lived on our street her entire life.
I asked her if she knew Walter and Betty, the original owners. “Oh, yes,” she assured me. I asked her if Walter smoked a cigar. Again, she said, “Why, yes. He loved his cigars.”
That night, I waited expectantly for Walter to arrive. Sure enough, as the wind howled outside and the T.V. played softly from the other room, I caught a wispy scent of tobacco. I smiled to myself and greeted my guest, “Hi, Walter,” I said out loud. “You made me quite nervous with your cigar for a while, but now that I know it’s you, I’m really happy to have the company. Sometimes it’s scary being here all alone. Thank you for visiting.”
And so began my unusual friendship with Walter, and my growing appreciation for the lingering smell of cigar smoke.
I shared with him how much I loved the house, and my hopes that he was happy with the renovations we had made. I apologized for my husband’s decision to paint the beautiful dark wood moldings white “because renters liked airy colors best,” and promised that one day there would be no renters, just me and my husband and any family members who enjoyed being there as much as we did.
My last night with Walter was in October of 2012, the night before Superstorm Sandy hit. I never imagined I would never again sit at my desk in my little cottage to write, or be comforted by the smell of cigar while winds rattled the windows and the tea kettle whistled.
Sometimes, when walking across a parking lot, I get a whiff of someone smoking a cigar. It’s a bittersweet moment.
Sweet memories can be like that.
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