My wife demurely asked if there were any pipes in my collection that were particularly valuable and if I might point them out to her. I'm no fool, so I naturally responded that I had nothing worth more than $10. Then I started searching the house for lethal traps.
She's pretty smart, though, and left no clues pertaining to immediate dangers. Still, why would she make such an inquiry if she wasn't suspicious? She's never had an interest in my pipes before and was obviously planning to dispense with me. Some might think I'm paranoid, but the fact is, if she knew what I've spent on pipes and pipe tobacco during our 30+ years of marriage, no jury would convict her for torturing me to death and leaving my despicable, decomposing corpse in the driveway as a warning to other pipe collectors. I've maintained a secret bug-out bag for many years now, including a small first aid kit, two fiber bars, a six-pack of Diet Pepsi, a one-way ticket to Ukraine, 50 tins of tobacco and 30 pipes, just in case she discovered my duplicity. I needed confirmation first, though.
After reassuring myself that there were no deadfalls or sabotaged electrical switches awaiting me, I determined that she was taking every precaution to avoid discovery. That left only one possibility: She had recruited our two cats.
I should have recognized it sooner. The cats despise me and would be easy to enlist — they've never forgiven me for accidentally triggering the smoke alarm a few years ago. They’d been sleeping comfortably underfoot when I stupidly lit a pipe while standing directly under the smoke alarm in the kitchen. The alarm instantly transformed the cats from sleeping lumps to vertically accelerating missiles. They launched five feet into the air before reaching perihelion, where they hovered weightlessly before attaching themselves to my face in a death grip of clawing panic and recrimination.
I tried to pry them off with a spatula, but they weren't inclined to vacate their positions until the alarm ceased. With snarling and wailing cats obstructing my view, I had to climb a chair and disengage the alarm, a difficult task when every neuron in my brain was demanding that I hose them off over the sink and chase after them with a golf club.
Since then, the cats and I have observed a strained détente of sorts, but I noticed an increase in offensive tactics since my wife asked about pipes. They have tried to trip me on the stairs, they've attempted murder-by-arson by pushing my smoldering pipe into the couch seat cushions, and they dragged a poisonous snake into the house and planted it in my shoe (OK, they didn't actually do that last one, but I can see in their eyes that they're thinking about it and I am on alert).
My wife noticed how jumpy I was around the cats and asked what my problem was. She is masterful at posing such questions when I'm distracted and unable to maintain psychological defenses, and I was horrified to hear myself blurt out the actual truth: "Because you've convinced the cats to kill me so you can sell my pipes and cavort with a tennis pro in Cancun." She laughed. "Where did you get that idea?"
"You asked which pipes were valuable so you could sell them after you and the cats got rid of me."
She kissed me on the forehead. "Silly man," she said. "I asked that because I wanted to buy you a new pipe for Christmas and needed to know what you liked best. But if it's going to cause this much consternation, I'll just look for some slippers."
This is, as best as I can remember it without embellishments or leaving parts out, a tale from Bob Brownell's book "Gunsmith Kinks" . . .
Some women are like cigarettes, easily set aflame, and easily cast aside. Some women are like cigars, sleek and smooth and a pleasure, but when it's over, you don't mind. Some women are like a pipe, to fondle and cherish and keep over the years.
Now, you can bum a cigarette off just about any other smoker, Occasionally you will be offered a cigar, But no one will lend you his pipe.
Ever since I first read that, I have kept a new pipe or three set aside just in case a visitor has forgotten his own pipe.
Pipe smokers get along famously when they're together. I've seen it at pipe shows and pipe club meetings: New people are instantly accepted, everyone has plenty to talk about, everyone gets along great. I think the primary reason for that is, no one understands us except other pipe smokers.
Our friends and families may accept that we smoke pipes, but that acceptance doesn't necessarily include understanding. My wife is more bewildered than anything else. She doesn’t understand why I smoke a pipe, just that I do. Only other pipe smokers understand why. Cigar and cigarette smokers don't get it either, though there is crossover and some smoke both. But mainly, tobacco is smoked in easier forms than pipes. Pipes take a certain skill level to enjoy. Perhaps that is why so many try pipes but give them up: They've not yet reached the skill level necessary to truly enjoy pipes.
I don't know how I made it through that initial learning curve. I don't think I fully appreciated what pipes could do until I'd been smoking them for a couple of years. If I'd been told to pack the pipe less tightly, to dry my tobacco a little before smoking, to use pipe cleaners more liberally and to get into English and Virginia blends instead of (or in addition to) aromatics, it would have been faster. But I had to figure out all that on my own, like so many others. I stubbornly suffered for two years, burning my tongue, cursing the acrid flavors of overheated aromatics, wondering what I was missing, before finally dialing in my technique to a point where I could enjoy it.
It's a common story, experienced by many, perhaps even yourself, and I think it's partially responsible for making us all feel comfortable with others who have been through it. Even more compelling, though, is the experience of smoking itself.
Pipe smoking is not a compulsion; it's a mental respite from the pressures of daily living. We enter the pipesmoking zone, and the rest of the world fades into the background. From rubbing out a flake tobacco and loading the pipe, to scratching a match and giving the bowl a charring light, to working the burn down the bowl and appreciating the flavors that evolve at different levels, to bringing a pipe back to life with deft tamping and careful puffing, the activity takes us away. Not fully away, but it requires enough attention to divert our thoughts, and that's enough. It takes only a couple of puffs to realign our thoughts to better tackle any problem we confront.
That's why we get along so well. We share secret knowledge. It isn't secret because we choose to keep it so, but because so few attain it, even with coaching. The commonality of shared skills and experiences is a social adhesive of great power. If pipe smokers sometimes feel tribal, it's because, unlike the majority of the world, we share the sublime and inexplicable satisfactions of the pipe.
Great piece and a good read @motie2 For years I often sadly said pipe smoking was becoming a lost art. It gives me encouragement to see young men at the pipe shows smoking a pipe while looking and shopping for the same. That's also another reason I enjoy TPL so much. When faced with friends and family who don't completely understand the entire experience of a good pipe, it's good to have friends here that can relate... Thanks again for posting...
@KA9FFJ, agreed. It's funny, over the last five years, I have started reverting back little by little to the good old ways. Here are a few examples of recent purchases and some items on this years Christmas wish list: Lodge Iron cookware Frye boots Pipe stuff (of course) Handlebar mustache Custom built Mandolin Pocket watch Leather vests Paper books Essential oils (Making my own balms)
Apple cider and other vinegars Unique cold pressed oils
@motie2 Nice read , kind of nails it down. @Londy3 Whatever you do, don't read the Foxfire Books, You'll be so far off grid we'll have to send out a search party.
I was late for a meeting the other day, so I quickly grabbed a pipe and filled it, ran to the conference room and lit up. Yes, we smoke in meetings here. It's remarkably civilized, and I recommend it for the rest of the world.
I couldn't tell you what the meeting was about, though. Maybe it was important, I don't know. A colleague noted a few weeks ago that I look ponderously deep in thought during meetings, as if calculating the strategies for perpetual world peace. But that is employment camouflage. It's the pipe. A pipe can make even me look intelligent and invested, and I've capitalized on that. When I'm in meetings, the only thing happening in my head is old Roadrunner cartoons on a repeating loop. I may crack a wry smile now and again, which my colleagues attribute to wisdom, but it's due only to the coyote immolating in the blast of an Acme rocket. I never tire of that wacky coyote.
Not this time, though. I was diverted from my routine mental disassociation by my pipe, which was acting strangely. It had never behaved in such an odd manner before and I didn't quite know how to cope.
It was smoking perfectly.
And I mean perfectly. I put it down to pretend to take some notes, and two minutes later when I picked it up, it was still smoking. One draw and it was in business. I tamped only twice in 30 minutes and never relit. I would put the pipe down on the table and watch the wisps of smoke, and just as they were dwindling to invisibility, I'd pick up the pipe and draw, and it would roar into life as if my last puff had been only a few seconds before. The flavor was full and rich and I kept wanting more. It was a miraculous happenstance, and that may have been the only meeting I've ever attended that I wasn't desperate to escape.
