Of Pipes, Pals, Petersons and Perry

By Rev. Duane Brown

I am not ashamed to call Mr. Perry S. Fuller--the creator, editor, publisher, primary writer and resident curmudgeon of The Churchwarden--my very best friend in the world. Why? I�ll never know, for friendship--like love itself--is mysterious and largely illogical.

Sometimes friendships are forged by common interests. Mr. Fuller and I were introduced along the commonality of theology, primarily TULIP Calvinism. Our initial hours together were spent waxing eloquently over total depravity, bondage of the will, supralapsarianism and a million esoteric ideas that bounced off the wall, sometimes like a pinball, other times like a medicine ball.

Though our interests were greatly shared in the area of theology, we quickly discovered that we each had passions over which the other yawned. This continues to this day, and some of the dissimilarities are striking. Mr. Fuller is an avid hunter; I can�t bring myself to shoot anything. I love sports such as football, baseball, hockey and basketball; Perry is so ignorant of this realm that he thinks a quarterback draw is when an art class is introduced to anatomy. I am a card-carrying high fiber, low protein vegetarian and won�t eat anything with a face; Mr. Fuller is an adherent to the Atkins Diet, and consumes racks and freezers full of meat and protein. (He is also shredding his kidneys and on a course for renal failure. But that, like our dispute over pipe lighters, is fodder for another venue.) During the blessed times we spend with each other, we are like Jack Spratt and his wife.

What do we have in common besides an interest in theology? We both detest summer, hot weather, and anything that induces unwanted sweat. We both love northern climes. We are both politically conservative. We love to read and collect books. We both love to fish.

Of all our alikes and dissimilarities, however, one thing emerges which occupies front and center-stage perhaps more than any interest: the love of pipes, pipe tobacco, pipe smoking, pipe shopping and pipe coveting.

Pipes are like friends, and the similarities are staggering. In terms of analogy, smoking a cigarette is like a one-night-stand. Smoking a cigar is like a brief affair. But a pipe is like a good marriage and/or an excellent friendship. Pipes are not used once and thrown away. Pipes are not used as a status symbol, packaged with expensive wines and Armani suits as the requisite accessory with whoever happens to be on the cover of People Magazine. Over time, we who love the briar develop relationships with them which often mirror the relationships we have with those we call friends.

APPEARANCES ARE OFTEN DECEIVING

A few years ago, while perusing a pipes web site, mine eyes beheld a beautiful Chacom. It was thick bowled and sleek with a beautiful wood; my jaw dropped and drool dribbled all over my keyboard. As pipe collectors well know, those of us afflicted with the malady are as hopeless as Tammy Fay Bakker�s first trip to the Mall of America. I simply had to have the pipe, based on the name, the look and the little cuckoo clock that pecked the inside of my brains.

A money order was procured, mailed, and I paced anxiously for ten days awaiting the arrival of my newest baby. When I unwrapped the package and pawed through the plastic peanuts, I was flabbergasted: the pipe was even more beautiful than its window on the web site. With all the glee of a kid at Christmas, I pulled out a delightful can of my favorite Cornell and Diehl English blend, filled the bowl, tamped, lit it, and fully expected to be escorted to Nirvana. Imagine my surprise, however, when that first bowl had all the pleasure of smoking a bowl of rat droppings in a plastic Popeye pipe. It was disgusting.

I, however, being the experienced, suave and sophisticated sort that I am, chalked it up to a bad match. Tobaccos and pipes seem to have their own idiosyncrasies, where a Cavendish will smoke like heaven in one pipe while tasting like old Halloween candy in another. After thoroughly cleaning the Chacom and ridding it of all vestiges of Latakia, I filled the bowl the next day with an equally enjoyable Virginia, a house blend lovingly served up by my favorite shop in the Twin Cities. The experience was only slightly more palatable. Since then, the Chacom has taken an honored place in my collection of the aesthetically pleasing to look at, but hardly smokable curiosities.

I had a similar experience with a Savinelli churchwarden, a pipe for which I scrimped, saved and collected pop bottles to secure. Unlike the Chacom, the Sav is smokable and pleasing to hold when I feel like pretending I�m a wealthy scholar enjoying a smoke in a 19th century British pub. Sadly, while the churchwarden is a classy looking pipe, its pleasurable smoking characteristics are as banal as an Al Gore speech.

On the other hand, last Christmas I received, from one of my parishioners, two pipes fashioned from a Minneapolis pipe maker which had all the visual attraction of seaweed. Called �Moochers,� the pipes are square, crudely textured with a router, and look like the kind of pipes Charlie Brown would feel sorry for and buy his dad at Christmas.

Pastors have to be political, polite and persuasive, and I have learned one must accept all gifts with equal aplomb and appreciation. I was prepared to toss the Moochers into the bin of equally bandied briars but, in the name of fairness, I thought would at least try a bowl to tell my friend that I had, indeed, sampled the pipes.

Imagine my surprise upon discovering that the Moochers were perhaps the coolest smoking pipes I�ve ever puffed. The draw is excellent. The pipe and the tobacco act as if they have been in love since childhood, and unlike so many of my pipes, the Moochers smoke Cavendish, English, Virginia and my beloved Royal Navy Flake with equal charm, sophistication and enjoyment.

