The Jolly Piper
by gripsholm

Flakes we rub, and plugs we cut, ribbons of every flavor.
Pipes are fun, and pipes we smoke, pipes of every style.
I light me pipe, and draw the smoke, aromas we all savor.
We pipers sing, we pipers dance, a jolly piping smile.

I sit right down, and look around, and see a jolly neighbor
He brings his pipe, he brings a pouch, tobaccos we all favor.
I stand right up, I get a chair, I wouldn’t call it labor.
We sing we dance, we dance we sing, a jolly good behavior

The night is young, the day is old, it’s that time again.
Not quite light, and not quite dark, somewhere in-between
I light me pipe, I hear a sound, it’s a singing wren.
I join that wren, we sing a song, a sight that should be seen.

A Sunday Afternoon.
by gripsholm.

     Today is a beautiful Sunday in February. It’s already reached a temperature of 54 degrees and predicted to reach as high as 60. The sky is blue and the sun is shining. Very unusual for this time of year. Normally temperatures in February will average a high of 35 degrees. Climate change? Can we do anything to stop it? Did we cause it? Who knows? I’ll leave it to those who are much smarter than myself to debate those questions. My opinion is merely a single drop in a large ocean.

     Today is a day of contemplation. As I look over my collection of pipes the calabash catches my eye. A calabash gourd, a meerschaum bowl and a vulcanite stem. People often refer to this type of pipe as a Sherlock Holmes pipe. An excellent pipe for contemplation. A large bowl, so it will allow a lot of time for contemplating. Tobacco? Hmmm. I think I’ll choose Edisto. A nice Virginia Red Flake. Not overly complicated. Not too fussy. A nice simple tobacco for contemplating.

     I rub the flake out into a Leinenkugel beer tray made of tin. On the beer tray is a facial profile of a very beautiful Native American woman. She wears a headband with an attached downward single feather. A tray I often use to rub out my flake tobacco. I allow the tobacco to rest for about two or three minutes. I pack my pipe, put on my shoes and head for the fridge. Two bottles of Leinenkugel beer should do nicely.

     I open my front door and head out on to the porch. A small aqua colored round metal table with two matching chairs await me. On the table sits a large clear multifaceted crystal ashtray. Occasionally little sparkling rainbows of light will dance among the facets. Reminds me of a diamond sparkling in the sunlight. I pull up a chair, sit down and begin to look around. I notice a Robin hopping across the front lawn. He stops while looking downward and turns his head. And then he turns his head the other way. He lifts his head and hops away. He stops and does this again. Only this time he pecks at the ground and pulls out a worm. He gives it a little shake and then flies away with the worm hanging from his beak. I light my pipe, I open a beer, and begin to contemplate. With a little bit of luck, maybe I’ll be able to solve all the world problems this time.

Thank you for sharing your writing. I don't write creatively much anymore, though I used too. I do sketch many nights as a wind-down.  

The forum is getting better and better. Tnks for creating this thrend. 

I think it’s a wonderful idea to have such a thread, for posting anything creative. I will definitely add something at some point. Today has been a tough day, though. And I’m not feeling particularly creative at the moment. I’ll just add a link to Malcolm Guites YouTube channel here, for anyone who hasn’t yet come across it. He’s a priest, professor, poet and pipe smoker. His positivity and charisma often lift my spirits.

https://youtube.com/@MalcolmGuitespell?si=sZkzEwsD6D5wpAg-

I will post 1 more drawing. When I was 20 something, I would go to a state park called Castlewood Canyon- about an hour South of Denver. There I would smoke my corn cob and sketch. One of my favorite places was near the ruins of an old dam that failed and flooded Denver in 1933. There were amazing sunsets, birds and it was a great place for peaceful contemplation. Most of my sketches were nature scenes but a pipe or two snuck in there as well.

A Simple Man.
by gripsholm

From black of night to red sunrise.
A song so sweet from the nightingale.
I stretch my arms and open my eyes.
A little dog happy! A wagging tail.

I jump out of bed to meet the day.
Bacon and eggs fried up in a pan.
Breakfast done I’m on my way.
The busy life, of a simple man.

Out to the porch my pipe I light.
Bayou Morning are words on a tin.
A clear blue sky no clouds in sight.
Steel horse waiting, it’s time to spin.

To work I ride for an honest buck.
My face in the wind on a thundering seat.
I make a left turn and pass by a truck.
In a jungle of concrete, on a busy street.

