I smoked my first pipe of tobacco on the night of Saturday October 27, 1973. The pipe itself was a Dr. Grabow bulldog which I purchased under false pretense (I claimed that it was to be a birthday gift for an Uncle, for otherwise I do not believe that the owner would have sold it to me) from a local combination bookstore and office supply shop where I was not known. The tobacco was a pouch of Irish Meade which I purchased from the drug store where I was known, and again under false pretense, this time at the request of a "visiting Uncle from out of state."
After supper I waited until it got dark, and then excused myself to take a walk. The question was, where could I go to sample these new wonders without drawing undue attention? I'm not certain why, but I ended up on the athletic field of the local junior high school. As I gazed around me I felt somewhat conspicuous, the darkness not withstanding, and so (and to this day I am not certain what possessed me to do it) I climbed one of the goal posts and sat on the crossbar with my right arm around one of the uprights. Fishing pipe and pouch from the pockets of my denim jacket I loaded by feel, and then lit-up using a kitchen match, just like I had seen my Grandfather do on occasion.
Sitting atop my perch I felt something akin to what the owl must feel as it surveys the night. Cars hissed by on the streets to the south and west, their headlights chasing the corners, tail-lights dimming with distance. A couple nearly a block away walking their dog could clearly be heard chatting as they passed - isn't it funny how some sounds seem louder in the dark? The stars and planets shown bright in the clear cold sky over my head. And I changed.
In the time that it took to smoke that first bowl I discovered what I had so hoped for. The enticing aroma as I opened that pouch. The sweet fullness of the smoke as I rolled it in my mouth, the live warmth of the bowl in my hand. A feeling of utter contentment embraced me, and I was sorry to have to eventually climb down and start the trek homeward. As I walked alone in the dark I reached for and felt the comforting bulk of pipe, pouch, and matches in my jacket pockets, and my spirits lifted.
After supper I waited until it got dark, and then excused myself to take a walk. The question was, where could I go to sample these new wonders without drawing undue attention? I'm not certain why, but I ended up on the athletic field of the local junior high school. As I gazed around me I felt somewhat conspicuous, the darkness not withstanding, and so (and to this day I am not certain what possessed me to do it) I climbed one of the goal posts and sat on the crossbar with my right arm around one of the uprights. Fishing pipe and pouch from the pockets of my denim jacket I loaded by feel, and then lit-up using a kitchen match, just like I had seen my Grandfather do on occasion.
Sitting atop my perch I felt something akin to what the owl must feel as it surveys the night. Cars hissed by on the streets to the south and west, their headlights chasing the corners, tail-lights dimming with distance. A couple nearly a block away walking their dog could clearly be heard chatting as they passed - isn't it funny how some sounds seem louder in the dark? The stars and planets shown bright in the clear cold sky over my head. And I changed.
In the time that it took to smoke that first bowl I discovered what I had so hoped for. The enticing aroma as I opened that pouch. The sweet fullness of the smoke as I rolled it in my mouth, the live warmth of the bowl in my hand. A feeling of utter contentment embraced me, and I was sorry to have to eventually climb down and start the trek homeward. As I walked alone in the dark I reached for and felt the comforting bulk of pipe, pouch, and matches in my jacket pockets, and my spirits lifted.
thanks for sharing that with us.
