The late days of November had been unusually cold in Cambridge that year, 1989. I was nine years old. The sky that day was full of thick clouds, and everything I looked at was filtered white. Like looking through a dirty window.

We walked through the crowds of bundled up people on Mass. Ave. I looked around at strangers' faces and occasionally looked up at my father. He always dressed well. Something I realized years later. This day he wore a long dark wool topcoat over a green tweed suit. It hung low, flying back in the wind, and I held onto a part just near his waist. His shoes were a shiny brown leather and looked huge to me. My father's face was hard. And it looked even harder in the cold. When he walked or was in any contemplative state, his brow turned down, his eyes squinted, and his lips tightened. To an outsider of the family this could often be seen as a scowl, but it was just his walking face. And he walked in an assertive line with his chin slightly raised. I could see his confidence and charm and was proud to walk with him.

The wind blew and my father braced his gray fedora. I walked slightly behind him, wearing my L.L. Bean coat and hat. He halted and I bumped into the back of his leg. I looked up and saw where we were as if our destination were a surprise. Leavitt and Pierce. My eyes smiled at the wooden statue and trickled down along the storefront's black paint to the large display window. Black Jack gum, model Black Phantoms, chess sets, Dunhills, American Spirit, Nat Sherman, Marlboro, Djarum, Black Cherry, Paul Garmirian, Macanudo, Partagas, Canaria D'Oro. Gas lighters, collectors' matches, and Zippos. Gold Zippos, brass Zippos, silver Zippos, and engraved Zippos. Pipe stands, pipe cleaners, pipe packers, and travel pipe cases. My eyes could barely take it all in.

The door handle was a vertical one-foot-long metal cast of a pipe. My father took hold of it and opened the door. I walked in and he held the door for an older man and then followed me in.

That smell. Oh, that smell. Tobacco and fathers, wooden floors and cigar boxes. This is the greatest smell I can remember. My father went to the counter and said hello to the woman who owned the store. I can't remember her name, but she was very pretty and surprisingly young for someone who owned a business. She wore a nice black sweater and long black skirt. She had dark hair with olive skin, and I watched her full crimson lips outline her words.

"Hello, Ben," she said softly. I blushed, looking from her lips to her eyes, and answered, "Hi."

She smiled at me, and my father smiled with her.

Leavitt and Pierce was one of those stores with creaking wooden floors. The sound comforts me like a mother, but I can't seem to find it anymore. Besides Leavitt and Pierce, the fishing shop is the only place I can go where my steps make that noise.

Leavitt and Pierce was a large and open room. Counters with glass cases bordered the store with the cigars on the left and pipes on the right. Behind each counter were the cigarettes and snuff. In the middle were tables of pipe tobacco.

I started at the right, looking at the pipes and lighters. I worked around to the playing cards through the chess sets to the cigars where my father was. He was still talking to the pretty woman. He leaned on the counter in a flirtatious kind of way, telling some funny story about work or something. I assume it was funny because the pretty woman laughed her wonderful laugh and put her hand on my father's arm. She turned to me still smiling, and I blushed again.

"Do you want a cigar box?"

"Sure!" I smiled and then looked down. This was a wonderful woman. And by the look on my father's face, I could see he thought so too. I had amassed a decent-sized cigar box collection and was always eager for my next addition. She took me towards the back to the metal bin. The cigar boxes were usually a dollar, but when I came in she always let me have whichever I wanted. I knelt down and sifted through the pile and picked a Partagas. It was bright yellow with blue and red trim. I lifted the lid and looked over the funny picture of women and angels. We walked back to my father.

"Thanks." I looked up into her large brown eyes and then at my father.

"Let me get this, and we'll go, okay, bud?"

"Okay, Dad."

He picked out a short Paul Garmarian, and the pretty woman slid open the door in the back of the counter and got the cigar.

"Clipped?" she asked.

"Yep."

She took the cigar and snipped the end off. She placed it in a thick plastic bag and rolled it up, taping it shut. My father paid and she handed him matches.

