For, lo, the winter is past,

The rain is over and gone;

The flowers appear on the earth;

The time of the singing of birds is come,

And the voice of the turtle is heard in our land.

– Song of Solomon 2:11-12

Last night, as I listened to the sound of rain on my roof, sleep came to me but slowly. It was a Sunday night, just like any other, but different. Spring has been in the air these past few days, but only just – Mother Nature threw a curveball last week, calling for snow instead of sunshine; but I forgave her. The snow is today nearly melted.

I awake early, before the clock radio sounds its revelry; it’s pre-dawn, the rain has stopped but I hear the sound of water slow-dripping from the eaves outside my bedroom window. I head for the shower, forgoing my customary morning shave (I’ve got the day off from work and feel like a lad playing hooky from school).

From the bathroom to the kitchen, where I grind some beans, pour water and inhale the bitter fragrance of bourbon flavored coffee slowly brewing. I scratch morning stubble on my neck, open the window blinds: no flowers yet abloom in the neighbor’s yard, but there is beauty in this day nevertheless – the beauty of anticipation.

It’s been said birds sing not because they are happy, but instead are happy because they are singing. There is a song in my heart this damp Monday morning; I reach for the cream in the refrigerator door, admire the brauts on the top shelf in front of the chilled beer before I close the door.

Last night’s talking head on the TV told me that drizzle is in the forecast for the early afternoon (I’m fine with that even if she doesn’t assure me that it will taper off by mid-afternoon) and the temperature is expected to reach near 60 by 4:00.

Eggs are scrambling in my skillet, with onions and cheddar, while an English muffin toasts in my toaster oven. Man that coffee sure does taste good, and it tastes good every morning. But this morning is different.

I watch the neighbor’s car pull down the driveway; he’s off to work, but I’m just off. I’ve nothing to occupy my time for the next several hours: work the morning crossword; catch up on some reading – there’s that article in Cigar Magazine about where cigar boxes go when they die, and the morning Free Press sports section.

Enjoy the day off, the moment, this final day of March. The Super Bowl is two months past, hockey playoffs start in just over a week, but the boys of summer are due to take the field at Comerica Park in little more than four hours.

The game has changed since the boy I once was developed a love affair, nearly fifty years ago, with the game of baseball. The pitcher’s mound has been lowered to accommodate the hitters (and still no one can top Ted Williams’s 1941 average of .406 for a full season), the playoff format has been altered to accommodate three divisions in each league, and the athletes are better conditioned, stronger, faster, perhaps even more skilled. The salaries are higher, the egos bigger, and many more names seem to hail from South America, but those who don the English D of the Detroit Tigers play for my team, even if they don’t make their winter home in Michigan, or anywhere in the northern hemisphere. In a few hours I’ll get the brauts to grilling, pour a cold one, light a cigar and down a shot of bourbon – the good stuff – as the Tigers kick off their 2008 campaign in the American League Central.

There is no way to tell if the Tigers will be in the hunt for the gonfalon come September, but for today, they’re tied for the division lead heading into the month of April, and our expectations in the Motor City run high. We’ve talent and perhaps the best manager in the game: Jim Leyland understands players as well as how the game is played. Most of the buttons he pushes throughout the long season are the right buttons.

Win or lose, I expect a lot of exciting ballgames to be played by the home team over the next six months. There will be many highs and some lows – walk-off wins, heartbreaking losses, and unforeseen injuries. But such is life.

I’ve watched a lot of baseball in my life, including three World Series appearances by the Tigers (two championships) and have had the pleasure of seeing some of the greatest players ever to play the game – Hall of Famer Al Kaline (perhaps the greatest right fielder to ever play), Alan Trammel and Lou Whitaker, the most enduring keystone combination ever to play their positions, and Jack Morris, who deserves a place in the Hall of Fame even if his mercenary ways took him away from Detroit. At age ten, I thrilled to watch 31-game winner Denny McLain serve up a pitch to an aged Mickey Mantle to hit over the fence in right field at Tiger Stadium. Robert Fick hit a rooftop shot to right field in the last game ever played at the corner of Michigan and Trumbell, and Reggie Jackson, the Yankee I loved to hate, hit the light tower in right field, estimated at 520 feet, in the 1971 All Star Game.

