Hello everyone! I just got back into pipe smoking, and must confess that I have been loitering. Yup, hanging around this forum for the past 3-4 months. A peeping Tom. It seems like a friendly place so I have decided to join in. Only smoked CH and Captain Black back in the day. Now I’m all in big time for the many new bacci’s.
I wrote a brief bio on how I began pipe smoking. It should explain a little bit who this lurker is. It begins.
I’ve been reacquainted with an old comrade. It has been twenty years since we last delighted in the company of each other. Over the years I have often thought about my friend. I cannot remember the last time we enjoyed each others company. But now, oh yes, but now, my pipe is firmly planted between my teeth. My pipe and I have once again rekindled, or should I say, re-fired our friendship.
I’m not sure of the reason why our friendship had gone astray so many years ago. Perhaps it had something to do with health issues. After-all, there is not a day that goes by where we do not hear or see a dialogue against smoking. I may have set my good friend the pipe aside thinking it would be better for my health. However, as I become older, and hopefully wiser, I have learned that it is not necessarily what you eat, smoke, or drink that makes one ill, but in effect, it is what you think about, which begins the misery of ill health, or disease. We are what we think. Now I believe that my years without my friend were more harmful to my well being than the smoke that filled my nostrils, and lungs. I remember the words that Mark Twain said when he so simply stated,
“...when they used to tell me I would shorten my life ten years by smoking, they little knew the devotee they were wasting their puerile word upon -- they little knew how trivial and valueless I would regard a decade that had no smoking in it!”
And now that I have become a senior member of society, and my days are abundantly filled with denture adhesive, and prune juice, I believe in living the rest of my days contemplating the issues of why I have become a senior member of society, of which I thought I would never reach. And what better way would there be to mull over such a topic, than with my friend the pipe. After all, some great thinkers, theologians, and writers of fine literature like C.S. Lewis, Einstein, Twain, William Faulkner, and Bilbo Baggins the hobbit, contemplated effectively, and contributed immensely to mankind, while smoking their favorite briar.
I was not always a pipe smoker. Unlike some who are born into it, my fondness for it grew from inquisitiveness about pipe smoking. I am by nature a quizzical sort. So pipe smoking for me was just another investigation into another mystery. My examination of the smoking ritual began at age ten. However, I did not meet my first pipe until many years later.
My father was cool. He smoked Marlboro’s. As a young boy I remember seeing the Marlboro Man on posters, billboards, and TV commercials. The Marlboro Man most often was a cowboy. He always had a Marlboro cigarette dangling from his mouth. Most times he was pictured wearing a cowboy hat while sitting high up on his horse. He looked rough and rugged. My father was rough and tough. I wanted to be like them.
Of course being ten years old I had no way of buying Marlboro cigarettes. My lunch money barely paid for my lunch. Yet, I wanted those Marlboros. Every time I saw the Marlboro man, or my father puffing away on that cigarette, my desire to have one intensified greatly. I was addicted to nicotine before my first cig. I had become a ten year old, nicotine junky without smoking. My craving led me to stealing from my father.
At that time my father worked nights. He slept days. So I decided that while he slept, I would remove some Marlboro cigarettes from my father’s cigarette package. He kept the cigs on the kitchen counter. After-all I reasoned, he won’t miss a few.
After successfully removing five Marlboros from the package I suddenly became aware of a very significant thought. It was a thought that I had not encountered before. Now that I had the five cigs, where would I smoke them? As I stared at the cigarettes in my hand I realized that I could not smoke them in my house. My mother, two sisters and my brother were there, and my father was sleeping and could wake up at any time. Then an idea came to me. I quickly ran down into our basement.
The cellar in the house I grew up in was the scariest environment I have ever encountered. The damp, musty, dark, basement was more like a crypt. Neither I nor my siblings ever wanted to go down there. At times, our mother would force us to go down and, “bring up the laundry,” or to, “go get a jar of tomato sauce.” Getting jars of tomato sauce, or any of the jars of food my mother stored in the crypt was like walking into a haunted house. The food storage part of the cellar was located in the furthest, back corner of the cellar. I used to run as fast as I could, quickly turn on the light that hung from the exposed ceiling joists, grab the jar, turn off the light, quickly turn around, and race back to the stairs that led up to the main house. It only took me a few seconds to run down and back, but during that time, it seemed like an eternity. And now, with the Marlboros in my hand, the fear was there, but the intense need to smoke a cig, and to be cool, was stronger than the fear of being in the cellar.
