In this issue:

• CHRIST- THE END OF THE LAW FOR RIGHTEOUSNESS , by William Huntington
• THE TRUE CHURCH, by J.C. Ryle
• Large Trout, a Quote
• An Unknown Tale by H. C. Andersen, by Mats Berbres
• Pipe Quotes
• Tobacco and the Soul, by Michael P. Foley

Odd, isn't it? I publish a bimonthly periodical named specifically after a pipe, yet the focus usually falls upon the pursuit of trout. Although numerous explanations for this incongruity readily come to mind, blatant honesty requires a forthright acknowledgment of heart felt preference. Bottom line: I'm infatuated with briar; I love bamboo. The distinction is not without significance. Whereas the root could be set aside reluctantly if necessity demanded, fly fishing would have to be yanked from my soul by the very hand of Omnipotence. It's not a problem of idolatry, as some are wont to believe, but rather a matter of psychological hardwiring: I fish, therefore I am. From the earliest age I have been a dedicated angler, beginning in driveway mud puddles and eventually graduating to clear mountain streams. The only substantial change has been that of modus operandi, the irrevocable switch from chucking worms to tossing flies. Otherwise, I've always waded the water, hoping to catch something. Pipe smoking, however, came later in life (1978) when I studied theology at Appalachian Bible Institute in Bradley, West Virginia. A knee-jerk reaction to fundamentalist legalism? Perhaps, although the real reason probably had a lot to do with paternal example. Fathers influence their children, and throughout my childhood Dad often chomped on inexpensive Grabows and Medicos. Thus, acquiring an aficionado's taste for tobacco became inevitable, I'd say.

Despite the priority placed on fooling fish with feathers, pipes play a large part in defining my personality. Without digressing into sappy gut spilling, let's simply say I could never picture myself becoming apathetic about briar. That fact is even more evident if due consideration is directed towards the 30 bowls I've managed to accumulate between 1978 and a week ago. A mere collector I am not; I burn Latakia in all of them with impunity.

Because the newsletter is so fly fishing oriented I thought it might be wise to emphasize pipes and tobacco in the current issue, and possibly several others. Accordingly, an open invitation is offered to any reader for his personal contribution to the cause, provided the submission honors God in terms of content and language. The appeal, here, is for help in bringing THE CHURCHWARDEN thematically closer to its namesake. Therefore, I'll begin the effort by giving a rambling rundown of my own fire-wood, starting with the story of a recent acquisition.

Whenever my supply of terminal tackle drops low, Amy and I plan a day trip to Vermont to replenish the vitals via Orvis' discount fly shop in Manchester. Normally I score pretty well, especially since prices are reduced approximately 50 percent off the original. Now, as many of you know, Elliot Nachwalter's pipe studio is only a short distance from Orvis and absolutely impossible for me to pass by. So, last Saturday therein I stood, casually looking over Elliot's craftsmanship when I spied a "must-have" straight grained Stanwell Nordic. Folks, I'm talking the nicest hunk of wood you'll ever see in a commercial brand, bar none. Knowing such an exquisite briar deserved the undying admiration of one who could genuinely appreciate its rarity, I hurried to my wife and said, "Please tell me to purchase this pipe so I won't feel guilty!"

What surely must seem like a strange request to some caused my dear spouse considerable amusement for, you see, she understood the context. Two autumns ago, around Thanksgiving time, we dropped into Nachwalter's during the course of another fly and leader foray, whereupon Amy saw a nice Canadian fashioned from 200 year old Corsican briar and suggested it was well worth the money. A woman's wish is a man's command: I did exactly as I was told, and now the Canadian is affectionately called, "the pipe Amy ordered me to buy." Reasoning from past to present, I figured if she spoke the word just once more I could snatch the Stanwell and blame the whole expenditure on her. Naturally a minor discussion ensued, but after seeing the quality of grain for herself, I was graciously allowed to walk out of Elliot's fine establishment with the Nordic plus my wife's undeserved blessing.

If the Stanwell is the newest pipe in my modest accumulation, the oldest consist of a free-hand Pauly's Choice and a standard shaped Prince of Wales, both generously given to me by Mr. Frank Burdette of Charleston, West Virginia. During the early 1980's we worked together in the marketing department of a certain health insurance company located in that city. He made his living as a sales representative; I made mine as a lowly copier boy. Frank had his faults, but consistently made a point of treating me with respect and kindness, the latter demonstrated quite concretely in the gift of two fine briars. Whenever I light them up, I think favorable thoughts towards their giver.

Occasionally I stumble over a deal too good to ignore; a couple of years ago I hit the mother lode with a local tobacconist bent on downsizing sold his entire stock for half on the dollar. With limited funds I managed to secure two Bjarnes, a Stanwell, a system Peterson and two other pipes I traded for trout flies. The Stanwell is butt ugly, the Peterson is cosmetically ho-hum, and the Bjarnes are pleasing to the eye. Not a single cent of my meager investment proved foolish, however, inasmuch as the entire lot provides superb puffing pleasure.

Speaking of money, a pertinent comment on the subject may be helpful. Concentrate your thoughts, for a moment, on a chunk of the heath tree with two holes drilled in it. Whether you spend $50.00 or $500.00, don't be deluded; that's precisely what you're getting. A high dollar Dunhill or the dirt cheap Wally Frank have the commonalty of being nothing other than mere blocks of root. Pipes lost their mystery when I started to make my own in the late 1990's. I carved approximately 12 free-hands, sold a number of them, gave a few to friends and kept three for myself. As a result of the experience, I learned when people blow a load of dough they're paying for a name, not a pipe. The source of a quality smoke is a thick walled bowl, not a famous maker. I'm not slamming the artistry of celebrity carvers, but who amongst us common folk can afford it? Wall thickness is the key, which I learned the hard way. I made a thin bowled free-hand in 1999 which turned out to be a terribly wicked tongue biter because of an inadequate amount of material to absorb the heat. By contrast, a ridiculously thick walled piece from my clumsy hand would compare favorably to the very best on the planet. Pipes possessing the major characteristic I have described can be readily found for under a $100 on a regular basis, new or used. Professional artisans can legitimately bag me for avoiding the issues of briar aging and curing, and their consequential effect on perfection and price, but I'm writing for people with little or no cash flow. If you want a pleasurable bowl, yet can't afford a large expense, be sure to pick up a lesser version with a ton of mass in the walls .

A good example is the Wally Frank alluded to earlier. For $16.95, plus tax, I came into possession of the very thing being discussed above. It has the precise feature requisite for the kind of relaxing enjoyment I pursue with every strike of the match. Furthermore, the Reverend William D. Brown has two similar Wally Franks, and he would fully concur with my judgment regarding their value. Bargains, indeed, can be found.

I could wax eloquent on the possibilities available to anyone willing to wait for the blessings of divine providence. You'd be surprised at the wonders God hides in the oddest places. Moreover, there is genuine joy the discovery, and true satisfaction in the practice of responsible stewardship. Trust me, the Lord does not want ridiculous amounts of moolah wasted on weed incinerators.