Here I sit, amongst the swirling dragons of smoke trailing off my Ghurka cigar…. I see beautiful, flowing patterns and reminisce over past occasions where I’d smoked such a divine cigar before. Those occasions are few and memorable. There’s something so enticing about filling the room with those earthy-sweet smelling clouds of Dominican and Nicaraguan leaf set ablaze…. I enjoy cigars from all over the world, and pipe tobacco from many fields. That (I feel I must say) is all I smoke, nothing else….

I have had a moment of realization. Most of my interests and passions are linked intrinsically by the creation of swirls, puffs and clouds of smoke. Smoke pouring from the end of a stogie, or out the stacks of some museum-relic of a locomotive, or even from under the tires of my three fifty-year-old Plymouths…. Otherwise, the three are not necessarily related. The locomotive will take you to a destination of the railroad’s choosing, tied town to tracks and switches and relying on going where only a notable number of people ever need to go…. the car will take me anywhere, everywhere I may need to go and with nobody else’s directions or instruction. I find my own way. Both of these implements are romantic in their own way, both are loud and strong…  hard, seemingly impenetrable iron. The cigars, however, are entirely different. Cigars are delicate, they are needy and sensitive to elements and improper care, but the end result of careful handling and proper storage is something so enjoyable I put it above liquor and gourmet food. You may not agree, but this is my train of thought here.

Of course, there is no rule saying I can’t combine any number of the three loves of my life into a special occasion or a trip…. I can smoke a cigar on the drive up to the railroad museum (as I regularly do), or go trainspotting laying back on the hood of the hot rod with a Cuban Churchill in my hand! Living here near the Bay Area railroad junctions, I have quite a few spots where both passenger service and freight move through…. but alas, no steamers. No big coal-driven monsters with tenders loaded over the top….. no side pushrods or pistons emanating rhythmic releases of scalding steam across yellowing fields. No romance left in the railroads here, or nearly anywhere anymore….. so I make do with little tiny plastic versions of those long-ago scrapped iron horses.

Other people seem to have this same affliction of a love of smoke as well…. go out and observe a cigarette smoker, one who truly enjoys smoking (there are plenty who don’t)…. their attention is constantly drawn to the beautiful and unpredictable trails and bodies of smoke in front of their eyes. It’s almost entrancing for those of us with the smoking habits….

Part of me believes that the intangible, ethereal gray smoke is what is in itself so fascinating. There is a beautiful (if not somewhat depressing) correlation between smoke and life itself. We create smoke, as we do life….. it must be fed and nurtured, something must be used or destroyed to make it, it is beautiful and unpredictable while it lives, and eventually it will die while we look on…. usually without a means to stop its demise. It has substance, we can see and feel and experience it, but it’s not necessarily a physical thing. We create it and sustain it knowing it will end but we enjoy and use it to its fullest while we have it, its appearance and worth is different to each of us. I believe smoke imitates life, if only for a brief moment. I also think about how crazy that may sound, but as I sit here nursing a small, quantifiable life of smoke and scent in my hand I understand how true it really is. I’m off now, to go appreciate smoke and life together.