Memories.... A Series (#1)

This morning, after my run (it was still very cold (only 30 degrees F (-1 C)), I was thinking (surprise) about pipes.... and I thought to myself that NOW... after having refrained a bit more than 26 months from smoking my pipes.... if I went back and smoked a bowl or two or five.... that they would now likely feel as magical and strong and robust as it did when I first started as a kid.  That idea is actually captivating for me to think about.

I have decided I will post (at least occasionally over the next several days)  a series of essays I wrote many years ago that involved my first foray into the world of smoking a pipe.  Please keep in mind that the voice in these essays was a voice of a younger me, but I am posting these verbatim so that you can a) read these thoughts if you desire, b) comment on them, and c) to hear my "voice" on the matter from the many, many  years ago when I wrote this.

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There are many days in a man's life that are remarkable and sear themselves into a permanent circuit-board in your mind. They are often called milestones, and a lucky man has many positive milestones. Each time he becomes a new father, his wedding day, the purchase of a home, the first copulatory activity, the first new car, his first time getting drunk, the first day of school, the first home run he has hit, earning his Ph.D., these are but a few of many such milestones I have had the pleasure to experience. They are all wonderful, vivid memories in my mind. The same is true for the memory I am about to share:

The day itself was sunny, yet pleasantly cool and dry. It was perhaps 60 degrees and virtually no humidity marred the texture of the air. The woods had always been a fun and enjoyable playground for me to explore and feel excitement. The woods seemed vast and unadorned by any trappings of any other human. It was, I thought, a virgin forest that only I had explored, and yet it abutted right on the edge of our family's two acre parcel of land... how lucky was that? Suffice it to say, I felt these woods were my own personal space and I relished spending hours looking at various bugs, plants, twigs, salamanders, frogs and other sundry items I could collect, examine, and learn to identify. Yet, this day was to be even more special and amazing in its effect upon me. As I sat in the small clearing in the middle of this forest, I gripped the magical beast and proceeded to...

The start of this adventure could be said to have been a part of me my whole life, perhaps it was genetic? But I only became cognizant of my interest in this adventure roughly 4 weeks prior to this monumental day. This start occurred, as I recall, when I was walking home from school and I met my father sitting on the rickety, old picnic table in the back yard, concentrating very heavily on a stack of papers he was working through.  His brow was furrowed, his eyes squinting through the owlish lenses of his glasses, and his mustache and beard bristled from the intense concentration he was engaged in.

He must have heard my footsteps as I neared the picnic table for he glanced up and beckoned me over to sit at the table across from him. As I sat, I could see more vividly the concentration, tension, and focus his efforts had on his facial expression.

"How was your day, my boy? Tell me what you learned in school today." said my father. He was a very focused man, and I could see I had his rapt attention, but I could also still see the furrowed brow and other facial features that belied how he was intently concentrating on work only moments before.

As I began to talk about and describe my day to my father, he reached over to the side of the stack of papers, and picked up his tobacco pouch and pipe in the nearly innate manner I had seen him do many times before. Using only tactile stimuli from his fingertips, not diverting his gaze from me and the details of my day, he proceeded to gracefully and with skill fill his pipe with the gentle brown crumbles of tobacco leaf that were in his pouch. Even though I had seen this process thousands of times before in my young life, for some reason this day I was more acutely aware and attentive to these actions than I had been before.

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I think I will make a break in the writings here for today.  It sort of sets the tone, I suspect.  My father was a remarkable man in many ways.  He was always working to try to make things better in life.  If he were alive in 2020, he would be 97 years old in November. 

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