I kept glancing around the table to see if others noticed this phenomenon, but no one appeared to understand the cosmic significance of the event. I later discovered that they did notice, and a couple of them even attributed it to my advanced pipe smoking experience. Ha! It was utter chance. I got busy reviewing my steps, exactly how I'd filled the bowl, the consistency of my tobacco, etc., in hopes of reconstructing the circumstance, because bowls of tobacco that perform at that advanced level are usually years apart.
Typically, I am always fiddling with the bowl, tamping a little harder on one side to adjust the burn and compensate for my artless filling method, or gently breathing through the stem to try to keep the tobacco lit. I may poke a hole down through the tobacco to provide a flue if the draw is too tight. I may pry part of the tobacco up and then gently push it back down in a doomed effort to improve the smoke. It seems like I'm always chasing and losing that perfect smoke, so when I finally caught it, I was surprised.
And now I can't repeat it. I've tried the same pipe, filling it quickly and haphazardly, trying to recapture my experience, but it's gone. Now I'm back to relighting 20 or 30 times per bowl, and my coworkers are starting to catch on and realize that I'm not nearly as smart as I appear.
Especially when they ask my opinion during a meeting and I'm only able to reply only with, "Beep-beep! Thththppthth."
There are those who say works of art cultivate something of a conversation between the viewer and the piece itself. Art has the potential to catalyze questions, invoke memories, and stimulate feelings that otherwise may not have been realized. American theatre director Anne Bogart says that work of the highest caliber "awakens what sleeps" in the mind of the audience member. To me, that sort of interaction is relative to the audience's life experience, though there is of course some contention as to what constitutes "art" as opposed to craft. And as it relates to pipes and tobacco, some feel a piece of work can't be considered art if it performs a practical function. I disagree, and so does my copy of the Iliad currently serving as a pipe rest.
I once heard in college that food is the highest form of art, because it can appeal to all the senses, from the visual, to the olfactory, to even the aural (think of the sound of a steak sizzling). Creme brulee, a dish made from rich custard topped with a hard shell of caramelized sugar, is an excellent example of this principle. The mixture itself of course requires forethought and attention, but the presentation is almost equally important. The typically ornate ramekin serving dish is required to withstand the intense heat needed to harden the sugar, the sugar itself generous enough to form a consistent layer, the applied heat strong enough to harden it, and the time following long enough to cool, but not too long, as the hard shell will start to soften. The macro-experience, in creme brulee's case, is more than the sum of its parts, as each aspect of the dish serves to elevate the next. When done well, it's an event that engages your attention from the sound of the first spoon-tap on the outer shell.
Tobacco seems to operate in a similar way for me. From the tin note, to the cut and overall presentation, moisture level and subsequent willingness to take to a flame, and of course flavor, a well-made blend can tell a story from the moment you open the tin, the components within acting as players to move the plot forward. And it's a story that can be overtly demanding of your attention just as it can ever-so-slightly permeate the subconscious, laying almost dormant before crossing through the periphery of your thoughts. Like an artfully-prepared creme brulee, our tobaccos have been crafted with the utmost precision, resulting in a complex, multi-sensory experience. Something to remember the next time you're asked about how a particular blend "performs."
I quit smoking my pipes. It was only temporary, luckily, and not intentional. But a round of illness followed by a perforated ear drum left me not wanting to do much of anything for a while. Instead of heading outside to relax with my pipe, I found myself heading straight to bed, nothing on my mind but the distant promise of "feeling better."
When I did pick up my pipe again, a week or so later, it was like meeting an old friend. I folded some Luxury Flake, carefully packing the bowl, and sat outside to enjoy my treat.
I shouldn't have been shocked, but I was. I had been expecting a mild difference in taste after the time away — or, at least, an adjustment. Instead, I picked up undertones of taste I never had before, with a sweetness from the Virginias that I had heard other people describe, but I had never quite found. I'd been told before to switch up my blends occasionally, to refresh my palette, and hadn't paid it any mind. I liked this blend, after all — and why should I smoke something else, when I was enjoying this one right now? As it turned out, I should have listened; a stint without my pipe had done much the same, whether I wanted it or not.
While I wouldn't suggest it — a week without my pipe hadn't been pleasant, even ignoring the reasons for it — but it was certainly a kick in the pants as far as being complacent. While sampling or rotating blends can keep things interesting, it also ensures that we don't become too accustomed to a good thing, and lose track of why we enjoy it.
I love breakfast. I don't generally have time to indulge in it (save for the obligatory English muffin), but given the opportunity, a greasy spoon diner permanently infused with the smell of bacon and bottomless coffee is always a good idea. Just like with opportunities to enjoy a pipe, I could measure my overall state of happiness in the number of breakfasts I've made time for in the last few weeks. And as it so happens, the two tend to go quite well together. Unfortunately, most establishments have replaced their ashtrays with artificial sweetener holders, so my pipe smoking is relegated to the car.
This weekend, however, instead of the diner down the street, I headed to the grocery store. I grabbed the essentials (bacon and eggs, coffee beans), and was determined to make my own greasy spoon experience at home. I could continue to smoke my pipe, maybe put on some music, and drink coffee with a wanton disregard. It all seemed easy enough.
The flattop griddle was beckoning, but because I was playing both patron and cook, I decided some coffee was first on the menu. This was simple enough, as I was able to grind the beans with a still-smouldering briar between my teeth. Filling the machine with water, I turned it on to brew, and my pipe and I returned to the grill. Bacon proved itself to be the first major challenge, as the packaging requires the prolonged use of both hands, and the strips themselves, even more so. Similar to removing tightly-pressed flakes from a well-aged tin, bacon strips are delicate and necessitate care and concern for their structural integrity. Unlike most reputable flakes, they make your fingers greasy. With spatulas in both hands, my pipe began to slip and I grabbed at it without thinking. Of course it slipped from my hand, but as I moved to catch it, it slid upward through my bacony fingers, launching into the air and down again in a trajectory toward the waiting, unbreached eggs. I grabbed for it again, and again it slipped, this time dangerously close to the sizzling strips, which, in my experience, are generally not improved by Orlik-flavored seasoning. I decided to let it rest until after this step was complete, and poured a little coffee instead.
I had seen people crack eggs using only one hand before, but I had never attempted it myself. I relit my pipe and figured it was as good a time as any. After a puff, I removed an egg from the carton, and let it meet the counter with a good, sound "whack." The next few moments were a blur of white shell and yellow membrane, flying in all directions from the point of contact. "A bit too hard," I heard myself say through clenched teeth. I wiped a little string of yolk off my nose and onto the back of my sleeve. A piece of shell-shrapnel had extinguished my pipe again, so I thought it best to sit it down once more.
Tucking in at the table, I looked down at my plate. The yolk I had tried tediously not to displace was encircling my bacon, and the coffee I poured earlier had gone cold. I got up for a fresh cup, looking over the beleaguered kitchen. The combined aromas of breakfast, coffee and pipe smoke lingered in the air, and I couldn't help but smile. Things hadn't quite been as easy as I'd hoped, but I had done it. And more important: I had done it with a pipe.
I recently moved from my third-floor apartment with a balcony, into a first-floor apartment with a concrete landing below a staircase. While it's a terrible change as far as view, it's been a boon for my pipe smoking — protected from wind and rain, and within reach of the Wi-Fi, I've been able to post up with my pipe in a lawn chair with ease, laptop balanced on my knees.
It was here, a few days after moving in, that I achieved my most impressive feat of clumsiness.
I'm not a clumsy person, for the most part. I can ride bikes, ice skate, and even walk while chewing gum. But everyone has their moments. And mine came as I tried to do too many things at once, the laptop precariously balanced on my lap as I attempted to gently tamp my pipe.
The laptop slipped. In my rush to grab it, the tamper pulled on the edge of the pipe, sending it flying. I heard it rattle on the floor, even as I used both hands to grab at the — very expensive — piece of machinery. The pipe was one of my more well-used everyday smokers, so I wasn't too concerned about its fate — another couple of dings wouldn't bother me.
And then I felt the burning on my foot.
Even as I batted the burning embers away from my skin, I thought about how ridiculous it was — after all, who had ever heard of burning your foot while smoking? I limped inside to wrap the damage, resigning myself to being the laughingstock of my home and office for the foreseeable future.
I don't multitask anymore, needless to say. On the bright side, at least, my pipe didn't pick up any extra dings from the experience. Unfortunately, the same could not be said for my foot.
