It was the late 1990s. We were at a May 28 commemorative event in Lowell, Massachusetts. We decided to take a stroll to help digest the chicken and pilaf dinner. I always had a tin of Schimmelpenninck or Dannemann mini cigars in my pocket whenever we went somewhere together, just in case. We were both decked out in suits for no particular reason other than to look sharp. It was a quiet neighborhood, the streets lined with two-family houses and k…
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