Why I Smoke a Pipe

Tolkien enjoying a bowl.

When one is as young as I am, sporting a pipe around the great state of Missouri no doubt gets me odd looks from strangers passing by. Which is fine. I understand that as a culture, tobacco consumption in our social consciousness defaults to a knowledge of cigarettes. It would seem as if resurrecting “an old man’s habit”  is something that gives an air of false pretentiousness.

Be that as it may, ladies and gentlemen, I do not smoke a pipe to look cool. Rather, I do so for mostly one reason: to continue a tradition. You see, we pipe smokers as a whole tend to pursue Truth and Beauty by way of being well-read, creating art (however feeble an attempt), and sending up our prayers up to heaven in a fog of sweet incense.

Consider this great cloud of pipe smoking witnesses: G.K Chesterton, J.R.R. Tolkien, Mark Twain,  and C.S. Lewis. These men inspire me to greatness. That is, I want to follow in their footsteps so as to live life to the fullest like they did as God-fearing (with the exception of Twain), scholarly, and literary men. I may not write anything as thought provoking as Orthodoxy or The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn , as epic as The Lord of the Rings or Narnia, but I’ll sure try my darndest.

It seems to me that we need more Romance in the world. More fear of the Love that moves the sun and the other stars. More disposition to have a knowledgeable discussion but then laugh at ourselves for supposing so much intellectual clout on our part. We need mirth. We need ritual. We need, brothers and sisters, to put our differences aside and smoke good leaf.

Lewis puffing away.

It’s not hard, really. Pipe tobacco is cheap. A Missouri Meerschaum to start out on even cheaper. Which is why, out of all smoking methods, the pipe is the most economical. Forget wasting an hour’s pay on Camels or Swisher Sweets that will last a day or so, get a few ounces of pipeweed to last a month! Be thrifty with your nicotine.

Connecting with my ancestors in this way is just in my blood. My great-great-grandmother had a cob carved for her by her husband as a wedding present. That pipe, against all odds, lasted a good half a century with much pampering. She smoked Prince Albert till the day she died. What a heritage I have to live up to! (Though I’ve already burned out my first pipe, unfortunately.)

Pipe and Clemens in repose.

Yes, pipe smoking can be elegant. Yes, it can be associated with snooty people in tweed. But it’s a hobby meant for friends to share no matter what walk of life you come from. Just puffing, no inhaling. A lingering smack of campfire on your lips, easing into an hour of reflection of the Divine.

Gandalf savoring Old Toby.

There’s just a certain magic in smoking that cannot be found anywhere else. I’ve met some wonderful people since I’ve started. You’ll encounter Gandalf, his hobbit friends, and delight in many of God’s creatures in this journey. I’ve taught others this careful art. It ought to continue, methinks, until the Second Coming. For when that happens, we’ll just happily put down our silly instruments and be enraptured in the Joy of Him who we’ve been thanking all along.

That’s why I smoke a pipe.

Chesterton, tobacco saint if there was one, smiling widely.