Monday, March 01, 2021

THERE WAS SOMETHING THERE

It was probably inevitable that smoking one of my dad's old pipes would bring back memories. Him. Valkenswaard and Eindhoven. Berkeley. Southern California. My grandmother. And Mr. McClanahan. Watercolours, and a piano. Bittersweet. It's colder outside after dark than during the day. And I thought I was smoking a Comoy sandblast until I came back inside and saw the Comoy on the tea tray, untouched. What I had been smoking was a Parker that my grandmother gave to my Dad after the war.
The Comoy is very similar. The tobacco blend was something that hadn't even been invented yet when he came back from overseas -- Esoterica's Tilbury -- but he would quite likely not have disapproved. It isn't one of those ghastly aromatics, but an extra mature Virginia mixture. Quite suitable for teatime puffing. Having just finished a cup of tea, I went outside to smoke, as my apartment mate had come home.

There was a day and age when one would light up a pipe during one's tea, not afterwards. But those days belong to a hoary past. And I am very glad that my apartment mate doesn't smoke. Because in all honesty I am not fond of the odour of cigarettes.

No, I don't think that she would smoke a pipe. Too fussy, and old-man-peculiar. While I think she'd look right at home with a jaunty pipe in her mouth, with fags she'd probably go for Lucky Strike non-filters. They're an honest unpretentious ciggy.
But she's never smoked, and hates tobacco.
She tolerates my being a smoker.
As long as I'm outside.


My father looked quite dashing with that pipe. Suave. The bright young man back from the war. Even in later years he had that engaging adventurer look about him.
And the wiryness of an active man.

I look somewhat like him. Not enough.



And I strongly doubt that I could have flown over Germany for three and half years with a full load of bombs. An admirable man.



TOBACCO INDEX


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