"Bye bye, guys." She smiled extra wide.

"Bye." We smiled back and left.

We returned to the chills of November, the cigar box under my arm, and started our walk back to our house. We headed down Brattle Street and took a right into Radcliffe Yard. We took the path bordering the grass. The oak trees stood high, and their branches meshed together at the top, covering the entire area of the Yard. The horse chestnuts had fallen, littering the grass, and the squirrels darted from spot to spot, digging in the ground. The buildings that bordered the Yard had Roman pillars and brick walls with white trim. Every one looked the same, but I noticed each as if they didn't.

We went out the gate and turned left onto Garden Street. We walked by the Korean church and the strange men who sat outside its gate and smoked. Past the Sheraton Commander and my friend Miriam's house, we came to the fork of Garden and Concord Streets, where we waited for the light to change. Kids across the street came out of the Longy School. They piled into cars, throwing their violins, cellos, and guitars into back seats, waving to others waiting on the steps. My father looked in both directions and crossed the street.

"Ben," my father snapped at me. I stood still, staring at Longy.

"Ben," he said again, becoming impatient. I fell out of my trance and hurried after him.

"Sorry, Dad."

We passed the Spanish Civil War statue and to our right was the Transcendental Meditation Center. My father cracked a joke. It was the same joke he always told on our walk home and every time I laughed, never understanding what the hell he was talking about. We passed a man walking his dog, and I cracked a joke. My father looked down at me and laughed. If I could count on my father for one thing, it was for him to laugh at my jokes. We reached our house and our neighbor Chris Chris was outside sweeping her steps. Her first name was the same as her last name, and at the time I thought it was a novel idea, though at age 13 I realized she was crazy and understood why my mother told me never to go over there.

Our house was a beautiful but unmaintained two-family Queen Anne. Having spent the afternoon after school in my father's office, I was relieved finally to be home. We walked up the path along the side and up the stairs to our front door. The porch was to the right, and the gazebo was to the left. My father went right and sat down on one of the wicker benches. I unlocked the door and ran upstairs to my room. I threw my bag and new cigar box on my bed and ran back outside.

After years of debate, my father was forced to smoke outside. It was a relief to my entire family, and my brother and I finally got to go to school without smelling like a hand-rolled Cuban. The porch became a special place for me and my father. Like old friends running into each other, I would go to the porch and my father would be sitting there.

"Hey, bud."

"Pop!"

I sat down on the wicker chair across from my father. We barely noticed the cold air as the sun began to set. He unwrapped the plastic bag and took out his cigar. He set the bag beside him and reached into his pocket, pulling out the book of matches. He put the cigar in his mouth and popped a match lit. He held it to the end of the cigar, covering it with his free hand and puffed in. The flame flashed high with each draw, and the tip burned yellow and orange. He took a big draw and waved the match out, tossing it into the ashtray. He held the smoke in his mouth, then raised his head, blowing it out. I followed the smoke as it rose to the roof of the porch and dispersed. He got more comfortable, crossing his legs. He balanced on one thigh, resting his free hand on his top leg. He did this until one leg fell asleep, and then he would switch. He looked over his cigar as he smoked and always showed off his perfectly preserved ash.

"Four to one last night."

"Yeah. Roger."

"Roger."

"Yeah."

We often discussed baseball. We shared this passion, and it was less awkward to discuss than "how was your day."

"You're not going to see a better pitcher than Roger Clemens."

"He's good, Dad."

"Yeah."

"Hey, Dad, who do you think was better? Ryne Sandberg or Ernie Banks?"

This comparison of past players to players of the present always came up. We both ate it up.

My father adjusted in his chair, "Oh, Banks. No one could stop Ernie."

"And he had to face some great pitchers."

"Oh yeah. He was one of the best."

The discussion continued, but my father seemed to be in his own world.

"Carlton Fisk or Johnny Bench?"

"You know it's Pudge."

I smiled. He knew Carlton Fisk was my favorite ballplayer.

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