Smokingpipes Europe is pleased to announce that its parent company, Laudisi Enterprises, has acquired Kapp & Peterson, Ltd., specifically the Peterson pipe factory in Sallynoggin and the Peterson of Dublin shop on Nassau Street.
We're excited that Peterson will be joining the Laudisi Family as we prepare to launch Smokingpipes Europe later this Summer. In the coming weeks, our European staff currently based in Dublin will be moving into the Peterson facility in Sallynoggin.
As we launch our European venture, we're especially grateful to be joining in Peterson's rich, 150-year history, and to have the opportunity for Smokingpipes Europe to grow along side it.
History buffs, especially those interested in World War II, as well as anyone who has seen Saving Private Ryan or HBO's Band of Brothers will probably understand the significance of "flash" and "thunder." The two words were used by Allied troops on D-Day as part of a "challenge and response" system meant to identify friend from foe. One party would issue the challenge word — "flash" — to which the unknown oncomer was to respond with the password — "thunder." In this way, Allied forces were able to ascertain the identity of someone without having to forfeit a secure position for the sake of making visual contact. Plus, the "th" sound in English is particularly difficult for Germans to pronounce with native fluency, so the password also acted as a sort of shibboleth on the off chance German troops gained access to the code.
In a similar, albeit much less life-threatening way, sometimes it's difficult to discern whether or not someone is a pipesmoker. Perhaps walking past them you catch an Aromatic whiff or note the smoky scent of Latakia. Or you notice a slight bulge in their breast pocket that could very easily be made by a compact smoker. Or maybe it's simply a feeling, a tingling, pipesmoker sense, that leads you to believe they're a fellow lover of the leaf and briar. Regardless, there's no surefire way of knowing unless you notice them with a pipe clenched between their teeth.
Sure, you could follow them and wait to see if they ever pack a bowl, but stalking is frowned upon and stakeouts take considerable time and resources. You could, of course, simply ask them directly, but that could lead to disastrous consequences. They could misinterpret your interest, fearing you seek to ridicule them, or an eavesdropping thief could later mug them and steal their pipe and tobacco to pawn for drug money. To avoid such potential conflicts, I'm proposing a clear and concise method of identifying fellow pipesmokers.
Like WWII soldiers on D-Day, we need our own "flash - thunder." So, I'm calling on all pipesmokers to begin implementing this new secret code. Next time you encounter someone who appears to have the attractively elusive, je ne sais quoi of a pipesmoker, simply utter "flake" under your breath as you pass by. If they respond "tamper," you've just made a new friend. If, on the other hand, they grab you by the throat, infuriated at what you've just called them, then you've clearly made a mistake.
I sat by the bay window, listening to the rain patter against the panes. Outside, lightning continued to ignite the sky in violent streaks, illuminating the swaying pines in fleeting vignettes. But the crack of thunder took longer and longer to reach my ears; I knew the storm would soon pass. I drew my pipe to my mouth; it wasn't lit, but I instinctively feigned a puff. The familiar motion calmed my restlessness. It was past time for my nightly walk.
I laced my boots and stepped out into the breezeway. The downpour had dwindled to a light sprinkle, and the whole world smelled of rain and trees and dampness. I took a seat at the foot of the stairwell, struck a match, and lit my pipe. The fine strands of Virginias swelled and rose up against the flame. I tamped them down with my finger, applied the second light, and tamped again. Sheltered under the stairs' awning, I sent ribbons of smoke pirouetting into the night and watched them curl and dance against the dark backdrop of the parking lot.
Only when the rain tapered off into stillness did I emerge from my makeshift den to begin my nightly wander. Steam rose in thick tendrils from the hot asphalt, like echoes of my own billowing smoke, collecting in halos around the streetlamps above. I pushed through the haze and lingering scent of chlorophyll, setting the cadence of my footfalls in time with slow and deliberate puffs from my pipe.
Adrift in the eerie peacefulness that follows a summer storm, I turned the corner and came to a sobering stop. A dark form crept from a poorly maintained field off to my right. It slunk and slithered from the brush, its shadow growing then retreating as it entered into the pool of light. My heart raced to determine its destination: Nestled there on the sidewalk, mere paces from me, was a haphazardly discarded hamburger.
