I was born and raised in South Carolina, have moved around a bit, but once again call the Lowcountry home.
Nearly two decades ago, when the world was younger, including myself and my soon-to-be wife, Charleston was our playground. We'd wander the few tobacco shops nestled within its historic embrace, and I, with a novice's zeal, would always ask for a house-made maduro cigar, always dark and linear. It was our ritual, a tangible thread in the fabric of our budding romance.
Come summer, we'd gather on the porch of our downtown rental, two stories up, where the air was sweeter, and the nights unfolded like the pages of a well-worn novel. My friends and I, we were the arbiters of cool, the cigars in our hands a symbol of our leisurely defiance against the ordinary. The truly fascinating among us were the pipe smokers, their silent billows of smoke rising up, carrying with it the weight of their thoughts. And in that sacred space, fine spirits flowed freely, laughter was our currency, and music our religion. We debated everything and nothing, all under the watchful eye of the stars, our gazes never once dropping to the cold glow of a phone screen.
Time, as it does, moved on. We ventured out to the suburbs, started a family, and the smoky gatherings of our youth grew sparse. But occasionally, on those rare Carolina “cold” winter days, a friend would turn up at our 1960s bungalow, and there, in the openness of our garage, we'd resurrect those days if only for an evening, with a pipe and whiskey in hand, as if time had graciously paused.
The years continued to roll by, and even those moments became memories, until last year, when an invitation to a fantasy football league at my church led to an unexpected revival. After the draft, some of us spilled out onto the porch, and the familiar glow of a cigar and the comforting aroma of pipe smoke filled the air. It was as if an old love had been rekindled.
Since then, I've been fervently building my pipe collection, curating my tobacco cellar with the urgency of a man aware that time is a luxury. New friendships have formed, an old hobby has blossomed anew, and here I am, living what feels like the best chapter yet of my life. It's a reminder that sometimes, passions don't fade; they simply wait for the right moment to be awakened once more.
Thank you for welcoming me back in as a Brother of the Leaf.
Cheers!
Jeremy aka “Noble Castoff”
(resurrecting an account I created here a while back but never used. I'll get my screen name changed when I'm able)
Nearly two decades ago, when the world was younger, including myself and my soon-to-be wife, Charleston was our playground. We'd wander the few tobacco shops nestled within its historic embrace, and I, with a novice's zeal, would always ask for a house-made maduro cigar, always dark and linear. It was our ritual, a tangible thread in the fabric of our budding romance.
Come summer, we'd gather on the porch of our downtown rental, two stories up, where the air was sweeter, and the nights unfolded like the pages of a well-worn novel. My friends and I, we were the arbiters of cool, the cigars in our hands a symbol of our leisurely defiance against the ordinary. The truly fascinating among us were the pipe smokers, their silent billows of smoke rising up, carrying with it the weight of their thoughts. And in that sacred space, fine spirits flowed freely, laughter was our currency, and music our religion. We debated everything and nothing, all under the watchful eye of the stars, our gazes never once dropping to the cold glow of a phone screen.
Time, as it does, moved on. We ventured out to the suburbs, started a family, and the smoky gatherings of our youth grew sparse. But occasionally, on those rare Carolina “cold” winter days, a friend would turn up at our 1960s bungalow, and there, in the openness of our garage, we'd resurrect those days if only for an evening, with a pipe and whiskey in hand, as if time had graciously paused.
The years continued to roll by, and even those moments became memories, until last year, when an invitation to a fantasy football league at my church led to an unexpected revival. After the draft, some of us spilled out onto the porch, and the familiar glow of a cigar and the comforting aroma of pipe smoke filled the air. It was as if an old love had been rekindled.
Since then, I've been fervently building my pipe collection, curating my tobacco cellar with the urgency of a man aware that time is a luxury. New friendships have formed, an old hobby has blossomed anew, and here I am, living what feels like the best chapter yet of my life. It's a reminder that sometimes, passions don't fade; they simply wait for the right moment to be awakened once more.
Thank you for welcoming me back in as a Brother of the Leaf.
Cheers!
Jeremy aka “Noble Castoff”
(resurrecting an account I created here a while back but never used. I'll get my screen name changed when I'm able)
