Recently while browsing at an antique mall I found a pipe rack with a glass humidor. I bought it ostensibly to turn into a lamp, but I think I really bought it because it reminded me of my grandfather.
Now I must confess up front that I really hate cigarette smoking and am not all that fond of cigar smoking. But there’s something about the sweet aroma of pipe tobacco that sure is appealing. Maybe it’s mostly the memories of Granddaddy, whom I adored, and whose pipe was a constant presence in my life.
But I think that looking at that rack, remembering my grandfather and his pipe, also carries me back to a time when it seemed that life was gentler, slower, not as full of stress. I can so clearly remember watching Granddaddy open his pouch of tobacco, scoop it out and begin packing it into the pipe, tamping it down until he was satisfied that it would burn well. He used a wooden kitchen match to light his pipe, and he would puff and puff until it was drawing correctly. His eyes were always closed as he got his pipe going; maybe the methodical ordered routine required his focused concentration, easier to accomplish if he wasn’t looking at anything around him. From start to finish, the intricate pattern of motions was never rushed.
I suspect that you can’t be a pipe smoker if you’re always in a hurry, or have a nervous temperament. Maybe folks who are prone to road rage should take up pipe smoking; it might calm them down.
Granddaddy’s smoking took its toll on his clothes. Pretty much every shirt or suit jacket he wore bore tiny holes caused by flying embers that dropped down as the tobacco burned in the bowl of the pipe. I’m sure my grandmother got tired of little flakes of tobacco all over the house. But that pipe was my grandfather, just as much as the khaki pants and shirts he wore to work as a carpenter, or the grey wool hat he wore to church.
And remembering Granddaddy and his pipe, and his khakis, and his hat, makes me wonder if there’s anything that my grandchildren will one day associate with me as closely as I do those accoutrements of my grandfather’s.
When my daughters saw the pipe rack, they asked “what is it?” They probably barely remember their Papaw smoking, and certainly didn’t remember that he kept his pipes in a pipe rack. It’s not the sort of decorative accessory that you see just anywhere - in fact, I’m not sure you can find too many outside of an antique store or estate sale or on ebay.
I fashioned the rack into a lamp, and filled its tobacco jar with old matchbook covers. The deep brown of the lampshade casts a soft glow that warms my heart.
As do the memories of my grandfather.
Now I must confess up front that I really hate cigarette smoking and am not all that fond of cigar smoking. But there’s something about the sweet aroma of pipe tobacco that sure is appealing. Maybe it’s mostly the memories of Granddaddy, whom I adored, and whose pipe was a constant presence in my life.
But I think that looking at that rack, remembering my grandfather and his pipe, also carries me back to a time when it seemed that life was gentler, slower, not as full of stress. I can so clearly remember watching Granddaddy open his pouch of tobacco, scoop it out and begin packing it into the pipe, tamping it down until he was satisfied that it would burn well. He used a wooden kitchen match to light his pipe, and he would puff and puff until it was drawing correctly. His eyes were always closed as he got his pipe going; maybe the methodical ordered routine required his focused concentration, easier to accomplish if he wasn’t looking at anything around him. From start to finish, the intricate pattern of motions was never rushed.
I suspect that you can’t be a pipe smoker if you’re always in a hurry, or have a nervous temperament. Maybe folks who are prone to road rage should take up pipe smoking; it might calm them down.
Granddaddy’s smoking took its toll on his clothes. Pretty much every shirt or suit jacket he wore bore tiny holes caused by flying embers that dropped down as the tobacco burned in the bowl of the pipe. I’m sure my grandmother got tired of little flakes of tobacco all over the house. But that pipe was my grandfather, just as much as the khaki pants and shirts he wore to work as a carpenter, or the grey wool hat he wore to church.
And remembering Granddaddy and his pipe, and his khakis, and his hat, makes me wonder if there’s anything that my grandchildren will one day associate with me as closely as I do those accoutrements of my grandfather’s.
When my daughters saw the pipe rack, they asked “what is it?” They probably barely remember their Papaw smoking, and certainly didn’t remember that he kept his pipes in a pipe rack. It’s not the sort of decorative accessory that you see just anywhere - in fact, I’m not sure you can find too many outside of an antique store or estate sale or on ebay.
I fashioned the rack into a lamp, and filled its tobacco jar with old matchbook covers. The deep brown of the lampshade casts a soft glow that warms my heart.
As do the memories of my grandfather.
(Dallas Morning News Neighbors 4-01-06)
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