The creature pressed forward, edging closer and closer to the waste left by a recent cookout. By now it was more than a silhouette, its red brown fur prickled in caution as it urged its snout closer, closer still to the charbroiled meat. A fox. The first I'd seen since my move to the Low Country four years ago.
Undoubtedly, the creature saw me before ever emerging from the tall grass, but as it reached down and snatched the burger in its jaws, it turned and paused as if acknowledging my willingness to simply let it be. In those endless seconds, we regarded each other with cautious yet intentional indifference. And I realized, in our mutual vulnerability, we were one in the same: two creatures emerging after a storm to seek solace and sustenance in the world's post-chaos serenity. This was our shared experience.
I stood there, drawing slow and deliberate puffs from my pipe, and watched the sly creature skitter back to the safety of its own den. I stepped forward and continued my stroll, but as I passed the spot where the hamburger had been, I glanced over into the field. Two beady amber eyes met my gaze in the distance.
These are the things that meet rain and smoke in the summertime.
Greetings from The Pipe Nook! I hope you've had time recently to smoke your pipe, and to reflect on the many blessings in life. Recently, I've been compiling a list of some of my favorite quotations in regards to pipe smoking, which I thought would be fun to share with you. The first of these has even found its way onto the back of my business cards. So without further ado, here's the current list!
“The pipe draws wisdom from the lips of the philosopher, and shuts up the mouth of the foolish; it generates a style of conversation, contemplative, thoughtful, benevolent, and unaffected.”
-William Makepeace Thackeray, from “The Social Pipe”
“Nowhere in the world will such a brotherly feeling of confidence be experienced as amongst those who sit together smoking their pipes.”
- The Results and Merits of Tobacco, 1844, Doctor Barnstein
“A pipe is the fountain of contemplation, the source of pleasure, the companion of the wise; and the man who smokes, thinks like a philosopher and acts like a Samaritan.”
-Edward George Bulwer-Lytton, 1st Baron Lytton
“I believe that pipe smoking contributes to a somewhat calm and objective judgement in all human affairs.”
-Albert Einstein, 1950
“The fact is, squire, the moment a man takes to a pipe, he becomes a philosopher. It’s the poor man’s friend; it calms the mind, soothes the temper, and makes a man patient under difficulties. It has made more good men, good husbands, kind masters, indulgent fathers, than any other blessed thing on this universal earth.”
-Sam Slick, the clockmaker
"If you can't send money, send tobacco."
-George Washington to the Continental Congress, 1776
"I toiled after it, sir, as some men toil after virtue."
-Charles Lamb, when asked how he became such a prodigious pipe smoker
"As the priest is characterized by his cassock, so the smoker by his pipe. The way in which he holds it, raises it to his lips, and knocks out the ashes, reveals his personality, habits, passions, and even his thoughts."
-E. Th. A. Hoffmann
"...pipe smoking is properly an intellectual exercise."
-Christopher Morley, 1916
“There is no composing draught like the draught through the tube of a pipe.”
-Captain Frederick Marryatt
“A pipe is to the troubled soul what caresses of a mother are for her suffering child.”
-Indian Proverb
“I hated tobacco. I could have almost lent my support to any institution that had for its object the putting of tobacco smokers to death…I now feel that smoking in moderation is a comfortable and laudable practice, and is productive of good. There is no more harm in a pipe than in a cup of tea. You may poison yourself by drinking too much green tea, and kill yourself by eating too many beefsteaks. For my part, I consider that tobacco, in moderation, is a sweetener and equalizer of the temper.”
-Thomas Henry Huxley
“There is nothing like being left alone . . . to walk peacefully with oneself in the woods. To boil one's coffee and fill one's pipe, and to think idly and slowly as one does it.”
-Knut Hamsun
"On land, on sea, at home, abroad,
I smoke my pipe and worship God."
-Johann Sebastian Bach
I hope you enjoyed reading this list as much as I enjoyed compiling it! Be sure to check with The Pipe Nook from time to time to see what's new. I recently added Paladin Black Cherry and Lane Limited Ready-Rubbed to my Codger Blends category, and I am all stocked up with the pipe that has become my go-to favorite to smoke: the Savinelli Series III 320 9mm Filtered pipe!
