I was disappointed to see that this was a thread for fictitious stories. My first estate pipe, my first pipe ever as a matter of fact, is a 1929 Dunhill bruyere finish. I am the second owner of this pipe and I actually met the original owner. And talked to him. Well, sort of. I rather talked at him than to him.
My wife told me not to tell this story online. She said that everyone would think the worst of me. I told her that I thought that her real concern was not for me, but that she was worried that everyone would think the worst of her. She admitted that was true. I assured her that all can be forgiven, and after all, it’s the internet. Everyone is anonymous, and the real likelihood of anyone ever finding out my (and her) identity is slim to zero. I showed her my avatar and asked her if she thought anyone would ever think that I am Chuck Colson, or that I would have a last name as ridiculous as Warmouth. What does that even mean? “No,” she said, “no-one is going to think you are Chuck Colson or CWarmouth, whatever that means, but your online reputation can be tarnished, and that is even more important than your real reputation these days.” I told her she was starting to sound like a millinial, at which point she huffed and went off to bed. So now here I am, enjoying a bowl of Erinmore Flake and getting all ready to tell my very true story.
For as long as we have known each other, my wife, JWarmouth and I have had a hobby of crashing things: parties, weddings, bar mitzvahs, family reunions, anything we could find out about to crash. It all started in junior high. In 1979 JWarmouth and I were junior high sweethearts. We were initially attracted to each other because we were both a little weird. Maybe not weird. Maybe more like, socially awkward. No, we were weird. We were the two weird kids that never got invited to parties. That would never happen these days. These days everyone gets an invitation and everyone leaves the birthday party with a present. But we didn’t grow up in the “certificate of participation” era. We grew up in the “tackle him on the playground and beat the snot out of him for being weird/isolate the weird girl” era. So we started “going together” in the 7th grade and decided one day to crash a birthday party of a kid in our class. It was so much fun that we advanced to crashing parties of kids in other classes, other schools, and even 9th graders. She pretended not to notice that all the other girls stood with their arms folded, chomping their Hubba Bubba, whispering to each other and making subtle derogatory remarks to her, like “Hey freak, leave the party now. No-one likes you.” I pretended that I didn’t know I was going to get tackled the next day and get the snot beat out of me. We walked around talking to everyone, laughing at nothing, and eating all the snacks and sodas like we were supposed to be there. I think we were the only ones really having any fun. Through high-school and college our antics got more and more advanced. They had to. We had been going to parties for so long that we had somehow become the cool kids. It was rare that we were not invited. Parties were no longer any fun. It was in 1984 when we reached our magnus opus; the one where I came to acquire my pipe.
We had been crashing funerals for a while. On more than one occasion our crashing actually turned out to be a blessing to the widowed spouse of the deceased, who sat in an empty funeral parlour waiting for someone, anyone to come offer condolences. In those occasions we found a humanitarian purpose in our hobby as we held the wrinkled hand of an elderly woman and told her tales of her now-passed husband’s acts of virtue during our time of knowing him. We comforted her with tissues and “God-be-with-yous” as tears streamed down her face and she thanked us for telling her these wonderful things about her beloved that she never knew. But most of the time we were self-centered and rude.
It was a Saturday in April and the obituary column was remarkably full for such a lovely month to be alive. We read each notice carefully, and when we reached the name Evinrude Bergendorf, age 79 we knew this was our mark. We arrived at the funeral at 7:50 P.M. and were surprised to see a large gathering. In fact, I had to park my car several hundred yards down the street. Evinrude was apparently a man of some notoriety. These events were not as much fun because no-one knew anyone anyway. We knew we could spice it up somehow though. Maybe my wife (then girlfriend, JMayfair) would play the part of the secret other woman that no-one knew about. Maybe I would make the rounds asking everyone how much the old scoundrel cheated them out of. You had to go big or go home at big weddings, big funerals, and First-Communions. At first we milled around getting a feel of the crowd. One of the first conversations I heard was about “Rudies” love affair with his old pipe. How it never left his mouth, and how his lips had permanent indentions in them from 55 years of holding it between his lips “the way he did”. Some said he slept with it. One old lady chimed in that it looked like he was going to get his wish to be buried with that damned old chimney. I learned that “Dorf” (when you have a name like Evinrude Bergendorf, it is only merciful that your friends give you nick-names) had been a pipe smoker darn near most of his life, making his own corn-cobs as early as nine years old and getting tobacco from cigarette butts he collected and peeled apart. In 1929 he traveled all the way to New York city to buy a raccoon-skin coat and a pipe he had seen advertised in Country Gentleman Magazine. He would have many more pipes (but no more coon-skin coats) in his lifetime, but none as treasured as this one. Said pipe is occupying a place in my pipe stand as I type.
