G. L. Pease
When I was a kid, I remember reading about a car with two reverse gears. Why anyone would want to go fast backwards was puzzling, then, as it is now, but there it was. There are, of course, some heavy vehicles with two speeds backwards, and some tanks are so equipped, but it seems superfluous folly in a sport car which isn’t likely to move large amounts of earth, or require a quick retreat in the face of enemy shelling. Usually. Unless, I suppose, the driver is smoking a pipe whilst motoring through the hostile territory of militant antis performing the face waving dance of the hands, coughing overly dramatically and lobbing nasty epithets in his general direction.

G. L. Pease
It’s an absolutely gorgeous morning. Spring is sprouting all round, with wildflowers of all sizes and colours punctuating the green and gold of the open field across the street, and the weeds in the back yard have effortlessly achieved dog-camouflaging heights. The air is clean and fresh from recent rains, the delicate blue of the sky is veiled with a few soft, wispy clouds, and I’ve just enjoyed an absolutely, and somewhat unexpectedly brilliant smoke from a pipe with which I’ve had a very rocky relationship for a couple of years.

G. L. Pease
I love used pipes ("estate" is the popular euphemism, but let’s call them what they are for today). If I had a great deal more disposable income, the truth is that I’d still probably chase after those old, well-loved beauties with untold histories. I get a good value, the "hard work" of breaking it in has been done, I can add nice examples of pipes that are no longer made to my collection, and if I decide in the future that I don’t want to keep it, I can usually get most, if not all of my money out of it, or even, in some cases, realize a small profit. What’s not to like?

There’s a potential downside, however, a risk we all take when we buy a pipe someone else is getting rid of. The question, "Why is this amazing pipe finding its way to market?" is a fair one. Usually, I’m reasonably convinced the previous owner simply is moving on. Perhaps they’ve begun collecting a new shape, or another maker, or this piece no longer fits their tastes, or they’re downsizing their collection, or some other completely rational justification for their parting with their gem. All good reasons. But, sometimes, it might be because the pipe just doesn’t smoke well for them.

G. L. Pease
I’m often asked why I don’t try to recreate some of the lost blends of yesterday, and, more pointedly, what I think of others’ attempts to do so. For all the obvious reasons, and a few less so, this is a subject steeped in considerable controversy, and I’ve always been candid with my opinions, but referring back to last month’s column, Balkan Sobriety, taking that one storied blend as an exemplar for further discussion, we can see the first of several problems in the task of our proposed forgery, outlined in rather stark relief.

That article showed that one of the significant components of this single brand varied over a few year period from a high of 50% of the blend’s makeup to a low of 35%. This far from insubstantial change is one that would be immediately noticeable to anyone who smoked two of these "versions" side-by-side, though perhaps would be less apparent if the change was introduced over time to a routine smoker of the brand, allowing him to adapt to the changes incrementally.

G. L. Pease
It’s a fact. I’m no historian. This is clearly evidenced anytime someone asks me a question like, "When did Balkan Sobranie disappear from the US market?" I know it happened within the last decade, but that’s about as specific as my memory gets. A historian would remember when things like this occur, accompanied by the context of the event, important influences that led up to it, and the event’s aftermath, and could paint a fairly elaborate picture of the mechanisms behind it all, the whys and hows and whens of the event.

Certainly, something as important to the pipe world as the disappearance of a justifiably celebrated tobacco blend is a subject that I, as someone in the business, should be able to recall in an instant, and perhaps even expand upon with some windy, byzantine tale, told in hushed and reverent tones, replete with florid language, a colorful parade of adjectives and an archaic vocabulary. I cannot do this. I can scarcely remember when my own brands appeared or disappeared, or, for that matter, what I had for breakfast last Tuesday. I am, and always have been, a little historically challenged.

