Pipe Smoking Memories . . .

[ncrobb]

My grandfather was a widower and so my dad had a half brother who was a bit older than he was. His name was Horace and contrary to my grandpaw and my dad he was grumpy and always seemed half mad about something. But we swapped work as his farm was just a bit up the road from ours. Neither my dad or my grandpaw smoked. But Horace, he chewed and smoked. First he’d cut a chunk off a plug with his pocketknife that had been sharpened so many times the blade was about a third its original size. Then he’d proceed to chew it until it no longer gave the effect he was looking for. The wad came out of his mouth and went into his shirt pocket. At the end of the day this clump went on the mantle above the fireplace were a number of older clumps of chewed plug tobacco waited thier final fate. Also on the mantle was a pipe. I don’t remember much about it other than it was straight. Horace would choose one of the dried clumps, pop it into the pipe and light it up. I can’t say that I picked up pipe smoking from him. But thinking back I have good memories of working on the farm and visiting Horace. Funny thing about him and his wife was that he didn’t know she dipped snuff until after they were married and it always was a sore spot. Maybe that’s why he chewed and smoked? Or maybe it was something he learned from grandpaw, to not throw anything away that could be used? I guess I did get a bit frugal from him. But I ain’t smoking any tobacco that’s been chewed.

[Wildcat]

But I ain’t smoking any tobacco that’s been chewed.

I'm loving these stories. The older I get, the more I think about and long for the past. I often feel as if I was born out of time, like I fell out of the cosmic deck of cards and shuffled back into the wrong order. My wife feels the same way. I'd hazard a guess and say I bet many of us here feel that way.
As for chewing, then smoking like Horace did, I had the habit of smoking a cigar and, if it was particularly good, I'd put the butt 'tween cheek and gum and give it a chew. A reverse Horace if you will.

[Ruffinogold]

There were always pipe smokers around when I was a kid. My Pa didn't smoke, but Papa Jim did. He was my Nana's sister's husband. They lived next door and it was like having a third set of grandparents. Papa Jim was never without a pipe. I mostly remember Half&Half and Captain Black. He got my dad to pipe smoking, but he was mainly an unfiltered Camel man. I don't remember jars or canisters of tobacco, just pouches, but he may have had one or two. He had a pipe rack next to his chair on a table by the front window. As these house pipes and visiting pipes aged out they became work pipes and lived in jars or coffee cans in the basement or the shed. Eventually they became electrical tape Franken-pipes. In his late seventies he got a spot on his lip where he clenched his pipe. They removed it and the doctor's only advise was to clench on the other side of his mouth. He smoked a pipe until he left us in his eighties. They don't make men like him and my Pa anymore. They each ran a truck farm and worked full time jobs, plus side gigs. My Pa was also a Town Justice and managed to breed and train Brittany Spaniels and Coon Dogs. Papa Jim was also a handyman and tinkerer.

Awesome

Its always refreshing to hear stories about normal people

[Wildcat]

Its always refreshing to hear stories about normal people

[Ruffinogold]

Its always refreshing to hear stories about normal people

No , youre not normal but your papa jim was

[Wildcat]

Its always refreshing to hear stories about normal people

No , youre not normal but your papa jim was

[Tsal]

Great thread, thanks for sharing! Both of my grandfather's smoked a pipe and my dad did too... nothing really stood out other than the fact that it always smelt like pipe tobacco in our house. I never really paid attention to details at that age.. That's all I have.

[ric03]

I used to love arriving at a campsite and first pitching my tent in summer. Once it was all set up, I'd first give my dog a good walk, so he'd chill out, then get back, stick the kettle on my camping stove and eat my lunch (usually some sandwiches and a sausage roll I'd brought up with me). I'd make a big flask of tea and sit there gently thinking about the holiday ahead whilst drinking strong tea and sipping at a nice big bowl of some nice strong toby. I'd usually just chill out that first day, smoking and drinking tea, inhaling the clean, beautiful air around me, bathing in nature, reading (I usually bought a new book or two to read there) until the sun went down. It was so peaceful and lovely. I remember looking forward to my pipe the entire drive up there and when I did finally sink into it, it was a heavenly experience.

I never drank alcohol when I went camping, I didn't need to... I only went one time as a vaper and ended up drinking myself to relaxation every single night up there to try and recreate the deep sense of relaxation I'd felt smoking a pipe.

[rlucas]

I guess my fondest memory is my Dad smoking his pipe. Most often it would be me and him on Sunday morning. Dad wasn't a church going man but was a God fearing man. But I digress.
Most folks from the neighborhood and surrounding area would bring him their broken lawn mowers. So Sunday mornings were spent fixing lawn mowers. Him with his pipe clenched between his teeth telling me and showing me how to fix a small engine. He only ever charged for parts and only if we couldn't salvage one off an old engine.
The pipe he smoked was probably one I bought him for Christmas at the "five and dime store."

[MikeDennison]

My grandads both smoked pipes, but I never saw'em do it. One of'em passed before I was born, and I wasn't around much to be with the other one. (My dad was a military man, so we were always far away.)

But I do remember that while a small boy, the old granny we rented from and who looked after me while mom worked had a grown son who smoked a pipe. He'd come home from work, sit in the rocking chair on the porch in his blue Dickies shirt & pants, and puff away. He worked for John Deere, I think. Once in a while he'd bring one of those die cast toy tractors over to our place and give it to my mom to give to me. Anyway, I loved to be out on the porch when he smoked his pipe...it just smelled so good. I have no idea what he smoked, of course. But he always seemed so restful and content while puffing away.

When I took up the pipe in my middle years, I didn't know how my Old Folks would react. They'd both been strongly anti-smoking all during my upbringing, so I thought they'd be a bit uptight about it. Surprisingly, my dear ol' pop just smiled and told me that one of his favorite memories of his father was of him sitting on the porch in a summer evening, smoking what pop called a "Santa Claus pipe." My ol' mother had a similar reaction; she treasured the memory of her dad sitting on the porch of the farmhouse, smoking a corncob pipe after a long day of working around the farm.

Those are the only pipe stories I have.