After 30 minutes of casing the joint we rendezvoused near the restrooms and made a plan to go through the viewing/receiving line and see what we could see. Who was there to receive guests? How many? What were they like? We went through separately as we were not sure that we wanted to be recognized together yet. JMayfair went through a few people ahead of me. Nothing remarkable was to be seen in the family: the widow who looked a good 15 years younger than the deceased, an apparent son of about 35, his wife and kids, and a woman of about the same age; apparently a daughter. But “Bergs” was a different story. He was remarkable. He was laid in the finest wool suit. The smell of pipe tobacco had become a permanent part of his constitution. It had permeated his skin. There was also an almost overwhelming smell of English Leather. Tucked in his jacket pocket, much in the same way that other distinguished men have a handkerchief was a pouch of Edgeworth pipe tobacco which was said to have been saved to smoke on his deathbed. A 1929 Dunhill sat almost naturally between his lips. JMayfair and I made eye contact, and without even speaking we knew what must be done. She rubbed the shoulder of the widow, smiling sweetly and offering her sympathy, then placed herself in front of the son. It should be noted here that JMayfair was no longer an awkward 7th grader. In the prime of her life, she had developed into a sight to behold. She was, as we said in those days, a babe. She looked into the eyes of the son and tears welled up in her own. He furrowed his brow in a confused manner and formed a contrived half-smile. She put her hands around the upper part of his arms and then let them slide down into his hands. The man’s wife looked at her and then at him. Suspicion entered her mind and exited through her eyes in firey darts. JMayfair broke into a sob and threw herself into the man’s arms, wailing about not being able to marry him. Not now. Not after “all this.” She fainted. The man’s wife began thumping him and telling him she knew it. The man tried to stammer something but was drowned out by the shrieks of older women and the rushing of middle-aged men to the rescue of the poor passed-out woman who had caught all of their eyes from early on. No-one was looking at “Ev.” With not a second to spare I swiped the pouch from the jacket pocket and grabbed hold of the pipe. I expected an easy release but it seemed to have been held in place with some sort of adhesive. I tugged. Looked around. No-one was the wiser. “Let go, EVINRUDE,” I whispered. I tugged harder and this time it came free. “Thank you, Berg.” I stuck the loot in my pocket and made one more glance back at “Bergie.” His lip had a strange contortion that I am not sure was caused by my tugging or a lifetime of clenching. I quickly but calmly left the building before the deed was discovered. I waited a good 15 minutes before I finally saw JMayfair leaving the parlour, straightening her dress and offering “no, no, I’m fine now, really. It was all a big misunderstanding” to the parade of geezers who wanted to see her to her car. We drove off in uproarious laughter and quickly packed the pipe and lit her up. We found a quiet place to park and smoked half that pouch of vintage tobacco, reliving and guffawing over the evening’s exploits. “Did you see the look on his face?” The car filled up with the smell of old burley and aftershave. “Who first discovered that the pipe was gone?” “I thought he was never gonna let go of this pipe.” “Hey, we are smoking a pipe that was just in the mouth of a dead guy. Does that creep you out?”
More than 3o years has passed and I am happy to say that JWarmouth and I still enjoy an occasional crash. Though most (but not all) are tamer now than then. As for the pipe, it will always hold a place of sentiment to me. But I have others, like Medico Brylons that I prefer for smoking. I want to like this pipe but I have carefully cleaned and retorted the pipe multiple times over the years, but every single time I light it up it smells and tastes like an unpalatable combination of embalming fluid, old tobacco, wool suits, and English Leather. Mrs. JWarmouth says it is the “ghost” of Old Evie.”
I apologize for the length of this post, but true stories take longer to tell than fictitious ones.
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