Renewing America

Today is, by all accounts, an historic day. Within a single generation of the Civil Rights struggle, and only three generations removed from the shameful convention of slavery and oppression, we installed today a "black" man as the President of the United States, in many ways unraveling the threads from that cloak of racism draped over so much of of America's history.  Today, for the first time in a very long time, I am proud to be an American. For those of us who cast our votes for Obama, and supported his campaign both with our time and our resources, this is the culmination of our efforts and the realization of our hopes. Certainly there are those less inclined toward President Obama's views and policies, and to them I would suggest that this is a time for celebration, not of anyone's particular politics, but of our potential as a nation to move beyond race and realize the dream of another great American prophets wherein each man is judged by the content of his character. My prayer for our new president is that he would be a man of strong character promoting such policies as would bring about greater equity and justice, that would support life in all its forms, that would enjoin us to be better stewards of our planet, better neighbors, that would affirm the dignity of every person, ban torture, and advocate for the de-escalation and eventual banishment of nuclear weapons from the Earth. 

Only time will tell if Mr. Obama, now President Obama, will lead us down that path toward a more perfect union, but today is not so much about that. Today is about what we--"we the people"--have done in nominating a man who, only a generation ago could not walk into a public restroom, as our 44th president. That is an historic event, and I have chosen to mark it in my own little way, with a very special pipe to commemorate the day. Few probably know this, but President Obama's father was a pipe smoker, so clearly the man comes from good stock.

Barack Obama's father puffing on a nameless bulldog.

This piece, not unlike President Obama, is both "black" and "white." It is a somewhat more contemporary take on an otherwise very classical shape. The blast is deep and well defined if somewhat unpredictable. It does not entirely conform--it is not exactly a cross grain nor exactly a ring grain--but has the best elements of both. Overall, this is a very handsome and well-formed piece. It will look great with a suit, but will also be right at home being smoked on the back deck. Finally, while this piece is very symmetrical, following the line along the shank and stem, it does perhaps list just slightly to the left.  

This pipe is SOLD.

Thirty

I turn 30 today. Aside from being, perhaps, a bit more pensive, I don't feel any different. I've heard tales from friends about weeping and gnashing of teeth, breakdowns, realizations of mortality, and the like. For me, 30 just seems to be a part of life. In a lot of ways I feel like I'm finally old enough to be doing some of the things I've been at for a while now, making pipes, having children, teaching. A very good friend of mine who regularly meets with high level political figures--members of the Obama administration for instance--remarked that, at 30, he now feels old enough to take himself as seriously as others in his profession always have.

I suppose I've had a single profound moment in the last couple of weeks. Sitting at my work table, leaning back in repose after having finished a particularly complex pipe, I looked down at my hands and noticed that they seem a bit weathered, somewhat rough. I have my dad's hands with long slender fingers and pronounced knuckles, a ten inch hand span from thumb to pinkie. When I was a boy I remember how his hands swallowed mine, and how they always felt so tender despite being calloused. They often had grease under the nails, or cuts from some minor mishap with a tool. They're now spotted from the sun, and his knuckles even more pronounced from age. He's still got the simple gold wedding band on his left ring finger--the exact same band I chose when I was married seven years ago. With those hands he spanked me somewhat less often, and hugged me far more often than I probably deserved. With those same hands he taught me how to use my own, to create with them what I can see in my mind's eye.



So the other day, I looked down at those hands and thought about the story that they tell--the faint dimpled scar from my wrist surgery, the indention in my ring finger from a wedding band I never remove, the fingernails kept impossibly short with almost religious fervor. In my thirty years, these hands have made hundreds of pipes, held grab-bars on subways from New York to Pragu, cut two umbilical cords, built hundred-thousand-dollar cars, cooked Thanksgiving dinner for fifty, shaped furniture for my wife and children, dragged down a number of, now, professional athletes, picked everything from strawberries to tobacco, plunged $100K+ cars into sharp turns, made the sign of the cross innumerable times, received an Ivy League degree, joyfully passed food and friendship to those less fortunate, built houses and barns, held ancient papyrus manuscripts, bandaged scraped knees, cut thousands of feet of steel, touched the Rosetta Stone, sewn everything from baby blankets to streetrod interiors, changed a million diapers, swallowed the hands of my own two little boys, and held the same beautiful girl for some thirteen years. I told that same beautiful girl today that I simply don't feel the need to have a midlife crisis. I've lead a full life at 30, and could not be more thankful for the things and the people, and the places that God has allowed these hands to touch. So I think I'll forestall any "midlife" shenanigans until I'm at least 60.

"Bo Nordh Briar"

Erica Arborea, or "white heath" is the scientific name for what we all commonly refer to as briar. Having become close friends with Domenico Romeo (Mimmo), the man behind Romeo Briar I have become something of a student of this noble plant. 

I've gone into the mountains to harvest the burl, cut it at the saw--perhaps the most frightening power tool currently in existence on planet Earth--and watched the entire process take place from tree to finished pipe. Mimmo and I have even worked together on the creation of some new cuts that lend themselves to particular shapes. I guess I say all of that to establish some credibility before making a brief rant on a current trend I've observed.

