"Come on, buy a starter kit," she said with exuberance, "it comes with a pipe, tobacco; everything you need to get started!"
"Ehh," came my reluctant reply, "I don't know."
"We're buying this!"
A couple of weeks passed, and one brisk fall afternoon, as I sat on my porch — puffing my budget pipe, filled with sickly-sweet tobacco — the warm, soft, honeyed tone from a familiar feminine voice came, investigating, from behind me.
"How is it, my grump bear?"
"Meh," was my cantankerous response, "I guess I'm just used to cigars."
"Well, why not try some different tobaccos? We're going to go buy some different tobaccos! ... and while we're at it, pick up a couple of proper briar pipes!
"Several weeks passed, and as winter's frigid winds blew, I sat beneath the falling snow flakes, and — while sipping Nightcap and inhaling single malt — contemplated the icy twinkle of the neighborhood.
"You know, Papa Bear," she said, from the warmth of the threshold, "the girlies and I love the smell of your pipe."
"Hmph," my petulant return, "there's nothing wrong with a little fresh air."
"Get in here! From now on, unless it's an amazingly beautiful day, we're going to smoke our pipes indoors."
Years passed, and one night, as I sat cozy in my living room — fueled by burley and coffee — and inspecting the internet: reading news articles, photography updates, message boards and social media; the radiant voice purred again...
"Why haven't you joined that message board you spend so much time on?"
"Pfft," my dubious retort, "I never have enough worth saying."
"Sign up! We're going to be more involved with others who enjoy your hobby!"
Two days later, and I sit tranquil — relishing a Scottish blend and an Irish coffee — while I type this post. I hum in tune with the Black Crows, while luscious blue smoke halos my tablet screen. My beautiful and devoted wife walks in on my one-man-jam, and comments, with her balmy, ever-candied cadence...
"See, I love to encourage the things that I know you'll love, because, in the end, WE'RE always so exceptionally HAPPY."
"Ehh," came my reluctant reply, "I don't know."
"We're buying this!"
A couple of weeks passed, and one brisk fall afternoon, as I sat on my porch — puffing my budget pipe, filled with sickly-sweet tobacco — the warm, soft, honeyed tone from a familiar feminine voice came, investigating, from behind me.
"How is it, my grump bear?"
"Meh," was my cantankerous response, "I guess I'm just used to cigars."
"Well, why not try some different tobaccos? We're going to go buy some different tobaccos! ... and while we're at it, pick up a couple of proper briar pipes!
"Several weeks passed, and as winter's frigid winds blew, I sat beneath the falling snow flakes, and — while sipping Nightcap and inhaling single malt — contemplated the icy twinkle of the neighborhood.
"You know, Papa Bear," she said, from the warmth of the threshold, "the girlies and I love the smell of your pipe."
"Hmph," my petulant return, "there's nothing wrong with a little fresh air."
"Get in here! From now on, unless it's an amazingly beautiful day, we're going to smoke our pipes indoors."
Years passed, and one night, as I sat cozy in my living room — fueled by burley and coffee — and inspecting the internet: reading news articles, photography updates, message boards and social media; the radiant voice purred again...
"Why haven't you joined that message board you spend so much time on?"
"Pfft," my dubious retort, "I never have enough worth saying."
"Sign up! We're going to be more involved with others who enjoy your hobby!"
Two days later, and I sit tranquil — relishing a Scottish blend and an Irish coffee — while I type this post. I hum in tune with the Black Crows, while luscious blue smoke halos my tablet screen. My beautiful and devoted wife walks in on my one-man-jam, and comments, with her balmy, ever-candied cadence...
"See, I love to encourage the things that I know you'll love, because, in the end, WE'RE always so exceptionally HAPPY."
:
