NEWS FROM THE HUT
By
James M. Weil
Issue 2, Vol. 1
It was the summer of 1973. Father’s Day.
I sat on our front porch in the late afternoon
sun and watched impatiently for my father’s
’68 Firebird 350 convertible to come winding
down the long driveway to the house.
I heard the sound of his car downshifting
as it turned into the driveway. His car was the
coolest thing I ever saw, but not half as cool
as my father was when I was growing up.
He stood at 6’2’’, with dark wavy hair and pale
blue eyes. His business casual summer attire
made him look fashionable and suave. I felt
my heart beat a little faster with excitement
when he got out of the car. “How’s it going,
Jim?” he asked, tousling my hair as he came
up the steps.
I followed him inside where he went to the
kitchen and said hello to my mother, who was
busy marinating t-bones for the barbecue that
evening, and then went to his study and opened
his humidor, a large cocobolo box filled with
some of the finest premium cigars available.
My father wasn’t a heavy cigar smoker, but
when he smoked he always smoked the
best. He usually indulged after work before
dinner and sometimes after dinner in the
early evening. I watched him as he selected
a cigar from his humidor, and then handed
it to me to cut. “I think a V-cut will do it,” he said.
I found his cutter on his desk and carefully
snipped the end. “Here you go, Dad,” I said,
handing him the cigar. He ran his finger
over the end and found his lighter. “Nice job, Jim.”
The two of us went out to the screened-in back
porch and sat down in the overstuffed chairs
that overlooked the expansive backyard. The
willow trees glowed in the afternoon sun. My
father lit his cigar, and the intoxicating scent of
good tobacco wafted over the porch, carried
by a soft summer breeze. I could actually see
him unwind with every puff, and I wished I was
old enough to smoke, too. “How is it, Dad?”
I asked, curious about how a cigar tasted.
“Delicious,” he said, exhaling a thick cloud
of smoke into the air. “Did you play some
tennis today?”
“Yep. I played this morning with Jack.”
“Who won,” he asked.
“I beat him in three sets,” I said, smiling proudly.
“Good for you. We’ll have to play this weekend,”
he said, rolling his cigar in his fingers.
“Pretty soon you’ll be good enough to beat me.”
“You think?” I asked, half believing it. My father
was a superb tennis player, and in all the years
we played I still hadn’t beaten him, but he always
took the time to instruct me, showing me how
to pound a topspin backhand across court, or
how to slice a forehand down the line.
I watched my mother and sisters grilling steaks
in the yard next to the kitchen porch. The smell
made me ravenous. The sky had a reddish hue
to it as the sun began its slow descent across
the horizon.
Dinner was called, and my father put down his
cigar. We went into the kitchen and sat down
at the table. My mother put a big juicy steak in
front of me with some mashed potatoes and
fresh peas.
As was the custom in our family, Father’s Day
presents were always given after dinner. My
father smiled proudly as each of my three
sisters presented their gifts. Finally it was my
turn. I ran upstairs and grabbed a box of
Gloria Cubana Corona Gordas out of my closet.
I had been saving my yard work money for
weeks for this occasion. I remember the
owner of the cigar store, where my father had
taken me on many occasions, smiling as I
told him what I wanted. He took me into the
humidor and pulled a box off the shelf. “I’ve
only got a few of these,” he said, handing me
the box. I paid $38.00 dollars for them. It
seemed like a lot of money at the time, but I
didn’t care.
I ran downstairs and presented the box to
my father, watching his eyes light up. “Wow!
A box of Gloria Cubanas!” he exclaimed.
“This is a great cigar.”
I felt so proud and happy. My father took
the box into his study and peeled the plastic
wrap off it, carefully placing the cigars into
his humidor. “We’ll have to smoke one,” he said.
“We?” I asked, surprised.
“If you’re old enough to buy them, you’re old
enough to try one. But only one. And don’t tell
your mother,” he said, winking at me.
I could barely contain my excitement. We
cut our cigars and went out to the back porch.
My father held his lighter up for me as I lit my
cigar. We watched the fireflies blinking in the
darkness as we puffed on our cigars. At first
it was the most delicious thing I ever tasted,
but after a few more puffs I started feeling
light-headed. “A little too strong for you?”
he asked.
“A little,” I responded, setting the cigar in
the ashtray. I knew there wasn’t a chance in
hell I could finish the thing, but my first cigar
had been a wonderful experience; I got to
share it with Dad.
It would be several years before I’d really
appreciate a fine cigar. But like my father,
I always smoke the best, which is why I love
Habana Hut. Their selection of premium
cigars is unparalleled. Even if Dad’s humidor
is stocked to the gills, we carry an exciting
array of cutters, lighters, humidors and
cigar cases. Give your father the best.
Habana Hut is the place to get the perfect
Father’s Day present.
