Today's views stir yesterday's memories.

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Looking out of my window I realized it might not be pretty, but there was a lot of good to be said. The sky had a pseudoglow grey tint with a hint of pending snow. Not likely, I reasoned, it appeared cold, but the temperature was holding at fifty-one degrees.

Though dreary, it was Saturday. I had no scheduled obligations and football season was ended so TV was out. This would be a great day for an afternoon nap. Nope! I’ll pass on that, I determined. A better idea was to have an afternoon scotch and cigar. That would permit a second cigar.

It was my routine since my retirement eleven years ago to enjoy a cigar and a single-malt scotch every evening. Having only one cigar per day justified my claim as a non-smoker. Yet, it provided an opportunity to end the day with an enjoyable vice.

I saw this as a mark of maturity, I was more reasonable today than during earlier times when multiple packages of cigarettes were consumed. The current practice was not a craving for the nicotine, rather it was part of a ritual that included enjoyment of wildlife visiting my patio for the seeds I provided, the susurrus of leaves and the accompanying sway of branches in unpredictable breezes, and quiet meditation as my fingers moved from bead-to-bead of a rosary.

The smoky taste of peat in the scotch and the brumous wisps from the cigar combined to produce an air of calm. The hopping and chirping of sparrows, the head-bobbing and cooing of doves and the perpetual click of two cardinals conversing transformed the small patio into a concert hall with ambling crowds and resounding with the mixed sounds of a full symphony orchestra. I frequently ask rhetorically; does a more peaceful place exist?

On cue, the sun broke through the grey and caused the remaining moisture to give sparkle to the ground. The scene reminded me of the peat fields of Scotland where shovels removed the fuel for kilns and breweries. Once again I began to focus on my plans for the day. I inventoried my humidor, removed one of Arturo Fuente’s handiworks and placed it beside the tumbler chosen for the fifteen-year old Glenfiddich.

Saturday, I thought, a perfect day for being thankful. I pulled on my Cardigan, left the window, and stepped onto my patio…

By Robert L. Scarry

From: United States

Twitter: usnavy1990bob

Facebook URL: https://wwwfacebook.com/Robert.Scarry.3