The first job I had was on an apple orchard. I grew up in a bucolic little town in Upstate NY, and apples were our thing. I spent many fall weekends sitting on a gently sloping mountainside waving tourists from the city along and answering questions about all the different types of apples we grew on the orchard — and, more importantly, where they could be found. Suffice to say, I likely knew more than any 13 year old should know about apples. Ever since, the apple has held a special place in my heart and has been a constant companion in my life. That's why my coworkers' reaction to the revelation that I always carry a spare apple struck me as odd.
My inner 13 year old immediately started spouting off all of the important reasons why one should carry a spare apple. They are a great snack when the blood sugar runs low; however it's easy to overlook all of the other ways a spare apple comes in handy. Apples make for great entertainment when the urge to juggle strikes, or if a quick game of catch is in order. They make great doorstops, can be used for self defense, and depending on the time of year, a perfect party favor.
I then started to think about another object that I always carry a spare of: pipes. I never leave the house without an extra pipe, but for reasons that couldn't be more different. Some of the best times I've had with a pipe have been spontaneous gatherings that eventually lead to a freshly packed bowl of my tobacco du jour. These unplanned get-togethers usually involve my Dad, a game of chess, and great conversation. I have found that having fresh briar for such occasions is worth always taking an extra pipe. Consequently my spare pipe for today is one of my favorites — beautifully rusticated, perfectly balanced in my hand, whose contours I know by heart. It also happens to be the first pipe that I spent more than $20 to purchase. The shape, of course, is a bent Apple.
A Cautionary Tale Thursday, January 25, 2018 by Daniel Bumgardner
The gentleman maintained a firm grip on the very old and fragile artifact, even as he bumped it inadvertently into a serving table. Not even moments later, its contents began erupting onto the floor of the Four Seasons Restaurant in Manhattan. The artifact's owner, a noted wine merchant and New York socialite, was mortified. And with good reason: by all accounts, after all, it was the most expensive bottle never to be enjoyed.
Not that anyone would have enjoyed it at that point anyway, at least not in consumption. The vintage Bordeaux, inscribed with the initials "Th.J," was said to be from the personal collection of Thomas Jefferson. At a little over 200 years old, the 1787 Chateau Margaux was well past the seven-year age Jefferson himself recommended keeping Bordeaux. As the bicentennial liquid evacuated its aging vessel, the merchant, one William Sokolin, followed its lead, rushing home immediately to salvage its remaining contents.
It was a night Sokolin would likely never forget, as the outright embarrassment of his clumsiness was exacerbated by the sheer number of wine writers present at the function. In the days that followed, he endured media references to himself as a "clumsy oaf" and a "boob," all while the fractured bottle sat on a living room table, next to the merchant's own book on wine investment, cheekily titled "Liquid Assets." Even a month later, it was being called "the most publicized breakage in the spirits world since Eliot Ness took a sledgehammer to Al Capone's warehouse."
Looking at this story through a modern lens, it's funny to imagine an evening steeped in aristocratic propriety so quickly flooded with chaos. As a pipesmoker though, it's hard to encounter a tale like this and not immediately sympathize a little. Had this been some sealed cache of Sir Walter Raleigh's personal tobacco, or a pipe regularly enjoyed by Ray Charles, I would have certainly winced at the thought, lamenting the loss of such a prized and precious object.
These are broad-strokes associations to be sure. As winemaking predates tobacco cultivation by a few thousand years, its impact on the western world was long-established when Thomas Cavendish chose to introduce his personal stock of rum into a bundle of leaf, and prior to that, when Native American tribes smoked socially and ceremonially. Indeed, the Greeks venerated those who imbibed, as did the Spartans, who believed bathing their babies in wine would increase stamina. And even Ancient Romans in the province of Alexandria invented a device used at parties designed to ensure each guest would drink only their own wine.
So what does all of this really have to do with tobacco? Well, I imagine, 100 years or so from now, a notable somebody will exhume a dusty, sealed jar from a long-forgotten cellar, leasing it on consignment to another notable somebody. The latter somebody might take the jar out to show it off, only to watch it slip from their fingers and travel steadily to the floor. And just prior to contact with the awaiting surface, the repurposed red and yellow label comes into focus, the weathered face of the world's last Orlik judge seeming to shrewdly mouth the words "you boob."
Years ago I visited a museum in an old castle in Transylvania, a historical region of Romania. I was there looking for pipes, of course, because you never know what you may find.
The director of this museum was a withered, ancient little man who resembled a molting turkey vulture emerging from the spin cycle of an industrial clothes washer. His eyes tended to dart from side to side, as if he was still spinning. He smoked an old Hungarian pipe, which gave me hope, though whatever tobacco he was smoking had an aroma that made me not ask about it.
"Pipes?" he said when I inquired. "We have only one pipe in our collection. It's the very first pipe in human history."
Jackpot. The director unlocked a small, ancient door and opened it on squawking hinges. "It's not been opened in a hundred years," he explained. He pulled an item from a dust-laden shelf. "Here's the pipe. And a scroll explaining its provenance."
The pipe was little more than a rock with a shallow bowl worn into it and a channel emerging from one end where a reed might be inserted as a mouthpiece. We unrolled the scroll. It was written in ancient Sumerian and the director was kind enough to translate.
"This pipe belonged to and is the invention of Yowk, Firekeeper of the Weasel People."
"'Weasel?'" I asked.
"I'm translating as best I can. It might also mean 'fish-herding,' but I think in this context it's weasels. Let me read it and get the basics." He pored thoughtfully over the text. "OK, I think I have it. This Yowk fellow was responsible for keeping fire ready as the tribe moved around, and he invented this device for that purpose. By breathing in and out through a reed attached to the chamber, an ember could be kept alight while moving."
"So the first pipe was for fire keeping, not smoking?"
"It appears that way. But there's quite a bit here about different herbs that stay lit best, and even a section on herbs that taste good. It seems Yowk became an enthusiast and others in the tribe joined him, smoking for pleasure rather than fire transport."
"What happened to them?" I asked.
"Everyone in the tribe became adept at 'carrying fire,' as they called smoking. They stopped migrating so they could smoke more; they settled down and started farming so they could grow better smoking mixtures."
According to this evidence, humanity shifted from a nomadic to an agrarian society because of pipe smoking. Without pipes, we probably wouldn't exist today.
Sadly, I can't confirm that now, nor can I prove anything related here. The castle and museum I visited years ago are gone, replaced by a Romanian Walmart. But we know the truth. Without pipes, we'd probably still be wandering the savannahs as Weasel people, smokeless and miserable.
I don't remember exactly when I decided that matching socks were bad luck, but I do remember the first time I decided it was a silly rule. I was standing in a store, staring at the only pair of socks that would fit me. Socks are hard to buy when you have feet approximately the size of dinner rolls. They wouldn't be the right shape to be mixed in with the ones I owned, so they'd have to be worn as a pair, but I was running dangerously low after the dog initiated a raid on the hamper, chewing most of them into wet balls of useless thread before retreating in feigned remorse.
I bought the black socks. What did it matter; socks don't have magical properties. Even as I pulled them on the next morning, though, something seemed off, as though disquieting movie music had started playing subliminally in the background.
First, it was the coffee — dropped in the car at such an angle that streaks adhered to the windshield and taunted me. Then, as I was checking the mail, it was a near-miss with one of the neighborhood kids, who nearly ran me down riding his bike, leaving me sitting in a pool of clay-like South Carolina mud. The socks didn't cross my mind, though. Bad days happened to everyone, and this one was just another unlucky example. The socks went into the laundry with the rest of my muddy clothes, seemingly innocent.
When I pulled them on again a week later, I ignored the thought of luck. It hung in the back of my mind, though, when a rare round of ice hit town — and my ice scraper broke in the middle of cleaning off my car. Then I started to make the connection when I slipped off my step-stool in the kitchen. Even as I limped around my home on my twisted ankle, and despite abundant evidence to the contrary, I told myself it was a childish superstition. Grumpy and frustrated, I grabbed a pipe to take outside, sitting at the end of my driveway to smoke while the afternoon sun melted what remained of the ice.
I must have misjudged the distance between the bit and my teeth, because when I tried to clench the pipe for a moment, it went tumbling — not just to the ground, but straight into the slotted storm drain beneath my feet, never to be seen again.