By G. L. Pease
When I first took up the pipe, and more specifically, the pernicious disorder known as pipe-collecting, I was counseled by a couple grizzled old guys, meaning they were then older then than I am now, that pipes were better back in the day. They patiently explained to me, the wide-eyed, enthusiastic youth, that in the old days, good pipes were made from prehistoric briar, constructed by craftsmen who began their apprenticeships in utero, and that modern pipes are no more worthy of their attention than a Starving Artist’s rendition of Cézanne’s Man With a Pipe bought out of the trunk of a beat-up Chevy in a Home Depot parking lot. They’d contentedly puff away at their ancient briars as they would tell me of the good old days, and how it’s too bad pipe smoking was a dying art, and that pipe making, real pipe making, was already dead, and just hadn’t had the grace to get buried yet, and how it was too bad that I’d missed out on the Golden Age. (I bet when they were kids, someone told them the same thing.)

By G. L. Pease
It starts with the anticipation; a few days, a week, two. The deal was made, then it’s all about the waiting. Some are more calmly patient than I am, taking an almost philosophical approach; "It’ll be here when it’s here," they think, and go about their day. I’m the anxious school kid who jumps up to look out the window several times a day hoping to catch sight of the delivery van rolling up my street. I think, at this point in my life, that’s not likely to change, nor do I really want it to. I love the anticipation, like the little ones waiting for the tapping of reindeer hooves on the roof, and jolly old St. Nicholas’ descent down the chimney.

Finally, there’s the knock at the door, the ringing of the doorbell, the dog’s bark to alert that someone, or something, is waiting for me on the porch. It’s the moment I’ve been waiting for; the opening of the door to have that little box finally find its way into my eagerly waiting hands.

By G. L. Pease
Not long ago, on a hot, sultry evening, I was out back, grilling chicken and burgers for the evening dinner - on days like that, the thought of standing at the stove, or turning on the oven finds me wanting to run to the nearest walk-in freezer and take up permanent residence - while puffing on a bowl of what I thought was my usual choice of tobaccos for hot summer smoking. If you’ve read along for a while, you’ll know that I’m not a fan of heavy Latakia mixtures in the heat of summer, and often forgo the pipe completely in favor of a good cigar. Cigars were born in hot, humid climates, and are as welcome for outdoor cooking as a Panama hat and dark specs. The pipe? The right blend works, and my choice of a particular mixture sporting a little cigar leaf and not too much Latakia has worked really well for me since I accidentally discovered it some time ago. But, full Latakia mixtures? Never! They’re just too bold, too assertive, too fatiguing to the palate during the dog days’ swelter.

By G. L. Pease
I frequently mention wine and pipe tobacco in the same puff of smoke. It’s usually an off-hand, casual remark, and it wasn’t until I was challenged by a friend, a devotée of the grape, but no fan of the leaf, to defend what seemed to be a somewhat tenuous position that I started to examine it more closely, and wound up finding even more similarities than I’d previously thought possible. On the surface, it might be difficult to imagine two things as different as a bottle of wine and a tin of tobacco sharing many similarities; let’s start at the ground, and work our way up.

Though there are many species of tobacco, quite a few of which are grown as ornamental plants for their showy leaves and fragrant flowers, that which finds its way into our pipes is of a single species, Nicotiana tabacum. (N. rustica is sometimes grown for smoking, or for the production of chewing tobacco or pesticide, but it is much to harsh and too strong to find its way into our pipes.) Similarly, the majority of grapes cultivated for the production of wine are of a single species, Vitis vinifera.

By G. L. Pease
In one of his essays on Self-Reliance, Ralph Waldo Emmerson wrote, "A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, adored by little statesmen and philosophers and divines." If this is true, one look at the ever-changing chaos on my desk must make a statement about my own nature. Perhaps it reflects the fact that I’m too candid to be a particularly effective statesman, and no one who knows me would ever confuse me with one of the divines. That’s actually a relief; statesmen and divines, it seems to me, are forced to bear too much pressure. I’ll accept a little chaos as a good thing. Not all consistencies are foolish, though; there’s certainly a place for them in the world, especially when it comes to the tobacco blends we smoke. But, tobacco is an agricultural product, subject to the whims and fancies of nature’s yearly personality changes. Is it even possible to create blends that are truly, measurably consistent from year to year?