[Please note, if you have not done so, and wish
to read earlier parts of this essay, please scroll down to the first "Memories" essay.
Please remember that I wrote this several years ago, so it is in a voice
of my own past about an even more long ago memory.]
* * * * *
Fortunately
for me, my father had numerous pipes in his collection. In his den, in
fact, he had one pipe rack on his desk that was filled with his most
frequently used briar pipes, and he had another drawer in a cabinet that
had many other, more worn, less frequently used pipes. I figured this
would be a good place for me to look and perhaps "borrow" one for a
while. Additionally, while my father carried a tobacco pouch with him at
all times, he also had several cans (canisters) of his favorite pipe
tobaccos on one shelf of his several bookshelves also in his den. It
would be fairly simple to open one of the canisters and to remove a
small pinch of the golden brown crumbles of leaf.
On a day much
like today, cloudy and threatening rain, I did just that.
As I stated earlier, the woods way in
the back of our property were a true joy for me and I often spent hours
and hours out there searching for various forms of wildlife. But today I
had a different mission in mind for out in the woods.
I quietly snuck in to my father's den, and
opened the drawer and withdrew one of the pipes. It was a bit dusty, the
walnut finish was quite dull and rubbed off in spots where my father
had held it numerous times, and the edges of the opening of the bowl
were battered and rounded from hundreds of times my father knocked out
the ashes either into the large glass ashtray on his desk, some other
ashtray elsewhere, or if outside, on the heel of his shoe or onto the
palm of his hand when he finished. The bowl must have become somewhat
brittle and weakened from use as well, for on one side of the bowl a
small section of the rounded opening was missing, looking as if it had
broken away giving the bowl a crooked, askewed countenance. However, to
me, the pipe seemed majestic and beautiful and utterly amazing.
I
slid this beautiful beast of a pipe into my pocket and then quickly went to the bookshelf
lined with various pipe tobaccos. Having always been partial to the
colors of orange and red, I quickly gravitated to the canister of Sir
Walter Raleigh pipe tobacco... in an orange & black canister, and
grabbed a small pinch of the leaf and gripped it tightly in my fist along with a match.
It took me only a
few minutes to reach the woods at the far back of the yard. I then took
one of the several paths I had made over the years, this one ended deep
into the woods at a small tree platform I had been working on building most of
the Spring. It eventually become a fairly grand sized
and entertaining tree house that I and several buddies of mine built
together. But this early summer day it was simply a comfortable platform
about 15 feet off the ground. I climbed the wooden boards I nailed to
the trunk of the tree and was soon comfortably seated on my platform.
As
I looked at the pipe, I grew more excited and nervous with each passing
moment. In my eyes, that decrepit, battered beast of a pipe was
majestic, beautiful, and utterly impressive. I uncupped my left hand and examined the small pinch of tobacco in my palm. With a bit of nervousness, I took some of the leaf out with my fingers from my right hand and
dropped it into the bowl of the pipe. I was sitting in such a way that I
could hold the bowl of the pipe between my feet, my tennis shoes gently
holding the bowl in position. I kept adding leaf to the bowl until it
seemed full enough. Luckily for me, the pinch of tobacco leaf I had
grabbed was rather small, so I was able to put all of the leaf into the
bowl.
It was so beautiful looking, I was truly in awe of the pipe
and leaf. Slowly and carefully I brought the stem of the pipe to my
mouth and gripped the stem with my teeth. It felt rather hard and
cumbersome, not with the comfortable, contented look I saw on my
father's face as he gripped the pipestem between his teeth. But still,
it the feeling, though strange was wonderful to me. The stem itself,
slightly beige at the tip from use, had a slightly acrid flavor that I
did not recognize at the time but still I enjoyed its texture.
I
likely sat there for the better part of a half hour observing, smelling, and experiencing the look and feel of the UNLIT pipe.
Finally after a bit of my nervousness subsided, I withdrew the wooden
kitchen match from my pocket. Having watched my father use a similar
kitchen match out-of-doors frequently, I knew I needed to strike the
match against the side of a rock. Luckily I had been carrying many
different rocks up to the platform of the last few weeks so that was not
a problem.
The weather had started to grow a bit cooler and I
could feel a gentle mist starting. I thought to myself that I had better
hurry, for it was going to rain heavily, very soon. Growing nervous
again, I held the match up against the rock and slid it against the
rough surface as I had seen my father do countless times. As I slid the
match, I expected it to fire to life quickly, but nothing happened.
Perhaps I needed to do it more strongly? So using more force, I slid the
match against the rock again. This time the head of the match snapped
off the matchstick and fell between the planks of the platform to the
ground below.
I was utterly disheartened.
[Another good stopping point for now.]
PipeTobacco
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