I hid inside the cold storage cellar. I figured that was the safest place to light up. Even though my brother and sisters were home, I knew they would have no reason to come down there.
I slowly inserted the Marlboro cigarette into my mouth. It hung from my lips like a limp noodle. I had a book of matches I found in the junk drawer of our kitchen. I never lit a match before. When I struck the first one the flame happened so quickly it burned my finger and thumb. I carefully struck the second match and the flame instantly erupted into a yellow glow. Slowly, I raised the flame to the end of the Marlboro hanging from my lips. I sucked in, way in. With a puff of smoke the Marlboro lit, and instantly I was overcome with such coughing that I thought my insides were about to be heaved upwards and thrown out from my mouth. The hacking was intense. I became dizzy and nauseated. My eyes watered and my lungs burned. The Marlboro Man and my father had to be very tough men to put up with this, I thought.
Finally my coughing stopped. I finished smoking half the Marlboro, learning not to inhale the smoke, and hid the other four cigs behind a shelf that held jars of homemade pickles. I would come back at different times to finish those.
However, my cigarette smoking days ended not much later. My mother unsuspectingly came down into the basement to wash a load of laundry, and caught me puffing away on a Marlboro. After she told my father, he made it clear that the next time I was caught smoking he would make me eat the cigarettes. And knowing my father, I would have eaten a few Marlboros. But my young smoking days were not really over. I was fifteen when I tasted my first cigar.
My grandfather used to smoke a cigar that looked like dog turds. They were black, curly, and had a strong odor. And once again I had the urge to be like the grownups. I wanted to smoke cigars.
My friend Axle and I used to skip school together. We would walk the streets, or go shoot pool, or shoot craps behind the old brewery. We were always trying to avoid the truant officers. And then Axle turned sixteen. He was a year older than I. He got his drivers license a few months later.
Now we could skip school by driving around the city instead of walking. The only problem was, neither one of us had a car. Axle’s father drove their family car to work. But my father’s car was in the driveway everyday because he worked nights. So we devised a plan. We learned how to hotwire my father’s car to get it started. That way I would not risk getting caught trying to remove his car keys from his bedroom while he slept.
Axle and I would drive around the city during school hours all the while smoking my grandfather’s stinky, black, cigars. We felt like big shots. We were cool. The only problem was the cigars stunk up my father’s car real bad. I had to clean it out every time we stole it. Unfortunately, one day our luck ran out. The cigar stench in my father’s car got to be so bad he figured out without too much effort why the smell was there. And once again, my young smoking days had come to an end. That is, until I enlisted in the Air Force. At that time I began smoking cigarettes again. I smoked many different brands for about six years and then stopped. Just went cold turkey. A few years later I became interested in pipe smoking.
It was a corncob pipe. That first pipe was a cheap, drugstore purchase. I bought the pipe when I was in my thirties. It was a time when my life was filled with questions; more questions then when I was fifteen, but not as many questions as I have today. That first Missouri Meerschaum, corn cob had become an extension of my thinking. And then, just like with the cigarettes, I quit pipe smoking, once again going cold turkey.
Since those first, reflective days of my pipe smoking, there has been a war against smoking of all kinds. I remember when it was okay to smoke in any venue, or at any outdoors locale. However, in today’s world, smoking has been treated like the plague. I wonder what the Native Indians would have done if they were faced with the same treatment for smoking their peace pipes. I am all for respecting others by not blowing smoke into their space, but I do detest not being able to light my pipe, and smoke as I walk along a rural, country trail.
In the spring, summer, and fall months, I smoke my pipe at home, outdoors. I am quite content in doing this. The squirrels, chipmunks and birds that playfully frolic about my yard have no issue with my smoking. On the contrary, they seem to delight in my company as I sip the flavors of my favorite tobaccos. On cold, or rainy days, my pipe and I will find my way into my cold garage. There I will take pleasure in my pipe and thought, that I have lived to see another summer past by, and to contemplate the days to come. And I’m sure there will be many times as I reflect and smoke my pipe, that I will ponder why I so distanced myself from my old friend.