I stared at the drain, stunned, before slowly standing. I limped inside and pulled the socks off of my feet without any regard for the swollen ankle. This time, they didn't make it into the hamper, much to the dog's regret — they went in the trash, where they could do no more harm. I would risk having to wear sandals in February. The loss of one pipe was enough to convince me to take no further chances on the insidious nature of matching socks.
Deep from within the Oom Palace comes a bit of pipe finish history...
Some time back, a very eccentric pipe carver used to deliver his pipes by putting them into an envelope, sealing it, then pushing them from the floor of his workshop (using a broom) to the home of the patron. Depending on the length of the trip and condition of the mostly dirt roads, the pipe would end up with a different relief than when it began it's journey due to rocks, roots and other debris it would encounter.
Patrons began to request delivery only during dry days as this afforded a more noticeable change to the exterior of the pipe. This pipe carver, Mr. Shun, was known to do rather unique works and became known for his envelope roughing technique. When others in the community wanted another artisan to do something unique with their commissioned work, the were asked to "push the envelope" which meant, do something unique and out of the ordinary or beyond the norm like Mr. Shun. Russ Kaleb Shun became so well known for his unique pipe finishes, that his name lives on in pipes that have a Rusty K. Shun finish or rustication.
Dear reader, it is of no surprise to you, of course, that yet another snippet of pipe history comes to you now, dusted off and pulled from the underground vaults deep beneath the OomPalace. Years ago, the Witch's Foot was an incredibly popular shape that has today, all but died out. While many dispute it's origin, the Witch's Foot shape, we believe originated with a British carver trained by a Danish carver who was trained by an American carver, who was trained by an alligator in the swamps of Louisiana. While I personally find it hard to believe that an alligator would carve pipes from briar and not something more readily available, like human bone, I can only tell you the facts as they are recorded in the documents we have here.
It is entirely possible too, that this American carver did not wish to divulge his source as he never gave the name of the alligator in question. But I digress. The Witch's Foot pipe did not become popular until the young British carver Taylor A. Bilton made it so. Bilton was a marketing master in his own way and used the old myth, which was quite popular in his area, that if one smoked a pipe, the smoke kept away illness and disease (this belief is still held in some areas of Georgia (US.) Bilton took it a step further, roughed out pipes that were flat and smooth on one side and roughly billiard shaped on the other and called the shape a "Witch's Foot" which he said had special abilities which far surpassed "regular" pipe smoke.
Sales were slow until a baby in a nearby town made a miraculous recovery from "flop bot" (a terrible illness, very tricky to cure years ago.) Soon, word got around that it was all due to the baby smoking a Witch's Foot pipe made by Bilton. Whether the baby actually smoked a Witch's Foot pipe or just a cavalier shape (which was very popular for babies then,) we can't be sure. However, what we can be sure of is this: the sales of Witch's Foot pipes shot up astronomically and became a necessary item in many homes far and near.
In the old country, when briar ran scarce or when gnomes ran pesky, it was common practice to use the blocky, stew meat-like heart of the gnome in place of good briar. The gnome hearts (also called the ventriculita) were almost impossible to catch fire and allowed for a true tobacco burn that had almost no added flavor, if cured properly. There were two main methods of ventriculita curing, both extensive, both secretive. I won’t (can’t lest I invite the ire of those who still keep it’s secrets) go into gnome heart curing details here, however, I can tell you that there were two basic types of curing: oxy and deoxy.
Oxy curing demanded an extraction within moments of the gnomes death while deoxy required a waiting period. Essentially the difference in the end product came down to personal preference, however, the coloration of the hearts were noticeably different depending on curing type. Oxy curing gave a pinkish red coloration like oxygenated blood, while deoxy curing gave a deep blueish coloration.
Tenons were often made from the gnome’s femur or a hardened bone white ligament called the springjack which was hollow and allowed them to jump great distances. Stems were often made of dried pumpery tubolees which we would know as pulmonary arteries in humans. These dried hard, were hallow and already had a kind of tapering that worked wonderfully as stems. Coloration of pumpery tubolees varied on the type of heart curing. Oxy curing yielded a dull orange coloration while deoxy curing yielded at blueish coloration.
Even in the old days, humans were notoriously horrible at catching, (much less offing) gnomes in order to secure sweet smoking pipe parts. Thankfully, as long as anyone can remember, pixie lasses garbed in not much more than tobacco remnants, were absolutely expert at catching, dispatching, and extracting (this may sound cruel, but if you truly knew Gnomes, you'd know differently.) Gnome hearts are strangely blocky, but the pixie gals know just how to cut them out with their incredibly sharp swordlets.
When I was a boy, I was most impressed by my grandfather's vocabulary. He worked in profanity the way great artists work in oil paints, building texture and dimension, color and contrast, culminating in exhortations of dizzying complexity and nuance that dropped birds from the sky in a condition of irreversible disorientation rendering flight impossible. You had to watch where you stepped on my grandfather's farm, because the birds were all reduced to walking; they got underfoot and were a little resentful about their situation, some of them even able to chirp their own rudimentary obscenities, though that may have been a symptom of their PTSD (Profanity Triggered Stress Disorder).
The 10 Tobys (all of Grandpa's dogs were named Toby) became adept at herding the flocks of birds that walked the fields so they wouldn't get plowed under during planting. "The last thing I need," said Grandpa, "is to plant more birds and end up having to harvest and bale them." A bale of birds is a noisy thing; no one wants a barn full of baled birds.
It was the Tobys' responsibility to keep the birds out of the way, and my grandfather trained them with tobacco. Because of my grandfather's continuous onslaught of profanity, the dogs were immune to verbal commands, so my grandfather directed them with tobacco scents using his trusty old Falcon pipe and a combination of Carter Hall and Granger.
"The key is in the layering," said my grandfather, loading his pipe with the two tobaccos. "Five minutes of Granger followed by five minutes of Carter Hall, and repeat." Granger told the Tobys to herd the birds into one area, and Carter Hall told them to move the birds into the woods. My grandfather would stand in the center of a field, smoking and orchestrating, until the field was bird-free.
While clearing the fields of birds one day, my grandfather was approached by a stranger walking across the farm. "You look like a government man," said my grandfather. "Get off my land."
"I'm from the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service," said the stranger. "We've been tracking a disruption in bird migration that seems to be centered on your farm."
"Go away, or my dogs will drag you into the swamp and bury you in the mud until you're discovered in the future and displayed as an example of North American bog people." He began refilling his pipe from his emergency pouch of Prince Albert, which would tell the dogs to revert to their wolf ancestry and dispense with this threat.
"Why are all these birds walking instead of flying?"
Questioning my grandfather on his own land begat his usual response of unbridled cursing and swearing. "****ing government, always trying to **** me up the ***. **** it and all the ****ing ****ers who ****ing **** for it." The clouds turned black, the wind picked up, and a hailstorm of stunned birds started pelting him and the government man.
"Holy crap," said the stranger. "You're causing it. Let's talk."
It was an intense negotiation, with the weather alternating between gloomy and windy with a chance of birds. The Tobys circled my grandfather and the stranger, ready to pounce, but at last the sky cleared and the stranger left.
"Well," explained my grandfather afterward, "I won't be swearing outdoors any longer. Gotta keep the birds safe. But I never have to pay taxes again."
The coolest writing assignment I was given in high school was to interview someone I admired.
I chose Mr. Perseid Blankenship, a local farmer. He'd been named after the Perseid Meteor Shower, having been born in August during that annual light show. I was impressed that he was in his early 70s, yet stronger and more agile than any three men in their 20s, and smarter than anyone I'd ever encountered. He quit school in the third grade but was brilliant and preposterously well read, able to discuss Aristotle or Plato as easily as Shakespeare, Voltaire or Ken Kesey. He never bought anything he could build, and he could build anything. He designed and built his house, by himself, from reclaimed lumber, and it was a showplace. He was given three junk tractors and combined the parts for one working tractor that he'd had for 30 years and, according to friends still in the area, is still running, 45 years later.
But I needed a hook; something odd to capture the readers' interest. Everyone back then built their own stuff, but Mr. Blankenship was also famous for something few had encountered: a pipe collection.
He reverently laid all 14 of his pipes on his dining table as we talked. I knew nothing about pipes, but I knew some were unusual shapes.
"Pipe smoking is more meditation than anything else."
"I bought some of them from Iwan Ries in Chicago," said Mr. Blankenship. "I like handcrafted pipes especially, and they're rarely found elsewhere."