There were many kids in high school, colleagues in college and seminary classmates whose winsome looks, like the Chacom and Savinelli, promised a lot more than they delivered. My best friend Mr. Fuller, on the other hand, has the looks of Bluto, the outward sophistication of a three-seated outhouse, and the winsomeness of fingernails ripping down a chalkboard. He is, indeed, rough around the edges. But inside, he is a man of tender heart and loyalty and--for reasons I will never be able to understand--loves me as his own brother.

HIGH AND LOW MAINTENANCE

As a pastor, part of the job description is dealing with people in varying degrees of need. Here in The Great Northwoods, where the overwhelming majority of folk are of Germanic and Scandinavian ancestry, the picture of rural Minnesotans as depicted by Garrison Keillor�s stories of Lake Woebegone are not far from factual. Folks here really are shy, unassuming, and overly self-reliant. Of all the churches I�ve pastored, this is by far the least maintenance-intensive congregation I�ve ever served. I wouldn�t be stretching things to say that they are satisfied as long as I preach, see them in the hospital, carry �em, marry �em and bury �em. Few, if any, expect monthly or weekly visits or come crying on my shoulder every time their Aunt Agnes threatens to write them out of her will. Not only as parishioners, I�ve been blessed to develop friendships with more than a few of these folks. And I�ve found these relationships to be just as easy-going as the others.

This hasn�t always been the case, either with congregants or with people I deemed as friends. One matriarchal fuddy duddy at my last church was monied, influential and carried more weight than a hillbilly at a hog feed. She expected from moi, her pastor, extra attention, unlimited access, and to bring her dictated mandates into fruition. I was either graced with her presence in my study or summoned to her castle on practically a daily basis, all to instruct me in the ways which would please Her Highness.

In contrast, there was in my same church a gentleman named Victor, a Vietnam vet who had just been released from drug and alcohol rehabilitation shortly before my installation there. Victor was poor, wore combat fatigues, listened incessantly to AC/DC and Aerosmith, and was about as influential in town politics as I am with the N.R.A. However, I treated Victor with the same love and respect as I did Catherine the Great, my nickname for the aforementioned matriarch. I gave him just as much of my time and pastoral care as I did the Queen Bee. This, of course, stoked the ire of Catherine Degrate, and proved to be the impetus for my undoing. She carefully orchestrated an uprising and subsequently had me fired, tarred, feathered, and run out of town on the rails.

I�ve had pipes like Catherine. They have demanded constant cleaning and attention. They have required pampering and being smoked with kid gloves. They have been fragile and fraught with fickleness. The least little abeyance in the ashtray has caused nicks. And I�ve found that, as was the case of Catherine and so many others, they aren�t worth it.

Yes, a good friendship requires some maintenance and certainly a great deal of attentiveness. Yes, a good pipe requires cleaning and care. And, like a pipe, I manage to collect enough gunk in my heart with use. Yes, I periodically even need a good soak with a quality solvent. But pipes, like friends, don�t need to be babied and spoiled rotten. A good pipe, like a cherished friend, will endure an awful lot of crap and absorb an awful lot of negligence. Pipes and friends simply need a little TLC every so often, and you�ll find that a little reaming goes a long way.

THE GIFT OF AGING

As children turn into teenagers and then to young adults and eventually to middle age, they manage to collect a lot of toys and wisdom on their journey. Like pipes, lives need breaking in. Thus by the time one eases into middle age, he or she looks at life with the best of both possible worlds, old enough to have been cut up in wars, young enough to more prudently choose ones battles.

For me, my pipes have been there like an old friend. After I slump home from being blistered by church hotheads, I find that my pipe has awaited my return, and keeps me company whilst speaking not a word. A good friend knows that silence, as well as time, is the great healer.

About ten years ago I picked up a Peterson XL, a closeout special from a pipe shop changing its focus to upscale cigars. Through the years, the Peterson has been my equivalent of a Perry. It has aged marvelously with time, grown in character, dangled close to the precipice of perfection.

I have pipes that are dainty and delicate. I have pipes that are treated with all the respect of yard gravel. I have odd-shaped pipes, exotic pipes, cheap pipes, rare pipes. Yet it is the Peterson that has always been there for the rites of passage, the one who has kept me company in the Himalayas and the blizzards of life. It gave me comfort the night I discovered that my teenaged daughter was pregnant out of wedlock, perhaps the worst night of my life. It was there to celebrate the night that my grandson was born, perhaps the best night of my life. It has been there to help me make decisions, to make sense out of the nonsense of life, there in the moments when I�ve screamed at The Almighty, there grinning along with me as I�ve rejoiced in the company of the Ancient of Days.

I cannot imagine life without my Peterson, nor can I fathom the poverty of my life had I not been blessed with love of a father and the friendship of a dour New Englander named Perry. Inasmuch as I am unworthy of either their friendship or their company, I count each conversation, each puff, each moment in proximity to their presence to be the gift that it truly is. And thus I send forth a billowing cloud of fragrant black cavendish smoke in grateful appreciation.