Normally I would be disappointed, even disturbed to be seated near a smoker, but there was something haunting about the rich aroma that wafted toward our table. Marilyn and I stopped at a local restaurant for dinner and were escorted to an outside patio. No sooner had we been seated than I caught the scent of pipe tobacco. Before my rational conscience could put together that the young man’s tobacco blend was identical to one my dad smoked, my memory had already jettisoned me into the past and directly into the presence of my father. There “he” sat, in his favorite chair, fussing with his precious pipe, match to the fire bowl, urging his old pipe to fire.
Dad smoked Winston filtered cigarettes for as long as I could remember. But every so often he would set aside his cigarettes and pick up the pipe. I loved it when he smoked his pipe. Pipes are to cigarettes what Italian tiled bathrooms are to outhouses. When Dad donned his pipe, the house took on a completely different air… literally. He preferred a straight pipe, as opposed to the S-curved model made famous by Sherlock Holmes. America’s artist, Norman Rockwell, was a religious pipe puffer.
If you’ve ever been around a pipe smoker you are already familiar with the ritual required to maintain a lit pipe. It’s more of a dance than a ritual. If you don’t already know, a pipe is never really lit… it just smolders like a coal-burning boiler in an ancient factory. It’s a full time job simply manning the fire bowl; the smoker is constantly lighting, puffing, relighting and puffing.
In the midst of a conversation, Dad would pick up his pipe turn it upside down and begin slapping the fire bowl into the palm of his other hand. This could go on for what seemed like hours! Not violently but gently, like a mother trying to pat a burp from her newborn. Then he’d pick at the bowl with a nut hauler he kept at hand—often lifting it to one eye, squinting into it like a periscope on a submarine. I always wondered, “What’s he looking for?”
Deemed sufficiently cleaned, the next step would be to pack it with new tobacco. Holding the bag in his left palm he’d burrow the pipe repeatedly, pulling it occasionally to tamp down its shredded fibers with his forefinger. And then the dance of the matches would begin. Striking, tilting, squinting, all the while drawing long breaths, coaxing the fire like a boy scout fanning his campfire until tiny white puffs of smoke filled the room with its unique aroma—never heavy but pleasant and warming.
I’m in the restaurant, but by the grace of my stimulated memories, I’m with my sorely-missed father as he laughs and draws on his pipe. It was a precious moment that came suddenly and left with the same abruptness. I considered sharing my experience with Marilyn or even my pipe-smoking neighbor, but I resisted, believing a savored moment can be damaged by sharing it too quickly.
Funny isn’t it, how certain scents can trigger powerful memories? The earthy dampness after a summer rain, the subtle waft of burning leaves in the shade of autumn’s color, or the indescribable perfume every newborn seems to wear. We’re told familiar aromas will trigger our memories more quickly and more precisely than perhaps any other external stimulus.
The bible urges us that how we live our lives evokes a response from everyone around us. It says we give off a spiritual aroma and just like that pipe smoker in the restaurant, we are impacting others whether we’re aware of it or not. Paul, writing to his friends in Corinth reminds them,
“Because of Christ, we give off a sweet scent rising to God, which is recognized by those on the way of salvation–an aroma redolent with life” 2 Corithians 2:15.
I never thought a scent would elicit such a strong remembrance of my Dad… but it did. I pray our lives will honor not only our earthly Fathers but our Heavenly Father.
Happy Father’s Day!
Read Ron’s column, Simple Faith, each Saturday on the Faith Page (page 3) of the Lancaster Eagle Gazette, or visit www.lancastereaglegazette.com.