I have many fond memories of Tiger Stadium, where my dad introduced me to this grand old game, but I’m creating new ones at Comerica Park, already having hosted an All Star Game and a World Series during its seven-year infancy. Somehow this kid’s game I love so much makes the stress of everyday life seem trivial. Sometimes it’s great being a kid, especially at age 51. Even if it’s only for a day.

Tomorrow when I head in to work, I’ll have on my game face, but terms like “contract amount,” “quota” and “win the business” will pale in comparison to the home plate umpire’s call to “Play ball!”

– JCG/March 31, 2008

You don’t have to be a fiction writer to enjoy this short smoke. The Hemingway line has been around since 1983, and the Short Story is the top seller (maybe they should change its name to Best Seller – wait, they have a Best Seller!). All Hemingway cigars are made from Dominican filler and binder and wrapped in a sweet West African Cameroon wrapper. I’m not a big fan of Cameroon wrappers, but on a Hemingway it works, which speaks volumes about the blend.

Of course what makes the Short Story unique is its perfecto shape. Measuring four-and-a-half inches from the nipple’s tip to the crown of its head, the ring gauge runs between .46 at the head and .49 near the foot. Because of the workmanship involved in the construction and the fact that the cigars are aged a minimum of six months, it’s understandable that a limited number of these little dandies are produced annually.

Care must be taken to light the nippled foot without scorching the wrapper, so I’d recommend a cedar match or lighting a piece of cedar from which to ignite the Short Story. From the first draw the Short Story’s taste is sophisticated, with hints of cedar and spice, a touch of leather – smooth throughout, its slow burn never hot or bitter.

Like a well-written piece of short fiction one enjoys for its language, never wanting to turn the last page, the Hemingway Short Story, too, should be enjoyed leisurely; at smoke’s end you’ll be remiss to set the Short Story down in your ashtray for the last time, the experience lingering, as a great short story should, long after it has gone out. It goes well with a morning cup of coffee or a single malt in the evening.

Like all Hemingway cigars, the price may be prohibitive to some, but I try to keep one or two in my humidor for special occasions – birthdays, holidays, an acceptance letter, maybe even the occasional rejection letter that lends encouragement.

Highly recommended.

I received a rejection letter this week for the new novel I’m shopping — a form letter that apologized for its own informality before it told me, “Thanks but no thanks.” I waited approximately six weeks to receive that response. It’s frustrating to consider I have six other queries, several dating back nearly 10 weeks, on which I’m awaiting response.

I can appreciate having to wait several weeks, maybe several months, to receive a reply on a full manuscript submission, but a single-page query letter? And I’m supposed to refrain from making simultaneous submissions? I’m 52 years old — I want to be published before the end of the century!

I understand the competition is great — notice I didn’t say stiff. A great many wannabe authors who have done little to learn their craft make it difficult for agents and publishers to find that diamond in the rough. Finding a good agent is problematic: the good ones — those with a successful track record — have set client lists and rarely take on new ones. Those looking to make a name for themselves may be hungry, but lack experience, and may not be long in the business.

The publishing industry is changing faster than I can keep up. I hear stories about traditional houses demanding that their authors pay back the difference on their advance if they don’t sell out their print runs. Vanity presses? Mark Twain, Zane Grey, James Joyce, Rudyard Kipling, D.H. Lawrence, George Bernard Shaw, Henry David Thoreau, Virginia Woolf, Margaret Atwood, and Tom Clancy all self-published. Vanity presses have evolved into print on demand publishers who make their profit upfront, off the author, and continue to do so with expensive marketing packages designed to part the author from more of his money. And now the new publishing models: partnerships in publishing that still require the author to invest money up front ($1,000 or more), and e-publishing, which requires no investment on the part of the author, but leaves me to wonder over the viability of listing a title on a Web site that sells e-books when I myself have never purchased one. I don’t own a wireless reading device either, leaving me to question how many potential buyers own one.

I’m all for cutting edge technology and would love — as Brisco County, Jr. once told his sidekick, Lord Bowler — to get in on the coming thing, but when Bowler asks Brisco what the coming thing is, I, too, have to say, “I don’t know — if I did, it would be here.”

There are many options in the publishing world — and multiple options are both good and bad. Yet I suppose the risk is there, as it always has been. But I wonder, too, if the publishing industry itself is in part responsible for creating their own risk by relying on a handful of authors to drive their profits, leaving the rest of us to fend for ourselves, blaming us for their unwillingness to invest in creating the next literary giant.