@motie2 Thought you and the others might appreciate two of the recent posts by Reborn Pipes. He's posted digitally archived pipe books by Kaywoodie and BBB.
My nephew was born on Wednesday August 1st, 2018, a beautiful, healthy boy named Christopher Joseph after his father and my father. My family did all the things families do with a new arrival. We cooked too much food, ate too much food, shared chores, and passed around tobacco to celebrate. Though they're cliches nowadays, fathers standing around, passing out cigars, and slapping the proud new papa on the back are all proud traditions worth maintaining.
I was reminded how ingrained tobacco is in our society, how it's shaped our history and has become intertwined with life's biggest moments. Graduations, births, weddings, etc., all have that one moment when some in attendance retire to enjoy tobacco and each other. We were no different that day. Dad and I each grabbed our favorite pipes and sat smoking and talking about C.J., and Kimmy, my sister. The proud papa joined us, passing out a few cigars to others who had followed him out in celebration.
The surprising thing for me was that people who don't regularly enjoy a pipe or a cigar joined us to celebrate the big occasion. What is it about tobacco that captures our imaginations? What makes tobacco a given at any life event, even for those who don't regularly partake? I remembered how Native Americans believed they could commune with the creator through tobacco smoke. They used pipes during ceremonies specifically as a way of carrying their prayers to the heavens. To them, the smoke was a physical representation of all their aspirations and fears.
I like to think the Native Americans were on to something. After the birth of a child, our shared experience is our way of sending well wishes and guarding against fears. Sitting there in that moment, I couldn't help but feel that the smoke wafting from my favorite briar was a sort of spiritual insurance policy for my nephew.
Our hobby is built upon a tradition that has its origins in ritual. There's not much about pipe smoking that doesn't build upon some tradition, be it in shaping and construction or in the importance of the act to the individual. Each puff of the pipe brings us closer to something and connects us to the imperceivable.
A legion of highway signs blew by me on all sides. Glimmers of lens flare intermingled with brief hallucinations here and there, probably a result of sleep deprivation. The road was vacant, except for the occasional halted traveler parked on the shoulder, emergency hazards blinking like beacons in the distance. I was fairly certain the state line was behind me at this point, but there's no telling if a "Welcome" was lost in the fray of exits.
I didn't know where I was headed, and didn't necessarily care. The idea had been prodding me for months before finally taking hold, swinging from my temporal lobe like a determined, overzealous orangutan. It made no sense, and it's probably best that it didn't. Any amount of sense to be made of it would almost certainly cause me to change my mind. Before I knew it, I had packed my bags with some clothes, a toothbrush, a couple jars of tobacco, and a few pipes. I made some coffee, and by midnight, the city was behind me.
Back on the road, I reached for my phone, attempting to ascertain my current whereabouts, only to have it slip between my fingers and into the dark abyss beneath the seat. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't exhume it from the napkin-lined depths, and so resolved myself to finishing the half-smoked pipe in my passenger seat. I removed the pipe cleaner I had inserted into the shank (partly as a means of stabilizing the briar as it jostled around on the cushion), and stuck it behind my ear as I flicked my lighter.
Through the grey-blue clouds beginning to form in the car, I noticed a cobalt rectangle roughly 100 yards in the distance, a welcome respite from the barrage of green: a highway rest stop. I turned on my blinker, and gently steered the vehicle from the thoroughfare. As I pulled into a parking space and turned off the car, I was almost immediately met with a state of refreshed calm. I opened the car door and drooped my legs over into the parking lot. I couldn't even muster the energy to stand. I just sat there, pipe dangling from my jaw, the occasional puff of smoke catching an intermittent gust and dissipating into the dark sky. Even the smoke was more motivated than I.