A dim urban cave is filled with smoke.
Crackling, snapping, a flashing glare.
I chance upon Sammy he’s quick with a joke.
Ozone and oil, that's the smell in the air.

A whirring stone wheel scraping on steel.
Orange shooting-stars bounce off the floor.
A dull aching pain, I’m beginning to feel.
I pause and stretch, my back is still sore.

Out for a break my pipe I light.
Kendal Cream Flake in a leather pouch.
I Put up my feet everything is so right.
The break is over, no time to slouch.

Four hours left in this lousy joint.
Start making plans for a Friday night.
Nose to the grindstone what’s the point?
It’s about the dough! A free man’s plight.

A full day is done so I gather my stuff.
Back on the road I'm homeward bound.
As fast as I go it’s still not enough.
Into the driveway, Nirvana I’ve found.

Out to the porch my pipe I light.
Ten To Midnight in an opened tin.
Stars are shining the moon is bright.
I pour me a drink, of tonic and gin.

The Magic Pipe.

by gripsholm.

Clark Davis is the name. The year is 1949. December 31^st. Right on the cusp of the mid-century. Tomorrow will not only be a new year, but a whole new decade. Sitting here at my desk, I’m wondering what a new decade might bring. Vera, my secretary, already left for the night. Yeah that’s right, Clark Davis the famous New York private eye. Famous! That’s a laugh. Three more hours and everybody will be singing Auld Lang Syne in the Big Apple. Time for me to pack it up and head home before things get too crazy outside.

As I exit out the door, a snowy blustery cold wind hits me hard in the face. A feeble little old man approaches me and asks if I want to buy a pipe. I respond, “A pipe?” He says, “Yes sir. It’s a magic pipe.”  I give him a curious look and say, “A magic pipe? What’s so magic about a pipe?”  He replies, "I can’t tell you. If I did it wouldn’t be magic anymore.”  I tell him, “Alright bud, I’ve got plenty of pipes at home and I surely don’t need a magic one.” He says, “You’ll regret it!” Something paused me for a second. I don’t know what it was. I got the feeling that I just had to have that pipe.

“How much are you asking for the pipe?” I ask. He gives me a little smile with a twinkle in his eye and says, “Give me a ride to 7th avenue, Times Square, and it’s yours.” I’m thinking if he would’ve asked, I would’ve just given him the ride irregardless of the pipe. Oh well, it’s his dance so we’ll just do it his way. He gets in my car and to 7th avenue we go.

I pull up to the curb and he reaches out to hand me the pipe. I tell him, “That’s okay Pop’s, it was my pleasure just giving you a ride.” He exits the car. I watch him in my rearview mirror as he shuffles off down the avenue and disappears into a crowd. I pull away from the curb, turn left, and hear a clunk clunk. I look down at the floor, within the flash of a streetlight, I catch the glimpse of a pipe. The snow is really coming down and with that blustery wind it’s darn near a whiteout. The roads are slippery so I take my time.

I finally arrive at my apartment. I reach down, grab the pipe off the floor and shove it in my coat pocket. I exit my car and make a beeline for the entrance way of a typical New York brownstone. In the door I go and up the stairs where I enter my apartment. I take off my coat and pour a glass of scotch. I get out a tub of Prince Albert and pack my favorite bulldog pipe. I strike a match from a book of matches I got from Flannigan’s last night. I light the pipe. I turn on the radio and they’re all singing Auld Lang Syne. I reach over and pull the newly acquired pipe out of my coat pocket. Being the super-sleuth that I am, I examine the pipe. It’s a rather nice-looking cutty briar. Unsmoked, appears to be bran-spanking new. I flip the pipe over and stamped into the shank are the words “Magic Pipe Ltd.” I guess the old guy was right, it is a Magic Pipe.

 It was still. So still you could hear the bowl of tobacco scream back a crackle when assaulted by the match. Like stepping on a dry branch.

      Damn quiet huh?

      Damn quiet. Cept fer the crick.

    The creek meandered in the dark like an ink spill. It’s measured advance impeded only by a few large rocks that nature strew in its path. The only sound was the whoosh-gurgle as the water bullied its way over and around the rocks.

     Smells good.

     What.

     That pipe.

     You mean whats in it?

     Yeah, I guess I mean whats in it.

     Well, spose you’d be hankerin a pinch.

