The Pipe Smoker
Memories of My Dad
Dad loved his pipe after a long day at work. Though I am in my sixties, the smell of tobacco still brings me back to my childhood. He was a cigarette smoker during the day. Being a carpenter by trade, it was quicker and easier to light a cigarette while he worked.
If Dad was busy in his workshop and there was nobody else available, he would ask me to go to the local village to buy cigarettes. In the late sixties and early seventies there was no law against selling tobacco products to children.
I remember strolling home at a snail’s pace, in a world of my own, undoing the plastic wrapper. As I was a bit of a dreamer he never sent me if there was any other option. Lucky for him I was one of five children.
But when he relaxed after dinner, he liked nothing more than to sit in the armchair nearest the fire and take out his pipe and tobacco. It was almost a silent ritual, silent except for the sound of the match being struck against the matchbox and the slight crackling of the tobacco as it ignited.
Dad held the match with his right hand, the pipe in his left, while pressing the tobacco down hard with his left thumb. It was a long-practised skill that he had down to a fine art.
Not a word was spoken till finally, the pipe was lit, and he took the first long, satisfying puff, exhaling a plume of smoke that seemed to fill the room. I loved to watch from a safe distance, well out of the way of the smoke.
Years later when after I was married and living close to home, Dad would visit during the day. He was retired by that time and loved to drop by. My husband always knew when Dad had been to visit. When he came in from work, though Dad was long gone, the first thing my husband always said was “I see your Dad’s been round”. Though I could no longer smell the tobacco, a trace of smoke lingered for hours.
At the age of 70 Dad finally decided to quit smoking.