I wrote a brief bio on how I began pipe smoking. It should explain a little bit who this lurker is. It begins.
I’ve been reacquainted with an old comrade. It has been twenty years since we last delighted in the company of each other. Over the years I have often thought about my friend. I cannot remember the last time we enjoyed each others company. But now, oh yes, but now, my pipe is firmly planted between my teeth. My pipe and I have once again rekindled, or should I say, re-fired our friendship.
I’m not sure of the reason why our friendship had gone astray so many years ago. Perhaps it had something to do with health issues. After-all, there is not a day that goes by where we do not hear or see a dialogue against smoking. I may have set my good friend the pipe aside thinking it would be better for my health. However, as I become older, and hopefully wiser, I have learned that it is not necessarily what you eat, smoke, or drink that makes one ill, but in effect, it is what you think about, which begins the misery of ill health, or disease. We are what we think. Now I believe that my years without my friend were more harmful to my well being than the smoke that filled my nostrils, and lungs. I remember the words that Mark Twain said when he so simply stated,
“...when they used to tell me I would shorten my life ten years by smoking, they little knew the devotee they were wasting their puerile word upon -- they little knew how trivial and valueless I would regard a decade that had no smoking in it!”
And now that I have become a senior member of society, and my days are abundantly filled with denture adhesive, and prune juice, I believe in living the rest of my days contemplating the issues of why I have become a senior member of society, of which I thought I would never reach. And what better way would there be to mull over such a topic, than with my friend the pipe. After all, some great thinkers, theologians, and writers of fine literature like C.S. Lewis, Einstein, Twain, William Faulkner, and Bilbo Baggins the hobbit, contemplated effectively, and contributed immensely to mankind, while smoking their favorite briar.
I was not always a pipe smoker. Unlike some who are born into it, my fondness for it grew from inquisitiveness about pipe smoking. I am by nature a quizzical sort. So pipe smoking for me was just another investigation into another mystery. My examination of the smoking ritual began at age ten. However, I did not meet my first pipe until many years later.
My father was cool. He smoked Marlboro’s. As a young boy I remember seeing the Marlboro Man on posters, billboards, and TV commercials. The Marlboro Man most often was a cowboy. He always had a Marlboro cigarette dangling from his mouth. Most times he was pictured wearing a cowboy hat while sitting high up on his horse. He looked rough and rugged. My father was rough and tough. I wanted to be like them.
Of course being ten years old I had no way of buying Marlboro cigarettes. My lunch money barely paid for my lunch. Yet, I wanted those Marlboros. Every time I saw the Marlboro man, or my father puffing away on that cigarette, my desire to have one intensified greatly. I was addicted to nicotine before my first cig. I had become a ten year old, nicotine junky without smoking. My craving led me to stealing from my father.
At that time my father worked nights. He slept days. So I decided that while he slept, I would remove some Marlboro cigarettes from my father’s cigarette package. He kept the cigs on the kitchen counter. After-all I reasoned, he won’t miss a few.
After successfully removing five Marlboros from the package I suddenly became aware of a very significant thought. It was a thought that I had not encountered before. Now that I had the five cigs, where would I smoke them? As I stared at the cigarettes in my hand I realized that I could not smoke them in my house. My mother, two sisters and my brother were there, and my father was sleeping and could wake up at any time. Then an idea came to me. I quickly ran down into our basement.
The cellar in the house I grew up in was the scariest environment I have ever encountered. The damp, musty, dark, basement was more like a crypt. Neither I nor my siblings ever wanted to go down there. At times, our mother would force us to go down and, “bring up the laundry,” or to, “go get a jar of tomato sauce.” Getting jars of tomato sauce, or any of the jars of food my mother stored in the crypt was like walking into a haunted house. The food storage part of the cellar was located in the furthest, back corner of the cellar. I used to run as fast as I could, quickly turn on the light that hung from the exposed ceiling joists, grab the jar, turn off the light, quickly turn around, and race back to the stairs that led up to the main house. It only took me a few seconds to run down and back, but during that time, it seemed like an eternity. And now, with the Marlboros in my hand, the fear was there, but the intense need to smoke a cig, and to be cool, was stronger than the fear of being in the cellar.