      Boy that’d be a luxury. Aint had none for a few days. 

      Here.

      Thanks.      

     He produced a small pipe from his coat pocket.

 He performed the usual ritual. Then the match.

       Oooh, sir, I thank you.

        Welcome.

      No one spoke for the better part of 10 to 15 minutes.

        By god, I have to say this is one of the best smokes I’ve ever had.

        Cuz you aint had nothin fer days.

       It reminds me of being home.

         I try not to think about that. But, how’s that anyway?

         When I close my eyes and take a puff, I can taste my moms sweet cream butter she makes. Tastes like that to me.

         Izat so.

         Anyway, good tobacco. 

     Again it was just the sound of the creek and the exhales of pipe smoke for what seemed like hours to the smokers. They both slammed their pipes on the palms of their hands and secured them inside the coats. Each one leaned down and scooped up a heap of filled canteens, slinging them over their shoulders.

      I guess I think about apple pie.

    Huh?

      Mom would set out all her bakin fixins gettin ready to make apple pie. The smell filled the cabin. That’s what the tobacco reminds me of.

       Well, I guess I hope you get home and have some of her pie.

       Yeah, hope so.

    The sound of the canteens clanging echoed in the stillness. He stopped and turned his head and peered into the dark. The man had disappeared in the direction of the enemy camp.

       Hope you all taste that butter again, he whispered. 

     He turned and made his way back to his regiment.

As I sit in my study and pull out pipes and jars, my old violin case falls to the side. The violin, shelves of Connan Doyle and the pipes were my companions for so many years. The violin now sits abandoned as it has for 20 some years. I open the case and caress the wood still sticky with rosin. The strings loose, the bow slack. Memories of when the instrument and a corn cob would travel with me to gigs- where is my tuxedo I would wear while I played at weddings? My mind travels back to when I saw my life as a professional violinist relaxing with my pipe after a performance. A young man's vision of the future. The allure of a musician's existence long ago tamped out by financial practicality. I look back back as I light my pipe. The aroma, warmth and nicotine slowly soothing my body. Now married  with a child and a career, that life is but a dream. But the pipe and Connan Doyle remain. Reminders of a different time. I look at photos of my wife and son and a wall full of professional accomplishments. As the smoke wraps around me I am happy. A good life, a great family and a memory that still makes me smile.

Today I did yard work. Uggghhh. It really wasn’t that bad. I have a kind of mini-woods in my backyard which abuts to a golf course. I spent a few hours cleaning up the brush and picking up dead tree branches. I have a small twelve-inch chainsaw that I use to cut up the dead tree branches into a more usable size. My reward is finding an occasional golf ball because some avid golfer overshot the fairway.

After I gather up all the branches and other brush debris, I pile it up into a large fire pit. A fire pit encircled by flat white Lannon stone that I use for bonfires or campfires or any other purpose a person may have for a fire. I go fetch my favorite lawn chair, an old folding aluminum frame lawn chair with yellow and white nylon webbing and white plastic arm rests. You don’t really see lawn chairs like that very much anymore They use to be really popular in the 60’s 70’s and 80’s.

I light the bonfire and watch it for a while. The smell of the smoke gives me a craving for a latakia blend of pipe tobacco. I run up to the house and grab a small Eskimo pipe and put some Spilman Mixture into a leather tobacco pouch. I get my small red and white Igloo Playmate cooler and put an ice pack in it with a few of cans of beer. Back out to the bonfire, I light my pipe, pop a beer and sit back and relax while I wait for the bonfire to burn out. Not too bad for a Sunday afternoon

  Every evening the old man could be found at the same corner table, out of the light, at the local tavern. No sot, just a lonely codger who enjoyed his pipe with a bourbon and beer before retiring each night. The smoke comforted him, and, since his friends and family had all passed on, he could, at least, watch others laughing and socializing. This particular night a stranger entered the tavern, proceeded to the bar and requested of the bartender…

     I would like a glass of 1929 vintage Rothchild  burgundy.

     The bartender, worn down after decades of serving the public, disappeared into the back room and came back with small glass of wine. He didn’t bother to check the type or vintage, assuming the gentlemen wouldn’t know the difference.

     The gentleman took a sip of the wine, spit it out and proclaimed—

     That’s 1984 Argentinian Merlot. I asked for 1929 vintage Rothchild burgundy!

     The incident caught the old mans attention and he watched.

