Ty Cobb, Bad Hats, and a Good Cigar . . .

Recently, while routinely visiting my dermatologist, as he viewed the aging palette that passes for my body, the doctor remarked that I had "active skin". Nothing serious, he assured me - just a hearty supply of moles and high susceptibility to the sun. A possible insult for some, I had to smile because I knew immediately what he meant - I had my grandfather's complexion.

I smiled because I have fond memories of my grandfather and to have his same "skin", warts and all so to speak, is not really a bad thing. All throughout our lives, people repeatedly tell us that we have certain physical traits in common with various and sundry relatives in the family. These can range from the obvious - a father's hairline, a mother's nose, etc., to more obscure features that can be a little harder to define - one running joke in our family is that my grandmother once remarked that I have my Aunt Daisy's hands. Who knew?

However, I believe that in addition to the obvious genetic gift from Aunt Daisy, that I received other, more important and non-genetic traits from my family members. For example, I have always believed that I got my sense of humor from my mother - she wanted me to include good looks as well, but I'm not touching that one. From my father, I have picked up a number of things including the fact that I affectionately call my children "kid" just as he still does to this day with me.

But it seems as though some of the best non-genetic traits I have, I received from my maternal grandfather. I know this for several reasons, not the least of which was that I was asked to deliver his eulogy at his funeral in 1992. In preparing for that eulogy, I thought back to all of the things I had learned from him over the years and it boiled down to three things: a deep and abiding love for baseball, a fondness for gardening, and last, but not least, an appreciation for a good cigar.

I can still remember hearing the stories of my grandfather playing semi-pro baseball as he grew up in Chicago. One of his greatest thrills was to play in a championship game in old Comiskey Park. I don't recall if he won or lost, just that he enjoyed the experience so much. He also told tales of seeing some great old timers play: Babe Ruth, Heine Manush, Lou Gehrig, etc. As a lifelong White Sox fan, he eventually saw them all. But his least favorite player of all-time? Ty Cobb. A dirty player out to hurt others as much as to win, my grandfather had no patience for such tactics. To a kid just starting to play baseball myself, this connection, no matter how thin, to the famous players of the past, was mesmerizing. I still have several baseball books he gave me. And how can you not love a man that was able to sandwich in a baseball game in Detroit in 1926 while allegedly on his honeymoon?

As to gardening, one of my most familiar images of my grandfather is of him working in his backyard garden - especially once he and my grandmother moved to Oregon following their retirement. Without a shirt in the broiling Oregon summer (with that now famous "active skin"), and wearing some goofy hat that would have been rejected by even the neediest of migrant workers, he was exceedingly proud of his tomatoes and vegetables. Only two things disturbed his peacefulness regarding his garden - rabbits and deer. The former could be fenced out, but the deer seemed to always find a way to nibble on something that was not intended for their use. Years later, after doing some gardening at my father's ranch in northern California, I've had my own gardening experiences and still look forward to putting in another one - minus the goofy hat . . .

But it is with cigars, and more specifically, their unique smell, that my grandfather continues to live on in my memory. I may have overstated it when I said earlier that my grandfather taught me an appreciation for a good cigar. I did learn an appreciation for said cigars from him, but only in a roundabout way. His favorite cigars were either Dutch Masters or White Owls - hardly the preference of kings. In fact, each year, his Christmas gift from the grand kids was inevitably a box of these same cigars. While I am not above smoking the occasional Dutch Masters Presidente, I have been spoiled by better brands and much prefer the company of a good Dominican wrapped in a Connecticut leaf . . .

My own snobbery aside, it's not the cigar itself that I crave. There is something about smoking or even smelling any cigar, that takes me back to sitting and listening to my grandfather talk about the time he stole second base in Comiskey Park . . . that helps me envision him again bent over in that garden weeding amongst his beloved plants . . . and finally, something about that cigar makes me wish I was once again sitting with him in his garage - where he was banished by my grandmother who apparently did not appreciate the same smell - in the rattiest of lawn chairs and a haze of smoke - just talking.

As it is, I've learned to enjoy my time alone outside in my own garage with my "active skin", cigar in hand and with the best of memories. There are probably worse things to inherit than what I've been given by my grandfather. As for me, I'll take the memories. Hard to beat that . . .