A few years in the past the second christmasday was not at my gram's but at home.
Visitors would come, like my other grandmother, my uncle and aunt and a family friend.
He was huge!
Not only in length, but also in.. volume.
He got a couch of his own and space on the table, because he would bring with him his
travel cigar humidor.
This marked for me a special day, as he always used to carry a plain wooden box of sigars with him. The humidor was saved for christmas.
To me it was extra special because I was the one who was allowed to open it for him.
A small key was taken from the chain of his pocket-watch and handed over to me with a smile and: "Be careful, child, there's only one such key in the wide wide world."
I would put it in the lock with utter care and turn it under the watching eyes of the whole family.
Opening the box was an utter delight.
The smell of expensive sigars has never put me off, and I loved the sight of a soft beige satin with which the box was lined.
In the meantime my uncle would have grasped the small cigarcutter from a small pocket and my mother would have lighted a candle, telling all to be careful as she didn´t want her house burned at christmas.
When I was very young, my uncle would take out the cigar himself, but when I was somehwat older I was allowed to take the cigar between two fingers and hand it over to him.
He would hold it in front of him, smell a few times and then have me clip of the tip.
With a few small takes of breath he would draw the flame to the sigar and then suddenly light it.
Only then I was allowed to close the box, turn the key and hand it back over to him.
He would lean back, the people in the room would start breathing again and my mom would move the humidor a bit more to the centre of the table so my uncle could put a small glass in front of it.
The soft light of the candle would bring the wood of the laquered box to life.
Sometimes my father would start singing± `Oh holy light...` and break the magic of the moment.
What a good time it was!