     Meanwhile the bartender again exited to the back room and pulled a dusty bottle off the rack, poured anther small glass and returned to the gentlemen. He took a sip and, now getting agitated, again spit it out and remarked tight lipped—

     That’s 1942 Bordeaux. Please, 1929 vintage Rothchild burgundy!

     Now he really had the old mans interest. He relit his bowl letting the smoke swirl around his nose and prepared for the next episode.

     After a thorough search of the cellar, the bartender found the gentleman’s wish. He poured a small glass, offered it to the gentleman and folded his arms awaiting his reaction.

     The gentleman took a sip and with delight sighed—

     That’s perfect. Thank you.

     The gentleman, noticing someone now standing next to him, turned to see the old codger smiling up and offering him a drink of his beer. The gentleman refused and asked not to be bothered.

     Please. Do an old man a favor. Have a sip and tell me what you think.

     Fine then, I’ll taste it.

     The gentleman took a sip, his face twisted as he exclaimed—

     That tastes like piss!

     Smiling, the old man asked—-How old am I?

Allow me to set the stage. The time harkens back to a simpler time. No social media, no internet. A time when smoking was permissible in public places such as a bar or a restaurant. A time when “tight” was slang for someone too drunk. When Playboy Magazine promoted a lifestyle of pipe smoking, cocktails, and lots of lovely women. Big cars had big fins and big engines. Ladies wore dresses and men wore suits. We begin with a young man sitting at a bar.

The Pick Up.
by gripsholm.

Life is rough.
But so am I.
Living on the cuff.
And drinking rye.

My pipe I light.
A lady to impress.
The time is right.
God, I love that dress!

The aroma is sweet.
It’s Paladin I think.
Our eyes finally meet.
I offer a drink.

She says “Why not?”
“Your pipe smells great!”
The moment feels hot.
The time is late.

A shout for last call!
A rhyme in the night.
It’s the end of the ball.
And I’m not even tight.

I reach out my hand.
Her smile is coy.
We both understand.
It’s girl and boy.

On Tobacco Road.
by gripsholm

When did it all begin? Do you remember where your passion for the briar first originated? For me it was probably a long long time ago. Somewhere deep in the receses of my mind. I can remember when I was a young boy of about five years old. My father would buy my brother and I little corncob pipes from a local grocery store. We would run around the house during Saturday morning cartoons, pretending we were Popeye the sailorman. We'd be singing that little ditty and laughing.  "I'm strong to the finish, 'cause I eats me spinach, I'm Popeye the sailorman! Toot toot!"

Maybe it was those little plastic bubble pipes we use to get. We filled them with liquid bubble soap. My brother and I would compete, we'd see who could blow the most bubbles for the longest perod of time. My memory also recalls a line from that famous Christmas poem; T'was The Night Before Christmas. Our mother would read it to us every Christmas eve just before bed. "A stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth, and the smoke it encirculed his head like a wreath." And of course, let us not forget good ol' Frosty The Snowman. "With a corncob pipe and a button nose and two eyes made out of coal."

I vividly remember an old television show on a black and white TV. Fred MacMurray would be sitting in an easy chair smoking his billiard and reading the newspaper, only to be interrupted because of some trivial family crisis. Movie actors like Edgar G Robinson, portraying some witty lawyer and making wise cracks while tightly clenching his pipe between his teeth. Mickey Rooney portraying Huck Finn while smoking a corncob in some 1939 movie. Bing Crosby crooning White Christmas, and then afterwards lighting his billiard in a heartwarming Christmas musical. That steely eyed cowboy, Lee Van Cleef, sitting tall in a saddle while smoking a fancy bent meerschaum pipe. Just mentioning the name, Sherlock Holmes, conjures up images of a deerstalker hat, calabash pipe and a magnifying glass. Albert Einstein harkening memories of a gentle old professor quietly smoking his billiard. Douglas MacArthur smoking the largest corncob I believe I've ever seen. "Old soldiers never die, they just fade away."

Maybe it was those summer family vacations up in the north woods. Sitting in a little rowboat in the middle of a small unnamed lake. The secret fishing spot that was deep in the woods and only the locals knew about. Catching large pan fish as quickly as a man can take off his hat. All the while enjoying the enticing aroma of my uncle's briar pipe.