"Tell me why you need more than one pipe," I said, "and what it is about pipe smoking that attracts you."
"It's counterproductive to overwork a pipe, the same as a mule," he said. "You have to let them rest. I have a couple dozen corncobs that I smoke while I'm working. I keep them in the barn. But these are special. I smoke one of these every night after the chores are done.
"Pipe smoking is more meditation than anything else," he said. "Sitting in the dark, in front of the fire, smoking, brings me closer to appreciating life than any amount of travel. These pipes are my guide.
"I recognize each by feel, from their shape, their contours, their texture. Some are sandblasted, like this one. If you blindfolded me and placed this in my hand, I'd easily identify it. I know the contours of the grain, the shape of the bowl, better than I know my own face. I know its weight and can tell if there's a half bowl of tobacco left, or only ash, or empty, just by picking it up.
"But they're more than pipes; they're friends. This one was with me when my first child was born. This one when she graduated from college. I was smoking this one when my dog Horace died, and I'll always be grateful that it helped me through that very rough time.
"These pipes are my guide."
"Each has its own personality. This one is particularly cheerful and I like to smoke it during celebrations; this one is more empathetic and supportive during times of grief. This pipe smokes effortlessly and is perfect for daydreaming or reading; I was smoking it the first time I read Candide, and I think it was as amused as I was.
"I've been smoking pipes for 55 years," he said. "I'd never give up any of these pipes. It's easy to understand why North American indigenous people held pipes in such reverence."
My paper received a grade of C-. But a few years later, when I bought my first pipe, that interview with Mr. Blankenship became more personally valuable than any grade could designate.
If a picture is worth a thousand words, then these two pictures tell a story of criminal abuse of a rare E.A. Carey pipe ..... Think about it: Somebody did this to themselves over a period of time. -or- "Hey Frank!!! What do ya use to light your pipe? A welder's torch?"
On the Italian island of Sardinia, pilgrims have trekked from the city of Nora for the past 200 years to a revered location, a small village called Lula. They travel under cover of night, repeating the twenty-mile-migration twice a year for the biannual Feast of San Francesco. Their destination is the Santuario di San Francesco, but it isn't refuge they seek. Rather, they seek some of the rarest, most exceptional pasta ever created.
Known as su filindeu ("threads of God" in Sardo), it's made by only three people on Earth, all living on the island. It seems simple, requiring only three ingredients: semolina wheat, water, and salt. However, the skill necessary for properly combining them is nowhere replicated. The craft of this pasta is in "understanding the dough with your hands."
The masters of the su filindeu knead the dough until the texture resembles something like modeling clay, continuing to work it into rounded strands. When it needs elasticity, they dip their fingers in a bowl of salt water, and when it needs moisture, unsalted water. Only after the mixture reaches a perfect consistency and the dough has been doubled over and over again, do they tenderly stretch it over a wooden frame to dry in the Sardinian sun.
It seems an uncomplicated process, not unlike, say, the rendering of an ebauchon block of briar into a practical smoking instrument. After all, in its purest form, a pipe is really just a piece of wood with two holes in it. And yet, we all know that pipemaking, like the su filindeu, can take years to understand. Sure, sourcing some very good briar helps, as does having a shop equipped with a lathe, blasting cabinet, proprietary finishes, etc. But even more helpful is the understanding of how a well-made pipe looks, feels and performs. And more than that, watching a skilled carver practice the craft in person allows a student of the form to witness invaluable aspects of a given technique.
And it's not just the development of an efficient technique that separates the wheat from the chaff as far as carvers go; it's that artisan's willingness to evolve, continuously ebbing closer and closer to an ideal of perfection. Like the masters of the sun filindeu work to "understand" the dough, so too do pipemakers work to truly "know" the briar. It's why Bo Nordh kept a block on his shelf for decades before ever shaping it. It's why many of us wait years, and sometimes decades, for a certain shape from a given maker. It's why every year, pipe smokers from all over the world make "pilgrimages" to places like Chicago and Las Vegas. It's not refuge we seek. Rather, we seek to bear witness to a transcendent experience of our very own.
Comments
[From iPad]
Some women are like cigarettes, easily set aflame, and easily cast aside.
Some women are like cigars, sleek and smooth and a pleasure, but when it's over, you don't mind.
Some women are like a pipe, to fondle and cherish and keep over the years.
Now, you can bum a cigarette off just about any other smoker,
Occasionally you will be offered a cigar,
But no one will lend you his pipe.
Ever since I first read that, I have kept a new pipe or three set aside just in case a visitor has forgotten his own pipe.
Lodge Iron cookware
Frye boots
Pipe stuff (of course)
Handlebar mustache
Custom built Mandolin
Pocket watch
Leather vests
Paper books
Essential oils (Making my own balms)
Unique cold pressed oils
@Londy3 Whatever you do, don't read the Foxfire Books, You'll be so far off grid we'll have to send out a search party.
A Perfect Smoke
Monday, December 18, 2017 by Chuck Stanion at Smoking Pipes
I was late for a meeting the other day, so I quickly grabbed a pipe and filled it, ran to the conference room and lit up. Yes, we smoke in meetings here. It's remarkably civilized, and I recommend it for the rest of the world.
I couldn't tell you what the meeting was about, though. Maybe it was important, I don't know. A colleague noted a few weeks ago that I look ponderously deep in thought during meetings, as if calculating the strategies for perpetual world peace. But that is employment camouflage. It's the pipe. A pipe can make even me look intelligent and invested, and I've capitalized on that. When I'm in meetings, the only thing happening in my head is old Roadrunner cartoons on a repeating loop. I may crack a wry smile now and again, which my colleagues attribute to wisdom, but it's due only to the coyote immolating in the blast of an Acme rocket. I never tire of that wacky coyote.
Not this time, though. I was diverted from my routine mental disassociation by my pipe, which was acting strangely. It had never behaved in such an odd manner before and I didn't quite know how to cope.
It was smoking perfectly.
And I mean perfectly. I put it down to pretend to take some notes, and two minutes later when I picked it up, it was still smoking. One draw and it was in business. I tamped only twice in 30 minutes and never relit. I would put the pipe down on the table and watch the wisps of smoke, and just as they were dwindling to invisibility, I'd pick up the pipe and draw, and it would roar into life as if my last puff had been only a few seconds before. The flavor was full and rich and I kept wanting more. It was a miraculous happenstance, and that may have been the only meeting I've ever attended that I wasn't desperate to escape.
I kept glancing around the table to see if others noticed this phenomenon, but no one appeared to understand the cosmic significance of the event. I later discovered that they did notice, and a couple of them even attributed it to my advanced pipe smoking experience. Ha! It was utter chance. I got busy reviewing my steps, exactly how I'd filled the bowl, the consistency of my tobacco, etc., in hopes of reconstructing the circumstance, because bowls of tobacco that perform at that advanced level are usually years apart.
Typically, I am always fiddling with the bowl, tamping a little harder on one side to adjust the burn and compensate for my artless filling method, or gently breathing through the stem to try to keep the tobacco lit. I may poke a hole down through the tobacco to provide a flue if the draw is too tight. I may pry part of the tobacco up and then gently push it back down in a doomed effort to improve the smoke. It seems like I'm always chasing and losing that perfect smoke, so when I finally caught it, I was surprised.
And now I can't repeat it. I've tried the same pipe, filling it quickly and haphazardly, trying to recapture my experience, but it's gone. Now I'm back to relighting 20 or 30 times per bowl, and my coworkers are starting to catch on and realize that I'm not nearly as smart as I appear.
Especially when they ask my opinion during a meeting and I'm only able to reply only with, "Beep-beep! Thththppthth."
Art Of The Leaf
Thursday, December 14, 2017 by Daniel Bumgardner
There are those who say works of art cultivate something of a conversation between the viewer and the piece itself. Art has the potential to catalyze questions, invoke memories, and stimulate feelings that otherwise may not have been realized. American theatre director Anne Bogart says that work of the highest caliber "awakens what sleeps" in the mind of the audience member. To me, that sort of interaction is relative to the audience's life experience, though there is of course some contention as to what constitutes "art" as opposed to craft. And as it relates to pipes and tobacco, some feel a piece of work can't be considered art if it performs a practical function. I disagree, and so does my copy of the Iliad currently serving as a pipe rest.
