BOTSCAST

Before I moved to California ( wow over 14 years ago) I lived in Lexington, Massachusetts for 15 years, 1982- 1997. My next door neighbor was at face value, 360 degrees opposite of me. He was from a working class suburb of Boston, a Marine vet of over 20 years and worked in the prison system guarding the guys that you and I did not want to know about. He saw and did things in his work and military , that you read about in magazines.
I was a college grad with a masters degree, grew up in New York , never in the service, then working with at risk youth, trying to keep them out of jail. Our politics were as different as our backgrounds but we always agreed on one thing. We both loved cigars.
Just about every night after work, I would get a call from my buddy, or I called him, and we would head down to our adjoining yards for a cigar. We spoke of worldly things, we spoke about sports, we spoke about what we liked and disliked, sometimes we even shared the same viewpoint.
Most of the time, however, we spoke about what cigar we were smoking at the time. Did we like the burn, the ash, the flavor.? How much did it cost and was it a good bang for the buck value. We had our ritual in all types of weather. When it was sunny , it was heaven. When it snowed, we were still out there. When it got really cold, we took out a space heater, wrapped our bodies in layers, froze our asses off but still smoked cigars. Our wives tolerated this behavior cause at least they knew where we were and could see the smoke drifting towards the sky. The space heater we used was a relic , provided little or no heat . It was the illusion that kept us warm.
Standing out in below freezing temperature , smoking a cigar , us against the elements. It was truly joyous.
We loved it but somehow we knew there had to be a better way. My neighbor had a pool, used about 2 months a year, which had a ramshackle building next to it. It was used mostly for storage and in the winter , the mice and squirrels made it their home. We took the cue from the critters and turned it into our smoke cave. We furnished it with old furniture , tables and chairs , and sometimes a working coke machine, and best of all , a police scanner. There was still no heat but at least we would not get snowed upon when we smoked. We took the space heater that we had and brought it inside the building. We could have set the place on fire with it or snuffed ourselves out from the fumes. It was part of the allure of the adventure. We ” upgraded” the place once in awhile by adding a piece of furniture or wall hanging.
We still had our discussions, cars, what crooked counselor was on the take, why the Boston Red Sox were never going to win a world series. We tried insulating the room but the building was so old and in such bad shape, the insulation just created a large fire hazard.
When the weather got warmer, we brought our cigars back outside but added a small refrigerator to the room and stocked it with ice cream and food. We had this ritual for years, trying out new cigars, or going back to old favorites. As life would have it, Los Angeles was going to be my new home. The cigar cave was going to be a memory instead of reality.
Yet, cigar friends remain cigar friends. I speak to my old neighbor regularly, we still speak of cigars and what we are doing new and how our families are. I get back to Boston every year and make it a point to see my old cigar buddy. We always do a cigar exchange, but I do miss that room and the police scanner.