As the night wind stirred through the trees around me, the pipe cleaner dislodged from my ear and onto the ground. I was slightly startled in my half-awake state, and stood up almost without even realizing. Crouching down, I picked up the soiled fuzzy wire, and that's when I saw the sign: "Welcome to Alaska." I rubbed my eyes in disbelief. The sun was rising now, and blankets upon blankets of stark white snow unfurled themselves as far as the eye could see. I knocked out the dottle from my now-extinguished pipe, walking over to the large rest stop signpost. I noticed an errant staple jutting from the post's trunk, and twisted my pipe cleaner around it like a bread bag tie, as if to say "I was here."
Feeling satisfied, I heard what I thought was a cuckoo chirping from the trees. I turned to find out whether I could see it, but the sound seemed more familiar with each note. Familiar...and closer. I felt the warm pipe in my fingers grow colder, and listened as the bird's unique melody devolved into the monotonous chime of a morning alarm. The grim harshness of reality started to slowly congeal, and I was back at home, my head slinked back over the armchair. Sitting the cold pipe on the side table, I dug my chirping phone from my pocket and silenced it. I checked the time, and before I knew it, the city was behind me... for five more minutes.
On Pipesandcigars.com, until Monday at midnight, they have a sitewide sale for 15% off with a promo code "CAW18".
I'd jump on it, but practically every blend I need restocking is backordered. A pity, because I would've jumped on it otherwise. However, others out there might find what they're looking for.
Onto the porch. Mug in hand. Pipe in pocket. Fresh air.
Feet shuffling halfheartedly. Eyes half closed. Mind foggy.
Faint sunlight greets me. Birds chirp and bustle. The first sounds of day. My fellow early risers dart from tree branch to tree branch. But I sit down. The circulation still slow from eight hours prone.
Ouch. Coffee too hot. I set it on the table.
My senses gradually begin to awaken. The birds' busyness prompts my ears to attention, while the now growing sunrays force my eyes to adjust. Streaks cut through the clouds. The dew filled grass bursts to life in a brilliant display. Too bright. I look away. But soon my eyes return, exchanging drowsiness for awe.
I tip the mug to my lips. Floral, nutty, and chocolate notes thaw my olfactory system. The warm bitterness of roasted bean jolts my lethargic taste buds. The sleep-filled stupor begins to abate, fading in tandem with the foggy condensation on my glasses.
The pipe's craggy sandblast rouses my tactile senses as my palm embraces the stummel. The slender tamper and the lighter's striking wheel encourage my fingers toward stronger dexterity. The smoky sweetness tickles my tongue as the exhaled cloud mingles upward with the coffee's rising steam. As the tendrils dissipate into the brightening sky, so does my mental fog. Sharper of mind and surer of sense, my body's fatigue submits fully to newfound energy, spurred on by the now cresting sun.
I'm now completely awake.
With the rest of the world continuing to stir around me, I consider my own morning process — the ritual to which I'm bound as a creature of habit. There's a comfort in the repetition, a solace in knowing what to expect. Worries are placated and peace is instilled when each morning starts the same, a preparation for and resignation toward the uncontrollable unknowns that the rest of the day might bring. The day's future is out of my hands, but I'm not worried because the pipe that currently fills them is all that matters.
The brilliance of Vladimir Grechukhin is in the delicacy of his work. I don't mean that his pieces are especially diminutive (very often the opposite), but rather they exhibit an organic, artful balance of style and nuance, making use of slight shifts in geometry and form to emphasize the connection between pipe and smoker, and likewise advance the needle of pipe evolution. Many revolutionary changes, after all, can be reduced to minor adjustments in form and function, and this is the Russian master's forte. It is with this aspect of his work in mind that we excitedly encounter the first batch of morta pipes we've seen from Vladimir.
Like Grechukhin, morta itself begins in a constant state of flux. When extracted from an ancient peat bog, the dense oak is already in the early stages of fossilization, well on its way to becoming lignite and coal over the next several million years if left undisturbed. It's a challenging medium, both in its extraction and in the process required to treat it for shaping. Dense, murky water necessitates waders' prospecting for the ancient oak logs with long wooden poles plunged into the marsh — an experience far removed from the earth-rending encounter of extracting fresh briar root. Morta also dries faster than briar, so constant attention is paid to a block's moisture levels over its lengthy curing process to ensure minimal cracking. The result is a material transfigured — the effects of very gradual evolution, catalyzed by insulation from the world.