I once heard in college that food is the highest form of art, because it can appeal to all the senses, from the visual, to the olfactory, to even the aural (think of the sound of a steak sizzling). Creme brulee, a dish made from rich custard topped with a hard shell of caramelized sugar, is an excellent example of this principle. The mixture itself of course requires forethought and attention, but the presentation is almost equally important. The typically ornate ramekin serving dish is required to withstand the intense heat needed to harden the sugar, the sugar itself generous enough to form a consistent layer, the applied heat strong enough to harden it, and the time following long enough to cool, but not too long, as the hard shell will start to soften. The macro-experience, in creme brulee's case, is more than the sum of its parts, as each aspect of the dish serves to elevate the next. When done well, it's an event that engages your attention from the sound of the first spoon-tap on the outer shell.
Tobacco seems to operate in a similar way for me. From the tin note, to the cut and overall presentation, moisture level and subsequent willingness to take to a flame, and of course flavor, a well-made blend can tell a story from the moment you open the tin, the components within acting as players to move the plot forward. And it's a story that can be overtly demanding of your attention just as it can ever-so-slightly permeate the subconscious, laying almost dormant before crossing through the periphery of your thoughts. Like an artfully-prepared creme brulee, our tobaccos have been crafted with the utmost precision, resulting in a complex, multi-sensory experience. Something to remember the next time you're asked about how a particular blend "performs."
Game Changer
Thursday, January 4, 2018 by Rachel DuBose
I quit smoking my pipes. It was only temporary, luckily, and not intentional. But a round of illness followed by a perforated ear drum left me not wanting to do much of anything for a while. Instead of heading outside to relax with my pipe, I found myself heading straight to bed, nothing on my mind but the distant promise of "feeling better."
When I did pick up my pipe again, a week or so later, it was like meeting an old friend. I folded some Luxury Flake, carefully packing the bowl, and sat outside to enjoy my treat.
I shouldn't have been shocked, but I was. I had been expecting a mild difference in taste after the time away — or, at least, an adjustment. Instead, I picked up undertones of taste I never had before, with a sweetness from the Virginias that I had heard other people describe, but I had never quite found. I'd been told before to switch up my blends occasionally, to refresh my palette, and hadn't paid it any mind. I liked this blend, after all — and why should I smoke something else, when I was enjoying this one right now? As it turned out, I should have listened; a stint without my pipe had done much the same, whether I wanted it or not.
While I wouldn't suggest it — a week without my pipe hadn't been pleasant, even ignoring the reasons for it — but it was certainly a kick in the pants as far as being complacent. While sampling or rotating blends can keep things interesting, it also ensures that we don't become too accustomed to a good thing, and lose track of why we enjoy it.
very nice stories it's been nice talking to you i'm always interested in hearing from u
From Smokingpipes.com
A Pipe Over Easy
Thursday, January 11, 2018 by Daniel Bumgardner
I love breakfast. I don't generally have time to indulge in it (save for the obligatory English muffin), but given the opportunity, a greasy spoon diner permanently infused with the smell of bacon and bottomless coffee is always a good idea. Just like with opportunities to enjoy a pipe, I could measure my overall state of happiness in the number of breakfasts I've made time for in the last few weeks. And as it so happens, the two tend to go quite well together. Unfortunately, most establishments have replaced their ashtrays with artificial sweetener holders, so my pipe smoking is relegated to the car.
This weekend, however, instead of the diner down the street, I headed to the grocery store. I grabbed the essentials (bacon and eggs, coffee beans), and was determined to make my own greasy spoon experience at home. I could continue to smoke my pipe, maybe put on some music, and drink coffee with a wanton disregard. It all seemed easy enough.
The flattop griddle was beckoning, but because I was playing both patron and cook, I decided some coffee was first on the menu. This was simple enough, as I was able to grind the beans with a still-smouldering briar between my teeth. Filling the machine with water, I turned it on to brew, and my pipe and I returned to the grill. Bacon proved itself to be the first major challenge, as the packaging requires the prolonged use of both hands, and the strips themselves, even more so. Similar to removing tightly-pressed flakes from a well-aged tin, bacon strips are delicate and necessitate care and concern for their structural integrity. Unlike most reputable flakes, they make your fingers greasy. With spatulas in both hands, my pipe began to slip and I grabbed at it without thinking. Of course it slipped from my hand, but as I moved to catch it, it slid upward through my bacony fingers, launching into the air and down again in a trajectory toward the waiting, unbreached eggs. I grabbed for it again, and again it slipped, this time dangerously close to the sizzling strips, which, in my experience, are generally not improved by Orlik-flavored seasoning. I decided to let it rest until after this step was complete, and poured a little coffee instead.
I had seen people crack eggs using only one hand before, but I had never attempted it myself. I relit my pipe and figured it was as good a time as any. After a puff, I removed an egg from the carton, and let it meet the counter with a good, sound "whack." The next few moments were a blur of white shell and yellow membrane, flying in all directions from the point of contact. "A bit too hard," I heard myself say through clenched teeth. I wiped a little string of yolk off my nose and onto the back of my sleeve. A piece of shell-shrapnel had extinguished my pipe again, so I thought it best to sit it down once more.
Tucking in at the table, I looked down at my plate. The yolk I had tried tediously not to displace was encircling my bacon, and the coffee I poured earlier had gone cold. I got up for a fresh cup, looking over the beleaguered kitchen. The combined aromas of breakfast, coffee and pipe smoke lingered in the air, and I couldn't help but smile. Things hadn't quite been as easy as I'd hoped, but I had done it. And more important: I had done it with a pipe.
Feats Of Clumsiness
Thursday, January 18, 2018 by Rachel DuBose
I recently moved from my third-floor apartment with a balcony, into a first-floor apartment with a concrete landing below a staircase. While it's a terrible change as far as view, it's been a boon for my pipe smoking — protected from wind and rain, and within reach of the Wi-Fi, I've been able to post up with my pipe in a lawn chair with ease, laptop balanced on my knees.
It was here, a few days after moving in, that I achieved my most impressive feat of clumsiness.
I'm not a clumsy person, for the most part. I can ride bikes, ice skate, and even walk while chewing gum. But everyone has their moments. And mine came as I tried to do too many things at once, the laptop precariously balanced on my lap as I attempted to gently tamp my pipe.
The laptop slipped. In my rush to grab it, the tamper pulled on the edge of the pipe, sending it flying. I heard it rattle on the floor, even as I used both hands to grab at the — very expensive — piece of machinery. The pipe was one of my more well-used everyday smokers, so I wasn't too concerned about its fate — another couple of dings wouldn't bother me.
And then I felt the burning on my foot.
Even as I batted the burning embers away from my skin, I thought about how ridiculous it was — after all, who had ever heard of burning your foot while smoking? I limped inside to wrap the damage, resigning myself to being the laughingstock of my home and office for the foreseeable future.
I don't multitask anymore, needless to say. On the bright side, at least, my pipe didn't pick up any extra dings from the experience. Unfortunately, the same could not be said for my foot.
Apples To Apples
Monday, January 22, 2018 by Joe Lucas
The first job I had was on an apple orchard. I grew up in a bucolic little town in Upstate NY, and apples were our thing. I spent many fall weekends sitting on a gently sloping mountainside waving tourists from the city along and answering questions about all the different types of apples we grew on the orchard — and, more importantly, where they could be found. Suffice to say, I likely knew more than any 13 year old should know about apples. Ever since, the apple has held a special place in my heart and has been a constant companion in my life. That's why my coworkers' reaction to the revelation that I always carry a spare apple struck me as odd.
My inner 13 year old immediately started spouting off all of the important reasons why one should carry a spare apple. They are a great snack when the blood sugar runs low; however it's easy to overlook all of the other ways a spare apple comes in handy. Apples make for great entertainment when the urge to juggle strikes, or if a quick game of catch is in order. They make great doorstops, can be used for self defense, and depending on the time of year, a perfect party favor.
I then started to think about another object that I always carry a spare of: pipes. I never leave the house without an extra pipe, but for reasons that couldn't be more different. Some of the best times I've had with a pipe have been spontaneous gatherings that eventually lead to a freshly packed bowl of my tobacco du jour. These unplanned get-togethers usually involve my Dad, a game of chess, and great conversation. I have found that having fresh briar for such occasions is worth always taking an extra pipe. Consequently my spare pipe for today is one of my favorites — beautifully rusticated, perfectly balanced in my hand, whose contours I know by heart. It also happens to be the first pipe that I spent more than $20 to purchase. The shape, of course, is a bent Apple.
