Albert Schweitzer wrote, “In everyone’s life, at some time, our inner fire goes out. It is then burst into flame by an encounter with another human being. We should all be thankful for those people who rekindle the inner spirit.”

To those friends who have patiently and kindly encouraged me to bring A Passion for Pipes back to life (you know who you are), thank you for rekindling my passion for this blog. I am a difficult person to move as I have a tin ear when I am in a retreating frame of mind.

One day I woke up realizing that I miss being a pipe scribbler. I also think I still have people and things to write about - people and things that matter to our small pipe community. I sense a small but hardy pipe smoking renaissance and, while it is like one frail, yellow-budded crocus pushing cold clods aside for the little Spring sun overhead, it is nonetheless a blossoming so if I may give it some encouragement, I wish to so do.

I also realize that A Passion for Pipes has been a place for other people to share beliefs and opinions that matter to them. It has taken me some months to understand that my voice matters little compared to the chorus of readers’ voices that found expression here.

It has been an altogether big week. Last Wednesday, the doorbell rang and when I opened the door I found a soggy courier trying to shield the large box in his hands from the November rain. As it turned out, the parcel was from my 82-year old father, a man who rarely mails anything bigger than cards to me since he lives many country miles from a post office out on Washington’s Olympic Peninsula.

When I opened the box, I found a note scrawled on a piece of notebook paper ripped from its metal spiral. The note began with “I thought you might like to have my pipes....” I feel at sea trying to describe how I felt; I’m not sure I ever experienced such a strange stew of surprise, joy, wistfulness, and yearning. As I made my way through the crumpled newspaper and sandwich baggies, I came across pipes, tools, lighters, and tobacco pouches the sight of which is almost as familiar as my Dad’s sea-green eyes.

And the pipes? Well, if having been used - and I mean used - is a sign of a man having treasured something, well these pipes were surely treasures. Though I haven’t seen my Dad smoke his pipes in over a decade, it appeared that he smoked them often before he stopped. Cake spilled from the pipe chambers up over the top like lava escaping a vent. Tobacco tars had long ago paddled up the briar fibers to color the bowl surface cocoa-black.

My eyes were drawn to a vaguely familiar red leather triangle peeking up from its nest of printer’s ink and newsprint. When I pulled it out and opened it, I found the Pioneer meerschaum bent billiard that I gave my Dad for Christmas in 1970 - the first Christmas that we spent together after my parents divorced.

When I bought that pipe it was a brilliant waxy white complemented by an amber-resin stem. The pipe I held in my hands had transformed into the yolky yellow of Carolina Lemon Cress pie. I don’t believe that I have ever seen such a beautiful transformation. I could never have imagined as a Junior in High School that my Christmas gift would boomerang back to my hands 39 years later, infinitely more beautiful and as colored by memories and affection as by tobacco smoke.

I spent the next four days scrubbing, rubbing, and spitting until my mouth ran as dry as Cottonwood Creek. Over that time a GBD Stardust, the Pioneer Meer, and another meer bulldog were made serviceable for my Saturday morning sit-down with my pipe-smoking friends.

After thinking about it - and rolling the other pipes through my hands - I decided to leave the rest of my Dad’s pipes as I received them, except for dealing with the oliving of the stems. Their meaning emerges as mementos and reminders of my Dad. I think it will be a good thing for me to see what a beloved pipe looks like. I’ve spent far too much psychic time and energy keeping my own pipes pristinely glowing rather than just enjoying them. While I know that I’m not wired to just smoke them to death without routine cleaning, I think that I am definitely way too far towards the pipe fussbudget side of the spectrum.

So, when a pipe-smoking friend comes into my study, if he looks at my desk he will see a pair of old soldiers resting - caked-up and tooth-marked - on an old mahogany and leather pipe stand.