Similarly, Vladimir's initial insulation from the world prior to the fall of communism affords him a unique perspective as a pipemaker, leading to stylistically subtle, yet often groundbreaking choices. It's no surprise he's taken that approach when it came to working with morta, a material that, though read similarly to briar, is far more texturally complex. In the face of that complexity, he's opted for a likewise complex Blowfish shape. The block is oriented not to show off birdseye, but dense, stacked rings, blasted to reveal their crisp texture. This is joined by an especially robust, streamlined straight Apple shape, the endgrain on its flanks so gorgeously aligned it almost appears uniform from afar. Both of these pieces also benefit from the striking juxtaposition of pale boxwood at their shanks' ends, an accent not often used by Grechukhin.
The most ingenious piece, however, is a powerful plateau-heeled Freehand. Here, the Russian carver opted to use morta as a playfully flared shank extension, choosing instead to throw focus to its antithesis: a smooth, contrast-stained briar bowl. And the play on duality isn't just apparent in the mixed media and finish, but in the nature of the shaping itself. Vladimir blends streamlined modernity and organic elegance so fluidly it's easy to forget this is the first time we've ever seen a carver use morta as an accent in this way. It's an undeniably functionalist use of the lightweight material as well, as the elongated shank allows the artisan to add considerable length without imbuing undue weight. Once again, the needle of pipe evolution moves forward, and we have Vladimir to thank for it.
This entry was in the works since at least early last week, though I was mulling over the idea for a few months. Needless to say, when SmokingPipes.com posted their blog about morning rituals, I considered scrapping the idea. However, since I was almost finished with it, I decided to go ahead and post it and hope people would realize this wasn't plagiarism.
Enjoyed the blog and find that with regard to rituals we are cut from the same cloth. Additionally I read your reflections on the Chicago Pipe show; only sorry we did not meet as I worked at the show as a member of CPCC.
Let me know if you ever want to come to a CPCC meeting, they're held in Villa Park on Saturdays once a month and its a good group of guys. its mostly pipe smoking, a little sipping and plenty of jawing with some BS thrown in for good measure.
@mapletop Thanks for the kind words about the blog! I'm sorry we didn't get a chance to meet at the Chicago Pipe Show. I have been to the CPCC before, but it's been some time. I'll try to make it to the September meeting (or October if that doesn't work out). I'll let you know beforehand if I know I can attend.
My friend, Chris, lives on a gorgeous beachfront property. A mere stone's throw from the ocean, his house is a dream to visit, whether enjoying the view from his living room or strolling along the beach that is his backyard. Thankfully, we live in the same town, so I find myself spending more time at his home than my own apartment, most often using his private dock as an early morning smoking spot. Protected by a small cove, the dock extends just about twenty yards into the crisp water. There are few things more peaceful than watching the sunrise over the ocean, accompanied by a beloved briar.
Living on the coast has its downsides though. Hurricanes present the most dangerous crises, but when it comes to daily struggles, local wildlife causes Chris the most regular of headaches. Most notably, he's sparked a feud with seaside birds, especially one particularly ornery tern. Larger and more aggressive than others, this tern has claimed Chris's section of the beach as its fowl kingdom, with the dock as its throne. The reigning tern along with its royal court has commandeered the dock, strewing the wooden walkway with deposits of leftover fish bones and other animal waste, making it impossible for Chris to enjoy the comforts of his own ocean paradise.
Chris has tried a number of techniques to keep the king tern and its coterie at bay, from attempting to chase it away with a broom to setting traps along the dock. Each time, though, Chris was foiled, as the bird merely hovered out of reach, dropping weapons of its own, and cleverly avoided the snares meant to contain it. Chris even went so far as to station his dog as a sentry in an attempt to scare the tern away from the dock, but that too failed. The canine was no match for the winged ruler, eventually submitting to the tern's dominion and becoming one of its loyal subjects.
