Reaching . . . reaching . . . jump! I almost had it. My size 4 tennis shoes sprang up like Jesse Owens taking an Olympic hurdle. Looking around so as not to be caught, I leapt high to grab the contraband on top of the cedar bookcase in the den. This is where I saw Dad put his pipe. My hands met the stem and I grinned. Not worrying about cleanliness, I slid the vulcanite bit of the blackened briar between my lips. At twelve years old, I thought myself to be quite the young gent with the crooked neck Dr. Grabow in my mouth. The taste of bygone cavendish invigorated a very adolescent palate. Then I heard father coming down the stairs and my heart began to pound.
"What are you doing?" My jaw opened and the Grabow dropped. "That's an old pipe from college", he said. After Dad rescued his treasure from the floor, he held it in his hands like a piece of gold. "There's a lot of memories that go with that pipe." He looked towards the ceiling and smiled, his thoughts borne along by nostalgia.
Yep, it's funny how a pipe can become a memory of its own. My first was a corncob bought from a local general store. Being from the country, it only added to my hick exterior. However, the other gentlemen who would be accompanying me today were not concerned with my appearance. Clad in camouflage outfits, we commenced the slow walk down to the duck blind. As I carried the 12-gauge my heart began to beat rapidly. I had never been duck hunting before and this crowd was a hearty group of "men's men." All of them, with the exception of Brian, were older fellows. Brian's father was a take-no-prisoners farmer who had worked the land throughout his whole life. I had just turned 18, but felt like a boy. Yet, he invited me to come along, which practically constituted a rite of passage. For the many times I had seen this tall Tennessee man wrestle a steer, drive a combine or pick cotton, here was a chance to finally prove my worth.
After we settled into our places, I started to survey the group. You had the Tedfords, good ole country boys who had more money than teeth. You had Mr. Rushing, a heavyset deacon from our church, and Mr. Havershans. Havershans, a long time farmer, was a friend of the family. Quiet in his demeanor, sometimes he only nodded during a conversation. When the first squadron of ducks landed on the pond, I immediately tensed. Looking out of his good eye, one of the Tedfords snarled, "Son, you just calm down." Strike one. Even though I was there by invitation, I seemed like the young fifth wheel. Suddenly some of the ducks took flight, shots blasted and the acrid smell of gun powder engulfed us.
Then, after a period of complete silence, the ensuing conversations about tractors and farm implements began to numb my senses. Plus it was cold. The Coleman heater provided a little heat, but not enough. Growing bored, I remembered the pipe in my jacket. I pulled it out, opened the seal on a pouch of drugstore weed and the scent of fresh picked cherries tickled my nostrils. I didn't know much about tobacco, but I knew this smelled great. I packed the bowl till it ran over, and lit the bounty with a match. The crackle from the smoldering leaves put a mild aroma into the atmosphere. As if he was Smoky the Bear, one of the Tedford brothers turned and, shriveling his nose, asked, "What's that burning?" Courageously, I showed him the two-dollar corncob and announced, "It's my pipe!" Everybody became silent. I wondered what would happen next. Would I be ejected for my vice, or could I actually claim the right to be accepted as a man? Upon placing the corncob back into my mouth it began to emit a foul odor, much like a central heating unit operating for the first time in months. I coughed and gagged while shaking heads of disbelief stole my long awaited moment of glory.
A few years and several pipes later, my wife and I celebrated our first Christmas together. I received a beautiful Jobey from her as a gift. Smiling, I secretly sensed the confirmation of manhood being bestowed on me. Yes, I was the man of the house, no longer a child, but a husband, a provider and, most importantly, a spiritual leader. Christmas night my wife and I sat together on the porch swing and rocked under the starry sky. The sweet perfume of vanilla based cavendish filled the air. My wife placed her arm around me and said "Reminds me of my grandfather." As we listened to James Taylor croon us to bliss, I tilted my bowl toward the stars and thanked the Lord for this wonderful moment.
In some public places a pipe can cause a division between men. Those who choose not to share the leaf may frown upon the practice. Ah, but what about those times when the pipe is an instrument of fellowship? In contemplating the journey to adulthood, it becomes more and more necessary to acknowledge the need for friendship with believing men. Last winter, for example, a Christian brother and I shared the memorable fellowship of manhood under smoky plumes of Dunhill Nightcap. We had recently taken up the hobby of short wave radio. Mine was an ancient Halicrafter which worked off antique tubes. Letting the radio warm up, we lit our pipes. Scratch . . . the wooden match pushed against grain causing a spark. I lifted the small torch to my churchwarden's bowl. As fire touched nicotine, a wonderful fragrance permeated the air. I reached across the desk and pulled the gold chain on the lamp. But for the light of glowing tubes and burning tobacco, we would have been sitting in total darkness watching the snow flakes fall. We turned the dial, settling on a station playing old time radio theater programs. With the background sounds of Amos and Andy and the Green Hornet entertaining us, we talked endlessly about steaks, fine wine and classic cars. Hour upon hour we enjoyed the spirit of fellowship flowing through the room. For a brief span, though, we talked bitterly of all the material things we didn't have, that others did have--cars, big houses, boats and lots of money--and life seemed so unfair. Yet, as the aromatic smoke achieved its soul soothing effect, I felt humbled by the reality of having significantly more than most men will ever know. God himself was blessing me with a friend, a pipe and a memory of manhood.
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E mail Perry Fuller at darkcahill.com
�copyright 2001, Perry Fuller