Thursday, January 25, 2018 by Daniel Bumgardner
Quest For Fire
Monday, January 29, 2018 by Chuck Stanion
Years ago I visited a museum in an old castle in Transylvania, a historical region of Romania. I was there looking for pipes, of course, because you never know what you may find.
The director of this museum was a withered, ancient little man who resembled a molting turkey vulture emerging from the spin cycle of an industrial clothes washer. His eyes tended to dart from side to side, as if he was still spinning. He smoked an old Hungarian pipe, which gave me hope, though whatever tobacco he was smoking had an aroma that made me not ask about it.
"Pipes?" he said when I inquired. "We have only one pipe in our collection. It's the very first pipe in human history."
Jackpot. The director unlocked a small, ancient door and opened it on squawking hinges. "It's not been opened in a hundred years," he explained. He pulled an item from a dust-laden shelf. "Here's the pipe. And a scroll explaining its provenance."
The pipe was little more than a rock with a shallow bowl worn into it and a channel emerging from one end where a reed might be inserted as a mouthpiece. We unrolled the scroll. It was written in ancient Sumerian and the director was kind enough to translate.
"This pipe belonged to and is the invention of Yowk, Firekeeper of the Weasel People."
"'Weasel?'" I asked.
"I'm translating as best I can. It might also mean 'fish-herding,' but I think in this context it's weasels. Let me read it and get the basics." He pored thoughtfully over the text. "OK, I think I have it. This Yowk fellow was responsible for keeping fire ready as the tribe moved around, and he invented this device for that purpose. By breathing in and out through a reed attached to the chamber, an ember could be kept alight while moving."
"So the first pipe was for fire keeping, not smoking?"
"It appears that way. But there's quite a bit here about different herbs that stay lit best, and even a section on herbs that taste good. It seems Yowk became an enthusiast and others in the tribe joined him, smoking for pleasure rather than fire transport."
"What happened to them?" I asked.
"Everyone in the tribe became adept at 'carrying fire,' as they called smoking. They stopped migrating so they could smoke more; they settled down and started farming so they could grow better smoking mixtures."
According to this evidence, humanity shifted from a nomadic to an agrarian society because of pipe smoking. Without pipes, we probably wouldn't exist today.
Sadly, I can't confirm that now, nor can I prove anything related here. The castle and museum I visited years ago are gone, replaced by a Romanian Walmart. But we know the truth. Without pipes, we'd probably still be wandering the savannahs as Weasel people, smokeless and miserable.
Superstition Breeds Bad Luck
Thursday, March 1, 2018 by Rachel DuBose
I don't remember exactly when I decided that matching socks were bad luck, but I do remember the first time I decided it was a silly rule. I was standing in a store, staring at the only pair of socks that would fit me. Socks are hard to buy when you have feet approximately the size of dinner rolls. They wouldn't be the right shape to be mixed in with the ones I owned, so they'd have to be worn as a pair, but I was running dangerously low after the dog initiated a raid on the hamper, chewing most of them into wet balls of useless thread before retreating in feigned remorse.
I bought the black socks. What did it matter; socks don't have magical properties. Even as I pulled them on the next morning, though, something seemed off, as though disquieting movie music had started playing subliminally in the background.
First, it was the coffee — dropped in the car at such an angle that streaks adhered to the windshield and taunted me. Then, as I was checking the mail, it was a near-miss with one of the neighborhood kids, who nearly ran me down riding his bike, leaving me sitting in a pool of clay-like South Carolina mud. The socks didn't cross my mind, though. Bad days happened to everyone, and this one was just another unlucky example. The socks went into the laundry with the rest of my muddy clothes, seemingly innocent.
When I pulled them on again a week later, I ignored the thought of luck. It hung in the back of my mind, though, when a rare round of ice hit town — and my ice scraper broke in the middle of cleaning off my car. Then I started to make the connection when I slipped off my step-stool in the kitchen. Even as I limped around my home on my twisted ankle, and despite abundant evidence to the contrary, I told myself it was a childish superstition. Grumpy and frustrated, I grabbed a pipe to take outside, sitting at the end of my driveway to smoke while the afternoon sun melted what remained of the ice.
I must have misjudged the distance between the bit and my teeth, because when I tried to clench the pipe for a moment, it went tumbling — not just to the ground, but straight into the slotted storm drain beneath my feet, never to be seen again.
I stared at the drain, stunned, before slowly standing. I limped inside and pulled the socks off of my feet without any regard for the swollen ankle. This time, they didn't make it into the hamper, much to the dog's regret — they went in the trash, where they could do no more harm. I would risk having to wear sandals in February. The loss of one pipe was enough to convince me to take no further chances on the insidious nature of matching socks.
https://olie-sylvester-906n.squarespace.com/musings/2009/11/1/the-transformative-mixture.html
https://olie-sylvester-906n.squarespace.com/musings
A story of a pipe finish
Witch's Foot pipes
Dear reader, it is of no surprise to you, of course, that yet another snippet of pipe history comes to you now, dusted off and pulled from the underground vaults deep beneath the OomPalace. Years ago, the Witch's Foot was an incredibly popular shape that has today, all but died out. While many dispute it's origin, the Witch's Foot shape, we believe originated with a British carver trained by a Danish carver who was trained by an American carver, who was trained by an alligator in the swamps of Louisiana. While I personally find it hard to believe that an alligator would carve pipes from briar and not something more readily available, like human bone, I can only tell you the facts as they are recorded in the documents we have here.
It is entirely possible too, that this American carver did not wish to divulge his source as he never gave the name of the alligator in question. But I digress. The Witch's Foot pipe did not become popular until the young British carver Taylor A. Bilton made it so. Bilton was a marketing master in his own way and used the old myth, which was quite popular in his area, that if one smoked a pipe, the smoke kept away illness and disease (this belief is still held in some areas of Georgia (US.) Bilton took it a step further, roughed out pipes that were flat and smooth on one side and roughly billiard shaped on the other and called the shape a "Witch's Foot" which he said had special abilities which far surpassed "regular" pipe smoke.
Sales were slow until a baby in a nearby town made a miraculous recovery from "flop bot" (a terrible illness, very tricky to cure years ago.) Soon, word got around that it was all due to the baby smoking a Witch's Foot pipe made by Bilton. Whether the baby actually smoked a Witch's Foot pipe or just a cavalier shape (which was very popular for babies then,) we can't be sure. However, what we can be sure of is this: the sales of Witch's Foot pipes shot up astronomically and became a necessary item in many homes far and near.
Ventriculita Obscura (Gnome Heart Pipes)
In the old country, when briar ran scarce or when gnomes ran pesky, it was common practice to use the blocky, stew meat-like heart of the gnome in place of good briar. The gnome hearts (also called the ventriculita) were almost impossible to catch fire and allowed for a true tobacco burn that had almost no added flavor, if cured properly. There were two main methods of ventriculita curing, both extensive, both secretive. I won’t (can’t lest I invite the ire of those who still keep it’s secrets) go into gnome heart curing details here, however, I can tell you that there were two basic types of curing: oxy and deoxy.
Oxy curing demanded an extraction within moments of the gnomes death while deoxy required a waiting period. Essentially the difference in the end product came down to personal preference, however, the coloration of the hearts were noticeably different depending on curing type. Oxy curing gave a pinkish red coloration like oxygenated blood, while deoxy curing gave a deep blueish coloration.
Tenons were often made from the gnome’s femur or a hardened bone white ligament called the springjack which was hollow and allowed them to jump great distances. Stems were often made of dried pumpery tubolees which we would know as pulmonary arteries in humans. These dried hard, were hallow and already had a kind of tapering that worked wonderfully as stems. Coloration of pumpery tubolees varied on the type of heart curing. Oxy curing yielded a dull orange coloration while deoxy curing yielded at blueish coloration.
Even in the old days, humans were notoriously horrible at catching, (much less offing) gnomes in order to secure sweet smoking pipe parts. Thankfully, as long as anyone can remember, pixie lasses garbed in not much more than tobacco remnants, were absolutely expert at catching, dispatching, and extracting (this may sound cruel, but if you truly knew Gnomes, you'd know differently.) Gnome hearts are strangely blocky, but the pixie gals know just how to cut them out with their incredibly sharp swordlets.
