Out of the Humidor
From the Print Edition:
Michael Richards, Sep/Oct 97
(continued from page 5)
A few months ago I received an invitation to my high school reunion just as my wife announced that she and her friends were headed to Mexico for a vacation the same weekend. Since Duke University had been asking me, a plastic surgeon, to be a guest lecturer, I decided to attend the reunion, which would be held in a giant National Guard armory in my hometown in North Carolina, a short drive from the Duke campus. Since North Carolina was a tobacco state, I left my flask behind but brought cigars.
My wife and I run a longhorn cattle dude ranch in the Hill country near San Antonio, so I decided to wear my usual western jeans, Lucchese boots and jacket and, of course, one of the cleaner cowboy hats. The reunion went quite well (although I kept thinking that so many of my classmates could have used my services). I lit up a cheroot and leaned back against the wall to talk to old friends, when there was tap on my back.
"Sir, are you going to smoke cigars all night?"
"Yes, ma'am, I certainly am."
"Well, if you do that, some of us will have to leave."
"Well, ma'am, I am sure sorry to hear that, but if you gotta go, you gotta go!"
There was only North Carolina-type beer (not even a good Texas brand), but the conversation kind of made the evening.
Tolbert S. Wilkinson, M.D.
San Antonio, Texas
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