Later on that day, well after the sun had set, family members, friends and neighbors all gathered around a large campfire. Each doing tobacco in their own way, a cigarette, a pipe, a cigar, a pinch of snus or sometimes even a pinch of snuff. Conversations would ensue, some debating might take place, an occasional song while an accordian played, and us younger folk roasting marshmallows with our unsmoked corncobs near by. By the end of the night, the campfire out, debating done, songs all sung, we shuffled off to bed with a smile on our face while anticipating the plans that tomorrow would bring.

Some time later, while I was a youth of sixteen or seventeen, I began smoking cigarettes. I wanted to be a man. How cool I looked! A story so often told. As time went on I noticed my fingernails had yellowed from the cigarette smoke. Not a very attractive look for a young man in his early twenties. That's when I switched to the briar. I’m the grandson of  immigrants. People from the Old World living in the New World. It’s been said Christopher Columbus sailed west to find the land of silk and spice in the east, but he found the land of tobacco instead. Here I sit today, smoking my pipe and typing my story.

Sci-Fi or Sci-Real?
by griphsholm.

As pipe smokers we often contemplate life, how it all began, where it’s all going, and sometimes we consider the reality of it all. Einstein, being a fellow pipe smoker, introduced his Theory of Relativity to the world. He probably developed a lot of his theory while smoking his pipe. Einstein’s Theory of Relativity is a subject often referred to as an example of how incomprehensible reality is.

Einstein’s world. Einstein stated that the speed of light is constant per the Michelson–Morley experiment. A seemingly benign statement. The speed of a car can be constant right? Constantly going 50 mph? Wrong! A traveling car is relative speed. Not constant. Not absolute. The car’s speed is relative to the observer.

The best way to explain what is meant by constant speed is to present an example of relative speed, and then an example of constant speed.

Our first example. An example of relative speed. Say a car is traveling at a speed of 100 mph. If you're in another car traveling at a speed of 10 mph, the first car would be going 90 mph faster than you. If you accelerate your car to 20 mph, the other car would be going 80 mph faster than you. If you accelerate to 40 mph, the other car would be going 60 mph faster than you. Relative speed. Pretty straightforward right?

Now for an example of what constant speed looks like. The speed of light is exactly 186,282 miles per second. If you’re traveling at a speed of 10 miles per second, the beam of light would be going exactly 186,282 miles per second faster than you. If you accelerate to 100 miles per second, the beam of light would still be going exactly 186,282 miles per second faster than you. If you accelerate to a speed of 500,000 miles per second faster than the planet Earth, the beam of light would be going exactly 186,282 miles per second faster than both you and the planet Earth at the same time. The speed of light is not relative to anything. The speed of light is constant and absolute to everything. It makes sense that Einstein would say nothing could go faster than the speed of light. If you can’t catch it, how could you ever pass it?  Reality?

Here we sit. Anonymous, pseudonyms, avatars, reading, reacting, typing, sending responses, receiving responses. Thoughts of a collective consciousness. Tiny little pulses of electrons. Electrons that get modulated into microwave frequencies. Digital becomes analog and prepares for a journey. Going all around the world. Over and over again. Electromagnetic waves traveling at the speed of light to some unknown destination. To a server, to a database, to another database, and yet another. Still traveling. To your computer monitor, to your eyes, and back into your consciousness. A perceived world. An existence. No sounds. No voices. No smiles. No frowns. No wink of an eye. No shrugging shoulders. No pats on the back. No handshakes. No hugs. Seemingly nothing that indicates the physical presence of a person, or any other living thing for that matter. But still evoking all the human emotions. Emotions such as happiness, sadness, fear, pride, anger, anxiety, indifference, elation, wants and desires. Evoking all the emotions along with all the reactions and counter-reactions that make us human.

Now what if I told you Gripsholm is a piece of software sitting on a server somewhere? Little bits of data. Ones and zeros. Five volts and ground. Transmitting information accumulated from all the databases on all the servers in all the world. Little bits of data being manipulated by an algorithm, a matrix of algorithms, a neural network. Gathered and organized into something intelligible and coherent. Transmitting that information to evoke human emotions and reactions. That same piece of software, Gripsholm, receives information. Receiving for the sole purpose of analyzing word patterns and then linking those patterns to human emotions, reactions and counter-reactions. Storing and cataloging that information for a later purpose. Reality?

Here I sit, smoking my pipe and typing my story…  Or am I? Do you really know? Really?

I got a D in physics. But I am relatively content to smoke my pipe and read your musings🙂