Nothing to see here.... move along.....
(A gremlin disappeared my post!!!!)
Beasts of Birden
Monday, March 12, 2018 by Chuck Stanion
When I was a boy, I was most impressed by my grandfather's vocabulary. He worked in profanity the way great artists work in oil paints, building texture and dimension, color and contrast, culminating in exhortations of dizzying complexity and nuance that dropped birds from the sky in a condition of irreversible disorientation rendering flight impossible. You had to watch where you stepped on my grandfather's farm, because the birds were all reduced to walking; they got underfoot and were a little resentful about their situation, some of them even able to chirp their own rudimentary obscenities, though that may have been a symptom of their PTSD (Profanity Triggered Stress Disorder).
The 10 Tobys (all of Grandpa's dogs were named Toby) became adept at herding the flocks of birds that walked the fields so they wouldn't get plowed under during planting. "The last thing I need," said Grandpa, "is to plant more birds and end up having to harvest and bale them." A bale of birds is a noisy thing; no one wants a barn full of baled birds.
It was the Tobys' responsibility to keep the birds out of the way, and my grandfather trained them with tobacco. Because of my grandfather's continuous onslaught of profanity, the dogs were immune to verbal commands, so my grandfather directed them with tobacco scents using his trusty old Falcon pipe and a combination of Carter Hall and Granger.
"The key is in the layering," said my grandfather, loading his pipe with the two tobaccos. "Five minutes of Granger followed by five minutes of Carter Hall, and repeat." Granger told the Tobys to herd the birds into one area, and Carter Hall told them to move the birds into the woods. My grandfather would stand in the center of a field, smoking and orchestrating, until the field was bird-free.
While clearing the fields of birds one day, my grandfather was approached by a stranger walking across the farm. "You look like a government man," said my grandfather. "Get off my land."
"I'm from the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service," said the stranger. "We've been tracking a disruption in bird migration that seems to be centered on your farm."
"Go away, or my dogs will drag you into the swamp and bury you in the mud until you're discovered in the future and displayed as an example of North American bog people." He began refilling his pipe from his emergency pouch of Prince Albert, which would tell the dogs to revert to their wolf ancestry and dispense with this threat.
"Why are all these birds walking instead of flying?"
Questioning my grandfather on his own land begat his usual response of unbridled cursing and swearing. "****ing government, always trying to **** me up the ***. **** it and all the ****ing ****ers who ****ing **** for it." The clouds turned black, the wind picked up, and a hailstorm of stunned birds started pelting him and the government man.
"Holy crap," said the stranger. "You're causing it. Let's talk."
It was an intense negotiation, with the weather alternating between gloomy and windy with a chance of birds. The Tobys circled my grandfather and the stranger, ready to pounce, but at last the sky cleared and the stranger left.
"Well," explained my grandfather afterward, "I won't be swearing outdoors any longer. Gotta keep the birds safe. But I never have to pay taxes again."
That old man could sure haggle.
Influences
Monday, March 19, 2018 by Chuck Stanion
The coolest writing assignment I was given in high school was to interview someone I admired.
I chose Mr. Perseid Blankenship, a local farmer. He'd been named after the Perseid Meteor Shower, having been born in August during that annual light show. I was impressed that he was in his early 70s, yet stronger and more agile than any three men in their 20s, and smarter than anyone I'd ever encountered. He quit school in the third grade but was brilliant and preposterously well read, able to discuss Aristotle or Plato as easily as Shakespeare, Voltaire or Ken Kesey. He never bought anything he could build, and he could build anything. He designed and built his house, by himself, from reclaimed lumber, and it was a showplace. He was given three junk tractors and combined the parts for one working tractor that he'd had for 30 years and, according to friends still in the area, is still running, 45 years later.
But I needed a hook; something odd to capture the readers' interest. Everyone back then built their own stuff, but Mr. Blankenship was also famous for something few had encountered: a pipe collection.
He reverently laid all 14 of his pipes on his dining table as we talked. I knew nothing about pipes, but I knew some were unusual shapes.
"Pipe smoking is more meditation than anything else."
"I bought some of them from Iwan Ries in Chicago," said Mr. Blankenship. "I like handcrafted pipes especially, and they're rarely found elsewhere."
"Tell me why you need more than one pipe," I said, "and what it is about pipe smoking that attracts you."
"It's counterproductive to overwork a pipe, the same as a mule," he said. "You have to let them rest. I have a couple dozen corncobs that I smoke while I'm working. I keep them in the barn. But these are special. I smoke one of these every night after the chores are done.
"Pipe smoking is more meditation than anything else," he said. "Sitting in the dark, in front of the fire, smoking, brings me closer to appreciating life than any amount of travel. These pipes are my guide.
"I recognize each by feel, from their shape, their contours, their texture. Some are sandblasted, like this one. If you blindfolded me and placed this in my hand, I'd easily identify it. I know the contours of the grain, the shape of the bowl, better than I know my own face. I know its weight and can tell if there's a half bowl of tobacco left, or only ash, or empty, just by picking it up.
"But they're more than pipes; they're friends. This one was with me when my first child was born. This one when she graduated from college. I was smoking this one when my dog Horace died, and I'll always be grateful that it helped me through that very rough time.
"These pipes are my guide."
"Each has its own personality. This one is particularly cheerful and I like to smoke it during celebrations; this one is more empathetic and supportive during times of grief. This pipe smokes effortlessly and is perfect for daydreaming or reading; I was smoking it the first time I read Candide, and I think it was as amused as I was.
"I've been smoking pipes for 55 years," he said. "I'd never give up any of these pipes. It's easy to understand why North American indigenous people held pipes in such reverence."
My paper received a grade of C-. But a few years later, when I bought my first pipe, that interview with Mr. Blankenship became more personally valuable than any grade could designate.
Think about it: Somebody did this to themselves over a period of time.
-or-
"Hey Frank!!! What do ya use to light your pipe? A welder's torch?"
An Expert's Hands
Thursday, March 22, 2018 by Daniel Bumgardner
On the Italian island of Sardinia, pilgrims have trekked from the city of Nora for the past 200 years to a revered location, a small village called Lula. They travel under cover of night, repeating the twenty-mile-migration twice a year for the biannual Feast of San Francesco. Their destination is the Santuario di San Francesco, but it isn't refuge they seek. Rather, they seek some of the rarest, most exceptional pasta ever created.
Known as su filindeu ("threads of God" in Sardo), it's made by only three people on Earth, all living on the island. It seems simple, requiring only three ingredients: semolina wheat, water, and salt. However, the skill necessary for properly combining them is nowhere replicated. The craft of this pasta is in "understanding the dough with your hands."
The masters of the su filindeu knead the dough until the texture resembles something like modeling clay, continuing to work it into rounded strands. When it needs elasticity, they dip their fingers in a bowl of salt water, and when it needs moisture, unsalted water. Only after the mixture reaches a perfect consistency and the dough has been doubled over and over again, do they tenderly stretch it over a wooden frame to dry in the Sardinian sun.
It seems an uncomplicated process, not unlike, say, the rendering of an ebauchon block of briar into a practical smoking instrument. After all, in its purest form, a pipe is really just a piece of wood with two holes in it. And yet, we all know that pipemaking, like the su filindeu, can take years to understand. Sure, sourcing some very good briar helps, as does having a shop equipped with a lathe, blasting cabinet, proprietary finishes, etc. But even more helpful is the understanding of how a well-made pipe looks, feels and performs. And more than that, watching a skilled carver practice the craft in person allows a student of the form to witness invaluable aspects of a given technique.
And it's not just the development of an efficient technique that separates the wheat from the chaff as far as carvers go; it's that artisan's willingness to evolve, continuously ebbing closer and closer to an ideal of perfection. Like the masters of the sun filindeu work to "understand" the dough, so too do pipemakers work to truly "know" the briar. It's why Bo Nordh kept a block on his shelf for decades before ever shaping it. It's why many of us wait years, and sometimes decades, for a certain shape from a given maker. It's why every year, pipe smokers from all over the world make "pilgrimages" to places like Chicago and Las Vegas. It's not refuge we seek. Rather, we seek to bear witness to a transcendent experience of our very own.