Recently a number of finished pipes by makers other than Bo, have been advertised as having been created from "BO NORDH BRIAR!" Now I don't begrudge anyone their marketing ploys, but occasionally, I think tactics need to be identified as just that, marketing ploys. By that I mean simply that there is nothing particularly special or different about the late master's briar to distinguish a pipe having been made from it as special. Having been to Bo's shop, having seen and held the famed briar myself, I can tell you that it is just briar. It comes from several different mills, and was collected over quite a number of years, not unlike the briar in any accomplished pipemaker's shop.

If the idea, however, is that Bo Nordh was an icon in the community and therefore something owned by the master himself has sentimental value--or perhaps for some even spiritual value--that is quite a different thing. That would make the briar no different really than a pair of Bo's socks, or one of his handkerchiefs which may function as a nice talisman, but it won't affect how a pipe smokes. This is simply another way of perpetuating the mythos of briar.

Now this is not to say all briar is created equal and that a $60 block is no different than a $6 block. It is very different, and much depends on the cutter, his knowledge of the wood, and his ability to see inside it based on factors such as color, growth ring pattern, visible inclusions in the burl's skin, and ultimately his selectivity. So to sum things up, it is possible to buy crap-briar, decent briar, good briar, and exceptional briar. I'm sure all of Bo's was exceptional . . . but it was not magic.

How long, O LORD

The passing of one year into another rarely hits me with great effect. This year, however, has been a bit more profound. In brief, 2008 has been brutal for many of those I hold dear. In the past 12 months, I've seen few births and many deaths, financial ruin, miscarriage, mental breakdowns, physical ailments, cancer, infidelity, sorrow dashed hopes, injustice, strife, enmity--a catalogue of afflictions within my community that seems almost biblical. When asked to toast the year I came up with only this: To 2008; May it pass without memory and die like a man with no heir to carry forward his name. 

The prophet Habakkuk once asked 

How long, O LORD, will I call for help, 

And You will not hear?

I cry out to You, "Violence!"

Yet You do not save.

Why do You make me see iniquity,

And cause me to look on wickedness?

Yes, destruction and violence are before me;

Strife exists and contention arises.

Therefore the law is ignored

And justice is never upheld.

For the wicked surround the righteous;

Therefore justice comes out perverted.

The Creator's standard response to such a lament tends to be something like "Can man fathom the ways of God?"--an explanation of suffering and injustice which I, like many others, find wholly inadequate. The authors and compilers of my favorite piece of holy writ, 4 Ezra (2 Esdras) felt the same. 

Written around 100 C.E., after the destruction of their holy Temple, and several decades of brutal Roman oppression, 4 Ezra is typically read as consolation for Israel's people. The usual reading suggests that God's people are to take comfort in the fact that their oppressors will be stamped out and wiped from the earth, that the righteous shall be vindicated and sorrow will cease, but I read it differently. 

4 Ezra is a "sendup" of similar such texts that are meant to console in this way. Basically, throughout the text, Ezra, the protagonist visionary, has a series of conversations with the angel Uriel. Ezra wants to know why God has allowed the Jewish people to be laid waste and enslaved. Uriel gives him a series of Yoda-like responses, typified by the recurring phrase "do you think you can comprehend the way of the Most High," but Ezra's not having it. 

When the Angel Uriel replies to Ezra's questions with a koan about trees making war against the waves, and the sea rising up against the forrest, Ezra basically says, "I didn't ask you about trees and waves. Give me an answer to my question!" 

Chapter 4
[23] For I did not wish to inquire about the ways above, but about those things which we daily experience: why Israel has been given over to the Gentiles as a reproach; why the people whom you loved has been given over to godless tribes, and the law of our fathers has been made of no effect and the written covenants no longer exist;
[24] and why we pass from the world like locusts, and our life is like a mist, and we are not worthy to obtain mercy.
[25] But what will he (God) do for his name, by which we are called? It is about these things that I have asked."

I admire Ezra's courage and forthrightness, and the same questions that once plagued the Hebrew people, plague many of us now.

"Where were you when I laid the foundation's of the world," God says.

"No, God! Where were you when a drunk driver took my wife and my daughter from me? Where were you when money intended for sick children was gobbled up by an evil man full of greed and lust? Where were you when my husband left me for someone else, when my mind failed me, when a baby died inside my womb? Where were you when a bomb landed on my house, when cancer was growing in my body?" 

But to leave it here would not suffice, because the sum of our days is not only sorrow and lament, but also joy, also hope. Barren wombs are filled again with life, infirmities are healed, love for a self-indulgent former spouse is replaced by the unselfish love of a new one. Houses are rebuilt, fortunes are remade, and the memory of those who have left this world carry us on into the next. 

So we ask again, and this time, with a quieter voice, God replies, "My child, I am making all things new." And despite the many sorrows I've shared with those I love over the course of this past year, I can testify to that fact. I'll end this little piece of theodicy by providing a link to one of my favorite releases from 2008, Thad Cockerel's EP To Be Loved. Aside from its pure and simple beauty, it has also been a great comfort to me this past year. Thad writes and sings "The troubles of this world will wither up and die. That river of tears cried by the lonely some day will be dry." And it will . . . 

You can listen to and download To Be Loved here. 

http://www.myspace.com/thadcockrell