The only time of day that the tern has relinquished control over the dock has been the mornings I've spent smoking there. Something about the smoke and aroma causes the bird to flee the entire vicinity, wanting nothing to do with the realm it otherwise so selfishly hoards. I've had no tussles with the bird. This has made Chris take up pipesmoking himself, strolling out to the dock, lit pipe between his teeth, each time he sees the tern try to reclaim the throne. After several days, the tide has begun to turn in Chris's favor, as the bird launches volleys of attacks less and less frequently. It seems only a matter of time before it surrenders and Chris is able to own his dock once again. It's all thanks to the mysterious wonders of pipesmoking and is a testament to the old adage: A pipe a day keeps the dock tern away.
Say you go out on a Friday night to see some live music at a local venue. The mood is particularly inviting, you might be surrounded by friends, and you realize, after a few drinks, how enjoyable an experience it is. Perhaps you purchase an album of the artist's music, intending to listen to it the next day. Upon pressing play in the bright, lucid calm of morning however, you're met with a much less pleasant sensation. Arguably, it's this second exposure that offers the more accurate perception of the work in question. This phenomenon isn't confined to music either, as the same can certainly be said of experiences with pipe tobacco.
A few weeks back, I had a smoking experience that could only be described as "transcendental." You know, one of those occasions when the stars seem to align over a briar and blend, resulting in an especially flavorful, enjoyable smoke. Whenever this happens, I've historically tried to replicate the whole experience: arranging the lighting just so, setting the music appropriately, all in an attempt to get the vibe "right." Recently, however, I realized I've been doing it all wrong.
What you may have attributed to a blend's performance may be due to any number of external contributing factors, from the temperature in the room to the energy of those around you. So, in an effort to be pragmatic, the standard I now adhere to is "smoke it twice, in contrasting situations." And the true litmus test for gauging a blend's "rightness" for you under normal circumstances should be, well, smoking it under normal circumstances. Sure, there will be those you reserve for certain special times, but if a blend fails to elevate the routine, give it some time to age. If that doesn't work, save some space in your cellar for those that genuinely excite you.
After all, a cellar full of blends you don't smoke is no better than a shelf full of albums you don't listen to.
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https://www.smokingpipes.eu/smokingpipesblog/single.cfm/post/peterson-joins-the-smokingpipes-family
Smokingpipes Europe is pleased to announce that its parent company, Laudisi Enterprises, has acquired Kapp & Peterson, Ltd., specifically the Peterson pipe factory in Sallynoggin and the Peterson of Dublin shop on Nassau Street.
We're excited that Peterson will be joining the Laudisi Family as we prepare to launch Smokingpipes Europe later this Summer. In the coming weeks, our European staff currently based in Dublin will be moving into the Peterson facility in Sallynoggin.
As we launch our European venture, we're especially grateful to be joining in Peterson's rich, 150-year history, and to have the opportunity for Smokingpipes Europe to grow along side it.
To read more about this exciting news, check out the Smokingpipes Blog here and below:
https://www.flogglewerks.com/
UMBERTO ECO: MEMORY AND PIPES
https://www.alpascia.com/moments/en/detail/136
http://pipesart.com/filt-products.php?new=1&sort=7
http://www.emissourian.com/features_people/feature_stories/after-years-washington-remains-the-corn-cob-pipe-capital-of/article_695d8bc8-9602-11e6-999b-9b2773876dcb.html
https://www.tobaccopipes.com/peterson-calabash/
Grechukhin's First Morta Pipes
For more on morta:
https://pipedia.org/wiki/Creating_Pipes_From_Morta
https://winstonspipeandcigar.com/blogs/pipes-news-information-and-education-about-tobacco-pipes/91940422-why-morta-makes-a-good-pipe
The Briar Files
A blog about pipes and pipe smoking.
http://www.pipes.org/category/fiction/
"A pipe a day keeps the dock tern away."
Living on the coast has its downsides though. Hurricanes present the most dangerous crises, but when it comes to daily struggles, local wildlife causes Chris the most regular of headaches. Most notably, he's sparked a feud with seaside birds, especially one particularly ornery tern. Larger and more aggressive than others, this tern has claimed Chris's section of the beach as its fowl kingdom, with the dock as its throne. The reigning tern along with its royal court has commandeered the dock, strewing the wooden walkway with deposits of leftover fish bones and other animal waste, making it impossible for Chris to enjoy the comforts of his own ocean paradise.
Pragmatic Smoking: