"Wild and wacky things happen when Mr. Pudgins comes to sit for John, Pete, and Jane. Strangely enough, they only happen when Mr. Pudgins smokes his pipe."
Sent to me by my friend Brer, who also says "at the end of the book he blows smoke bubble Christmas ornaments that commemorate their adventures!"
I think this was published in 1951.
If you live in the middle of nowhere and don't get around much (like I do/don't), you might not know that there is a national pipe museum in Amsterdam. Yes, that Amsterdam. The Edinburgh Pipe Club clues us in.
Peter also covers cleaning an estate pipe, something which is near and dear to my own heart, as you probably know if you've read this blog long enough.
Click, and go read!
This post is for the Pipe Smoking Bloggers event #1.
It had been a slow day and a slower night. I locked up the office and in the chill of the sunset walked down the block to a low-slung bar, the kind where you have to duck your head to go through the door. The kind where drinking is mandatory and smoking is recommended. The kind that has every song the Texas Tornados ever recorded in their jukebox. That kind of bar.
I chose a stool near the back where a couple of old guys were playing backgammon and talking in Spanish. I tried eavesdropping, and understood just enough to know they weren't talking about much of anything in particular. So I gave up and stopped sipping a lukewarm whiskey long enough to pack my pipe. Like I said, it was a slow night, so I took my time, sizing it up, tapping the bowl to settle the leaves, anything to kill some time. I finally decided it was worth putting a match to, and after the smoke settled around me I realized I had company.
I had seen her around a few times, and seen her kind a million times. She had an off-black coat slung over a dress that once might have been red, and once had probably fit better. She had eyes as blue and faded as pipe smoke and hair of pale auburn, the color of a well-stained and well-worn briar.
"I like a man with a pipe," she said.
I don't know what brought her to my corner of the bar that night. Maybe it was the smell of my pipe. I puffed a wreath of smoke that smelled like some kind of antediluvian fruit fermenting on the bottom of a Louisiana bayou on a hot August night. Just the way I liked it.
"You should see my Kaywoodie," I said back.
"Oh," she touched the rim of my glass with a finger, "Is that what they're calling it these days?"
"So what brings you out on a night like this?" I asked. It was cold out there, cold enough to make the dogs sleep with the cows.
"Oh...you know." She touched my pipe with a fingertip and pulled back quick, but not too quick. "It's hot," she said.
Yeah, I knew what she was selling, but I wasn't buying. I offered to buy her a drink. Whatever you're having, she said.
So I bought her a straight bourbon in an old-fashioned, and she sipped it long and slow, making it last. We talked about the weather, we talked about whiskey, we talked about the latest war. We talked about nothing.
"So what's your name, anyway?" she finally said.
"Most folks just call me Falcon."
"Oh? Are you a hunter, Falcon?"
"Sometimes." I grinned. "But not tonight."
She finished her whiskey, polishing off the last drop without even tilting her head back. Just like a real lady. Or just like someone who had a lot of practice with finishing off glasses of whiskey.
"See you around, Falcon." She sidled across the room. I glanced at her once as she walked away, then shook my head. I was saving myself for a one-night-stand that wouldn't cost me anything in the morning.
She sat down in a booth with some other guy, another pipe smoker. I had never seen him before but I wasn't in the mood to pay attention anyway. A few minutes later they left. I saw the soft silvery glint of aluminum in front of his face as he ducked his head to go out the door. It was the last time I saw her alive.* * * * *
McCloskey was an okay guy, for a cop. Now and then he'd steer a case my way. Now and then I'd get some information for him, the kind of information that's hard for cops to get, but not quite so hard for a P.I. who wasn't too particular about the rules. So when he called me before sunrise the next morning I listened instead of just hanging up.
"Meet me at the county morgue," he said, without much of an explanation.
"What's in it for me?" I wanted to know.
"Jail time, maybe," he answered shortly. "Or maybe just something to keep you from getting too bored."
Jail time, okay. I figured the morgue was as good a place as any to fight a hangover, so I said I'd be right there.
McCloskey didn't say much at the morgue. He never said much anywhere. He pulled open the drawer and flipped back the sheet. "You seen her before?"
There she was, more relaxed in death but yeah, I knew her. In the harsh florescent light of the morgue, and in spite of the bruises around her throat, I realized that once, a long time ago, she had probably been a real knock-out. And longer ago than that, she may have even been pretty.
"Yeah, I've seen her."
"We got a witness says you were with her at Cantina del Alamos last night."
"Yeah, we chatted," I answered. "Bought her a drink. So?"
"Just following the trail," he said. "Last person to see her alive, and all that."
I knew the routine. I also knew that I wasn't the last one to see her alive, and told him so.
"Can you describe him?"
"Sure. Average height. Average build. Wore a coat and hat."
"Gotcha. A real stand-out. Nothing else?"
"Only one thing," I added. "He smoked a Falcon--it's a pipe with an aluminum stem and a briar bowl."
He let me go then, with the standard warnings not to leave town and so forth. Right. Like I had anywhere else to go.
On my way back to the office I stopped at the tobacconist and spent my lunch money on a tin of Escudo. I needed cheering up.
I would like to announce that this blog now has 50 followers!
Thanks, everyone!
Stanley Baldwin, 1st Earl Baldwin of Bewdley (1867-1947)To me, England is the country, and the country is England. And when I ask myself what I mean by England when I am abroad, England comes to me through my various senses — through the ear, through the eye and through certain imperishable scents ... The sounds of England, the tinkle of the hammer on the anvil in the country smithy, the corncrake on a dewy morning, the sound of the scythe against the whetstone, and the sight of a plough team coming over the brow of a hill, the sight that has been seen in England since England was a land ... the one eternal sight of England.Stanley Baldwin was born in Worcestershire, England and was first cousin of Rudyard Kipling. He served as Member of Parliament, Chancellor of the Exchequer, Leader of the Opposition, and finally as Prime Minister (1935-37).
A very small reproduction that I captured from eBay at some time in the past. Captions read (to the best of my ability):
However, it is the pipe rather than the tobacco which marks him as belonging to this particular school. He pins his faith, not so much to its labor saving devices as to the white spot outside, the white spot of an otherwise aimless life. This tells the world that it is one of the pipes. Never was an announcement more superfluous.
...Whereas men of an older school, like myself, smoke for the pleasure of smoking, men of this school smoke for the pleasure of pipe-owning--of selecting which of their many white-spotted pipes they will fill with their specially blended tobacco, of filling the one so chosen, of lighting it, of taking it from the mouth to gaze lovingly at the white spot and thus letting it go out, of lighting it again and letting it go out again, of polishing it up with their own special polisher and putting it to bed, and then the pleasure of beginning all over again with another white-spotted one. They are not so much pipe smokers as pipe keepers; and to have spoken as I did just now of their owning pipes was wrong, for it is they who are in bondage to the white spot.
...You may be excused for feeling after the first pipe that the joys of smoking have been rated too high, and for trying to extract your pleasure from the polish on the pipe's surface, the pride of possessing a special mixture of your own, and such-like matters, rather than from the actual inspiration and expiration of smoke. In the same way a man not fond of reading may find delight in a library of well-bound books. They are pleasant to handle, pleasant to talk about, pleasant to show to friends.But it is the man without the library of well-bound books who generally does most of the reading.
So I feel that it is we of the older school that do most of the smoking. We smoke unconsciously while we are doing other things; they try, but not very successfully, to do other things while they are consciously smoking. No doubt they despise us, and tell themselves that we are not real smokers, but I fancy they feel a little uneasy sometimes. For my young friends are always trying to persuade me to join their school, to become one of the white-spotted ones.
I thought I'd get back to having a little more activity on the old blog and start posting vintage ads and some featured pipe smokers again, so here's the oldest I currently have in my "found somewhere on the internet" collection.[Albert Lewis, C. S. Lewis' father] was a master of the anecdote, a fund of improbable stories, many of which for him epitomized the tragicomedy of what it meant to be Irish. One of the more bizarre 'wheezes' (as he habitually termed these stories and observations) concerned an occasion when he was travelling in an old-fashioned train of the kind which had no corridor, so that the passengers were imprisoned in their compartments for as long as the train was moving. He was not alone in the compartment. He found himself opposite one other character, a respectable-looking farmer in a tweed suit whose agitated manner was to be explained by the demands of nature. When the train had rattled on for a further few miles, and showed no signs of stopping at a station where a lavatory might be available, the gentleman pulled down his trousers, squatted on the floor of the railway carriage and defecated. When this operation was complete, and the gentleman, fully clothed, was once more seated opposite Albert Lewis, the smell in the compartment was so powerful as to be almost nauseating. To vary, if not to drown the odour, Albert Lewis got a pipe from his pocket and began to light it. But at that point the stranger opposite, who had not spoken one word the entire journey, leaned forward and censoriously tapped a sign on the window which read NO SMOKING. For C. S. Lewis, this 'wheeze' of his father's always enshrined in some insane way a truth about Northern Ireland and what it was like to live there.
Saarinen, an exceptionally slow talker, was being interviewed for a television program. The allotted time was rapidly running out, and the anxious interviewer ventured to ask Saarinen if he could speak just a little faster. "No, sir," replied the architect, casually lighting up his pipe. "But," he continued, more slowly than ever, "I could say less."
This corncob pipe is on display at the National Museum of the Pacific War in Fredericksburg, Texas. According to the museum's display notes, this pipe actually belonged to Douglas MacArthur.During the French and Indian War Putnam was challenged to a duel by a British major whom he had insulted. Realizing that he would stand little chance in a duel with pistols, Putnam invited the major to his tent and suggested an alternative trial of honor. The two men were sitting on small powder kegs, into each of which Putnam had inserted a slow-burning fuse. The first to squirm or move from his seat would be the loser. As the fuses burned, the major showed increasing signs of anxiety, while Putnam continued to smoke his pipe with a casual air. Seeing the spectators gradually disappear from the tent to escape the impending explosion, the major finally leaped from his keg, acknowledging Putnam as the victor. Only then did Putnam reveal that the kegs contained onions, not gunpowder.
Count Haeseler was sitting in a railway waiting room, enjoying a cigar. The room's other occupant, a young lieutenant, was not quite so comfortable. "You shouldn't be smoking that cabbage-leaf of yours in good company," he said, offering Haeseler one of his own cigars. The count accepted it, slipped it into his pocket, and continued to smoke his own. "Sir, why are you not smoking my cigar?" demanded the lieutenant angrily. "I think I'll wait, as you suggest, until I'm in good company," Haeseler replied.
After having amused himself one afternoon calculating the laws of ascent of balloons--on his slate, as usual--Euler dined with Lexell (a mathematical colleague) and his family. "Herschel's Planet" (Uranus) was a recent discovery. Euler outlined the calculation of its orbit. A little later he asked that his grandson be brought in. While playing with the child and drinking tea he suffered a stroke. The pipe dropped from his hand, and with the words, "I die," Euler ceased to live and calculate.
The problem with the world today is that almost everyone who reads this is immediately going to think of making a dirty joke about it--that's how cynical we are, and it's our loss.
Another Santa from 1919. This time Santa has spent a little too much time taking a pipe break and is about to get caught!
Another Santa with a somewhat sly and off-putting grin. Possibly the same artist as the creepy Santa from several days ago? From 1919.
I've seen this one before, and skipped over it because this is one creepy-looking Santa. But now I'm sharing it with you. From 1910.
I am trying not to post any duplicates of images already posted. This one looks awfully familiar, but in looking through my old posts I don't think it's a duplicate. Santa with a porcelain-bowl pipe from 1910.
In keeping with a previous custom of posting vintage pictures of Santa Claus smoking a pipe, here is the first one of this year for your enjoyment.
Heh.
click to enlargeAmong the sages who Emerson sought out on his visit to Europe was the notoriously reticent and difficult Thomas Carlyle. He called on Carlyle one evening and was given a pipe, while the host took one himself. They sat together smoking in perfect silence until bedtime, and on parting shook hands most cordially, congratulating each other on the fruitful time they had enjoyed together.
click to enlarge
Kūkaku Shiba is a character from the anime series Bleach. She is a former Soul Reaper who has gone renegade from the ranks of the Soul Reapers and lives with her brother Ganju in an outlying district of the Soul Society (the place where departed souls go after death). She is a very powerful spirit being with an expertise in fireworks and when left alone enjoys smoking her pipe, which is of the old Japanese kiseru design. She always appears with what seems to bandages around her head, right shoulder and ankles, and if you look closely you can see that her right arm is prosthetic.
She has a very elegant way of holding her pipe which keeps her fingers away from what is most likely a very hot bowl.
Her brother Ganju had previously encountered Ichigo Kurosaki (the main protagonist of the series). Kūkaku's and Ganju's brother, who had also been a Soul Reaper, had been killed by another Soul Reaper, which was one thing that led to Kūkaku's departure from the Soul Reaper ranks. As a result of her brother's death, both she and Ganju have great animosity for other Soul Reapers, of which Ichigo is one. He and Ganju begin fighting, which she tolerates as she placidly smokes her pipe.
Until one of them knocks it from her fingers during the fight.
At this, she becomes somewhat agitated.
Soon after, in their ongoing struggle, Ichigo steps on...
...and shatters her pipe.
At which point she becomes quite perturbed.
And things tend to...
...escalate...
...from there.
A simple ad from the World War 2 era featuring a picture of a Kaywoodie lovat, which they probably just called a Canadian. To my knowledge, Kaywoodie never bothered to differentiate between the different styles of long-shanked pipes.
