The Bond
or: Your New Pipe
You're home at last. It's been a rather long day, but energy is high. A new pipe awaits. You know what it looks like (you chose it, after all). You open the box with a somewhat unsteady pulse; Part anxiety, part care. Memories of unboxing gifts as a kid and the time you broke a piece of one because of being too anxious attack you. Not this time. You shrug them off and see the pipe, its sock, and some papers you are quick to ignore.
There it is. A bit smaller than you remember. No, not quite. A bit fatter. The color is off -- Is it the light in here? You don't know. It'll be a great smoker no doubt (whatever the hell that means). The unfinished bowl worries you. Do I smoke it in thirds for the first few bowls? Do I fill it up? Is this better than pre-coated pipes? Does it matter?
You fill the bowl with your favorite tobacco and with your favorite technique. Shouldn't you be using an old wive's recipe of tobacco that sells for a dollar a pound to break it in? Screw it, it's mine, I'll do my thing. And here comes the first light. You stop of course, as the tobacco does not quite taste like always. Wood? air? there's something in here that's not just the smoke. Or maybe, the smoke is what's not quite fully here. You don't care, you go on and you finish your first bowl.
The first cleaning is fun. You dump the ashes and use your hand to gently tap the pipe and loosen the dottle. The pipe cleaner goes in and out. You find relief in the cleaner going all the way through the bowl. Does it matter, really? You don't care. The smoke was good, but something odd stays with you. You shrug it off, put the pipe away, and know you'll see it in a couple of days.
The fifth (or is it the sixth?) bowl catches you somewhat by surprise. The pipe has found a natural position in your hand. You're not a clenched and you don't bite the stem, but you let it hang anyway because why not? it's your pipe. Cleaning it is mechanical now. But the color has changed. The pipe is not as shiny. Is it patina? Is it dirt? Should I really be waxing this thing more often? Does it really matter?. The bowl is now black, mostly. A toni naked spot near the top remains. The bottom, you notice, is still more or less naked. There's no cake anywhere, but most of the bowl is black. Coated or charred, you're not sure. You shrug it off, put the pipe away, and know you'll see it in a couple of days.
Months have passed and your new pipe does not look new anymore. It is packed very easily now, with most motions being mechanical and deserving little afterthought. You're now used to it. And then, all of the sudden, as you puff shortly after the second light, you find yourself smiling. Your favorite blend, which has been a faithful companion every time you've tried this pipe, has dramatically changed in flavor. It sings. You feel pleasure in the sides of your tongue -- no, near the back. You're salivating with gusto as you savor your smoke.
The pipe, you see, is yours. But not like the first day. It's yours. And so it shall stay. Sweet. This piece of briar, masterfully crafted into an instrument that caught your eye at the store, worked its way into you. It looks used now. By you, nonetheless. It feels comfortable in your hand. And it tastes yours. You smile again as you feel -- not think -- the newly formed and pleasant bond. And you don't worry for a second for how long (or if) it will last.
or: Your New Pipe
You're home at last. It's been a rather long day, but energy is high. A new pipe awaits. You know what it looks like (you chose it, after all). You open the box with a somewhat unsteady pulse; Part anxiety, part care. Memories of unboxing gifts as a kid and the time you broke a piece of one because of being too anxious attack you. Not this time. You shrug them off and see the pipe, its sock, and some papers you are quick to ignore.
There it is. A bit smaller than you remember. No, not quite. A bit fatter. The color is off -- Is it the light in here? You don't know. It'll be a great smoker no doubt (whatever the hell that means). The unfinished bowl worries you. Do I smoke it in thirds for the first few bowls? Do I fill it up? Is this better than pre-coated pipes? Does it matter?
You fill the bowl with your favorite tobacco and with your favorite technique. Shouldn't you be using an old wive's recipe of tobacco that sells for a dollar a pound to break it in? Screw it, it's mine, I'll do my thing. And here comes the first light. You stop of course, as the tobacco does not quite taste like always. Wood? air? there's something in here that's not just the smoke. Or maybe, the smoke is what's not quite fully here. You don't care, you go on and you finish your first bowl.
The first cleaning is fun. You dump the ashes and use your hand to gently tap the pipe and loosen the dottle. The pipe cleaner goes in and out. You find relief in the cleaner going all the way through the bowl. Does it matter, really? You don't care. The smoke was good, but something odd stays with you. You shrug it off, put the pipe away, and know you'll see it in a couple of days.
The fifth (or is it the sixth?) bowl catches you somewhat by surprise. The pipe has found a natural position in your hand. You're not a clenched and you don't bite the stem, but you let it hang anyway because why not? it's your pipe. Cleaning it is mechanical now. But the color has changed. The pipe is not as shiny. Is it patina? Is it dirt? Should I really be waxing this thing more often? Does it really matter?. The bowl is now black, mostly. A toni naked spot near the top remains. The bottom, you notice, is still more or less naked. There's no cake anywhere, but most of the bowl is black. Coated or charred, you're not sure. You shrug it off, put the pipe away, and know you'll see it in a couple of days.
Months have passed and your new pipe does not look new anymore. It is packed very easily now, with most motions being mechanical and deserving little afterthought. You're now used to it. And then, all of the sudden, as you puff shortly after the second light, you find yourself smiling. Your favorite blend, which has been a faithful companion every time you've tried this pipe, has dramatically changed in flavor. It sings. You feel pleasure in the sides of your tongue -- no, near the back. You're salivating with gusto as you savor your smoke.
The pipe, you see, is yours. But not like the first day. It's yours. And so it shall stay. Sweet. This piece of briar, masterfully crafted into an instrument that caught your eye at the store, worked its way into you. It looks used now. By you, nonetheless. It feels comfortable in your hand. And it tastes yours. You smile again as you feel -- not think -- the newly formed and pleasant bond. And you don't worry for a second for how long (or if) it will last.
