The Cob

My grandfather was a great man— not as great as my father (for a father is his son’s original hero), but a great man nonetheless. Larger than life. He was the center of attention when he entered the room. His humor and wit were as sharp as a Roman’s spear tip. And his laugh… larger than life. I have many memories of my grandfather— “Pappa Pete,” we called him. There were many glorious things I recall about the man, but my best memories center around him and his pipe.

He had a steady supply of them— Dr. Garbow, Kaywoodie, and Medico pipes. He’d make a trip to the pharmacy and pick one up as he needed. They were in plentiful supply. He’d keep his tobacco in a small wooden barrel. If you were not privy to what was inside, you’d swear he kept a keg of ale by his favorite chair… his smoking chair. Ahhh the memories of that man and his pipe fill my mind as I write. The smell of sweet smoke— Sir Walter Raleigh, perhaps. And a look of contentment that knew no negativity. His smoking sessions were grand endeavors of peace.

As I journeyed to become a man, a husband, and a father, I too began exploring outlets that would ease the stresses of life. It was at a low point where my blood pressure had throttled my fast-paced lifestyle and the teaching profession had heaped upon the brilliance of life an insurmountable pile of anxiety, that I remembered the joy on my grandfather’s face as he smoked his trusty old briar. That’s when I decided to give the old bowl of tobacco a try. What could it hurt? As it turns out… nothing!

I’m a teacher, so no fancy Italian briar would make its way into my study (that small nook in my living room where I have a bookshelf full of experienced and knowledgeable authors)— I simply did not have that kind of funding. So I began to research alternatives. A cheaper method of introducing the pipe smoking lifestyle into my sanctuary. It was then that I remembered an old man I’d met many years ago while working in the oilfields of Texas. His name escapes me now (Old Man Dix, perhaps), but his description I’ll never forget.

He was in his 80s (at least), and he wore an old straw cowboy hat that he’d worn for decades. Oh, the sweat rings abound on that old hat. He always wore flannel shorts buttoned to the neck, even in the sweltering Texas heat. His pants— always beige work pants, with both legs tucked into his leather cowboy boots. And in his mouth, every time we met, a corn cob pipe. He puffed away on the pipe in a manner that would make Frosty the Snowman proud. He too, like my grandfather, always had a smile that reflected the joy he’d found through the delicious smell of the tobacco in the bowl of his pipe. That was when I decided to give the old corn cob pipe a try.

I quickly found myself at my neighborhood tobacconist shop. The man behind the counter asked what kind of pipe I was interested in, as he led me to the briar pipe section.

“We have an assortment of pipes from Spain, Italy, France, and Greece,” he said.

“Do you have anything less European?” I asked.

That was when I saw the look of confusion on his face, much like someone who had just discovered a two-day-old kernel of corn that had been lodged between two of his back molars.

“Do you have anything in the corn cob variety?”

“Oh!” he said, with a nod of understanding.

We then changed trajectory and sauntered toward the opposite side of the store. We walked toward a large showcase that I was sure would have hundreds of styles of cob pipes. The excitement started to brew. As we approached the case, my smile quickly turned to a look of disappointment, for in the case were fifty to sixty beautiful briar pipes— each with a price tag equivalent to my monthly salary. All I could think was, “What a cruel joke!”

But just then, he walked around to the other side of the display case and pulled out a jar. Inside that jar were roughly 25 corn cob pipes. Different shapes and sizes. Spectacular designs as well as simply common designs. Beautiful creations every one! And, each had a price tag that would allow me to purchase two… possibly three… with enough money left over to procure a couple of ounces of the tobacconist’s best batch. I was set.

I quickly rushed to my truck, placed the bag of pipe-smoking paraphernalia on the seat, and rapidly (probably too rapidly) drove home. I was as excited as a young child on Christmas morning. When I arrived, I rushed to the back porch with my stash. I packed the pipe’s bowl like the man at the pipe shop showed me. Three pinches— the first pinch loosely packed, the second a bit more tightly packed, and a third pinch packed even tighter. This process perfectly reflected the micro-lesson I’d received from the tobacco expert. Then I struck a match and let the heated light hover over the packed tobacco. As the sound of gently crackling tobacco caused great anticipation, I took my first draw.

Oddly enough… no coughing… no tongue bite (of which I had been warned about many times)… and no flare-up. It was quite a pleasing experience. And the tobacco the specialist suggested was as smooth as the butter on a hot buttered biscuit. The experience was heaven.

As I sat there, puffing away, I honestly felt the stresses of the past week fall away. I slouched back into my “smoking chair” in quiet contemplation— had I discovered the secret to stress management? I believe I had.

Since that first blissful experience, I’ve had the good fortune to partake in the various blessings that Virginia, Burley, Oriental, Cavendish, Perique, and Dark Fired Kentucky tobaccos have to offer. I’ve smoked blended bowls of heaven, and some bowls that the devil himself wouldn’t touch. But even the “bad” bowls brought with them some element of relaxation and stress relief.

Throughout the years, I’ve made use of briar pipes, meerschaum pipes, and even the occasional clay pipe. But none of them has left me feeling more satisfied than a simple, yet grand, cob pipe. That brilliantly quintessential contribution from a cornfield.

Over the years, I’ve added to the number of corn cob pipes I have in my pipe collection. It’s safe to say, “Good ol’ cobs” take up the majority of my hallowed pipe assemblage. And although the cob isn’t as fancy as a briar or a meerschaum… it fits the needs of this humble educator… and his back porch.