I hid inside the cold storage cellar. I figured that was the safest place to light up. Even though my brother and sisters were home, I knew they would have no reason to come down there.
I slowly inserted the Marlboro cigarette into my mouth. It hung from my lips like a limp noodle. I had a book of matches I found in the junk drawer of our kitchen. I never lit a match before. When I struck the first one the flame happened so quickly it burned my finger and thumb. I carefully struck the second match and the flame instantly erupted into a yellow glow. Slowly, I raised the flame to the end of the Marlboro hanging from my lips. I sucked in, way in. With a puff of smoke the Marlboro lit, and instantly I was overcome with such coughing that I thought my insides were about to be heaved upwards and thrown out from my mouth. The hacking was intense. I became dizzy and nauseated. My eyes watered and my lungs burned. The Marlboro Man and my father had to be very tough men to put up with this, I thought.
Finally my coughing stopped. I finished smoking half the Marlboro, learning not to inhale the smoke, and hid the other four cigs behind a shelf that held jars of homemade pickles. I would come back at different times to finish those.
However, my cigarette smoking days ended not much later. My mother unsuspectingly came down into the basement to wash a load of laundry, and caught me puffing away on a Marlboro. After she told my father, he made it clear that the next time I was caught smoking he would make me eat the cigarettes. And knowing my father, I would have eaten a few Marlboros. But my young smoking days were not really over. I was fifteen when I tasted my first cigar.
My grandfather used to smoke a cigar that looked like dog turds. They were black, curly, and had a strong odor. And once again I had the urge to be like the grownups. I wanted to smoke cigars.
My friend Axle and I used to skip school together. We would walk the streets, or go shoot pool, or shoot craps behind the old brewery. We were always trying to avoid the truant officers. And then Axle turned sixteen. He was a year older than I. He got his drivers license a few months later.
Now we could skip school by driving around the city instead of walking. The only problem was, neither one of us had a car. Axle’s father drove their family car to work. But my father’s car was in the driveway everyday because he worked nights. So we devised a plan. We learned how to hotwire my father’s car to get it started. That way I would not risk getting caught trying to remove his car keys from his bedroom while he slept.
Axle and I would drive around the city during school hours all the while smoking my grandfather’s stinky, black, cigars. We felt like big shots. We were cool. The only problem was the cigars stunk up my father’s car real bad. I had to clean it out every time we stole it. Unfortunately, one day our luck ran out. The cigar stench in my father’s car got to be so bad he figured out without too much effort why the smell was there. And once again, my young smoking days had come to an end. That is, until I enlisted in the Air Force. At that time I began smoking cigarettes again. I smoked many different brands for about six years and then stopped. Just went cold turkey. A few years later I became interested in pipe smoking.
It was a corncob pipe. That first pipe was a cheap, drugstore purchase. I bought the pipe when I was in my thirties. It was a time when my life was filled with questions; more questions then when I was fifteen, but not as many questions as I have today. That first Missouri Meerschaum, corn cob had become an extension of my thinking. And then, just like with the cigarettes, I quit pipe smoking, once again going cold turkey.
Since those first, reflective days of my pipe smoking, there has been a war against smoking of all kinds. I remember when it was okay to smoke in any venue, or at any outdoors locale. However, in today’s world, smoking has been treated like the plague. I wonder what the Native Indians would have done if they were faced with the same treatment for smoking their peace pipes. I am all for respecting others by not blowing smoke into their space, but I do detest not being able to light my pipe, and smoke as I walk along a rural, country trail.
In the spring, summer, and fall months, I smoke my pipe at home, outdoors. I am quite content in doing this. The squirrels, chipmunks and birds that playfully frolic about my yard have no issue with my smoking. On the contrary, they seem to delight in my company as I sip the flavors of my favorite tobaccos. On cold, or rainy days, my pipe and I will find my way into my cold garage. There I will take pleasure in my pipe and thought, that I have lived to see another summer past by, and to contemplate the days to come. And I’m sure there will be many times as I reflect and smoke my pipe, that I will ponder why I so distanced myself from my old friend.
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