Published 7 April 2008 in the Globe and Mail (Canada)

"The best thing about a pipe is that it slows things down.
Light up a bowl, look out the window, think and feel"


For my 31st birthday I was given a pipe. A pipe and a pouch of Black Cavendish tobacco, "blended," the label said, "for the connoisseur."

Well, I was by no means a connoisseur, but after opening the air-sealed pouch, I had to take Amphora for its word. The contents had the most heavenly smell, and, indeed, heavenward was where I would soon send them.

As for the pipe, it was less ornate than the one smoked for a spell by my father, and much shorter and less cumbersome than the one once enjoyed by my grandfather. It fit snugly between thumb and pointer and was made of hard, marbled wood from the root of a briar tree.

It took me nearly a week to get the hang of smoking it. At first, I stuffed it too little and then I stuffed it too tight. Bits of flaming tobacco shot to the back of my throat, and once or twice I gagged on a thin residue of brown juice.

By far the worst incident with my new pipe came in the process of learning to light it. Stem wedged in the right corner of my mouth, I kept at the bowl with a Zippo. The flame seared the side of my face, but I was determined. Determined to get a steady burn going before the night was through.

Fortunately, I had consumed a good bit of wine, which eventually impelled me toward the bathroom. There, upon turning on the light, I discovered I had nearly given myself a skinned-rabbit makeover. My right eyebrow and eyelash were half gone.

I became more cautious after that. A few days later I had it down to an art.

And what a joy it was! I was like a child with a new toy. I coaxed forth the sweet smoke along my tongue with slight puffs of my cheeks. I sent encoded messages upward. I tended to my little flame with patience and love, for I have always loved fires and now I had one burning at the tip of my nose.

Soon I stopped buying cigarettes altogether. The pipe was better in all respects but one: convenience. But to the devil with convenience, efficiency, time management and all that. The best thing about a pipe is that it slows things down. I could light up a bowl, look out my window, think and feel.

One sunny afternoon, I decided to revisit the park where I had spent many hours last summer. I gathered up a folding chair, a book, my pipe and a few hefty pinches of whisky-flavoured tobacco (I was now well on my way to becoming a connoisseur).

I crossed the street, passed the church and to my delight found my spot - the spot touched by the warmest rays of the sun - vacant. I set down my chair, stripped off my shoes, socks and shirt, lit up a bowl and took a good look around.

Last summer, I had taken note of the fact that my East Van compatriots whiled away their days guzzling sherry by the gallon. Now, upon closer examination, I realized that their preference was, in fact, Red Dry, a cheap wine.

I noticed many other things that I hadn't last summer. For instance, the tree behind me, one that had shaded me for days on end, must have been more than 100 years old. The boughs were thick and heavy and moving ever closer to the ground. And there were ants, plenty of ants, scurrying through the grass.

These are but a few things one might notice while smoking a pipe. Significant? Who knows?

I finished the bowl and began to read Hamsun's Mysteries. Hamsun, I thought to myself. Hamsun had entered my life not a year ago and had managed to unseat the reigning heavyweight champ of my literary world. Hemingway had ruled the roost for more than a decade when along came Hamsun and knocked him flat on his ass. It couldn't be helped - Knut Hamsun was that good.

I thought it rather sad that he had not managed to infuse the world with his poetry to a greater extent, and that those who came after him, who had learned from him - Hesse, Miller, Fante, Bukowski - had ultimately failed too in this respect. Still, they left something behind, something to throw against the wheels of efficiency and convenience. I read and I brooded. I read and I smoked.

Suddenly, and from nowhere, a woman appeared. She walked in front of me. She continued to walk with my eyes following behind. Why did my eyes follow? Well, for one, she had legs that reached to the sky, topped by a skirt that glided over them like a cloud. But there was also something in the way that she walked - carefree, with a stride that suggested she had an eternity to get to where she was going.

Eventually, I returned to Hamsun. It was only later that day that I noticed she was still there. And what was she doing? She was swinging on a playground swing! And not just swinging, but swinging with the tips of her toes touching the sun. Didn't this little girl know? Didn't she know she was all grown up?

I took a draw from my pipe and had to laugh.

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Peter Valing lives in

East Vancouver.