Peterson Collectors

I was born from Scot-Irish descendants, raised in North Carolina and grew up around farming. For generations, both sides of my family worked fields of tobacco in the soils of North and South Carolina. I could tell you what it smells like inside of a tobacco barn in the summer. The smell of dried tobacco is sweet and pungent and unforgettable. My family have always been storytellers and I was raised on tales of hard labor and sticky hands from ‘bacca.’ We’re a musical bunch too. Where three or more of our family gather, there’s usually a piano, banjo or fiddle in the midst. I’ve shelved my guitar for a fiddle these last ten years now. 303 Sterling Wind Cap  My father and his father before him smoked pipes and cigars. My dad told me they rolled their own cigars from air-cured burley leaves. “They were strong,” he said and chuckled at the memory. My grandfather favored Prince Albert in his trusty Kaywoodie billiard and I remember that pipe in its pipe rack sitting high on a shelf when I was a child.  When my grandfather’s health failed due to pancreatic cancer, my dad would light my grandfather’s pipe as he lay in his hospital bed. Burley blends have a special place in my rotation to this day and I think it must be in my blood. First smoke It was my father who first passed a lit cigar to me while on a motorcycle trip through the Appalachian mountains. “Don’t tell your mother,” he said. I puffed and felt like a man as we shared a special father-to-son moment. Though I’m a descendant of farmers, I couldn’t overcome my black thumb, so I chose to focus on my creative side and pursue a career in graphic design and advertising, something I’ve practiced for the last thirty years. I’m also a freelance writer, a reporter for a local newspaper and at work on my first mystery novel. First pipe About ten years ago I got a job working at the now defunct Pipes & Tobacco Magazine, and it was there I met Chuck Stanion, now at Smokingpipes.com. He smoked a pipe in his office while writing his stories and gave me the advice he gave everyone who inquired about wanting to smoke a pipe: “Start with a corncob,” he said.  “It smokes just as well as any pipe and if you don’t like it, you’re out just a few bucks.”  So I bought a corncob and an ounce of Irish Creme tobacco from my local tobacconist. I packed it but couldn’t keep it lit. Frustrated, I took it to my father and he packed it for me. He sat it down on the table and it made a ka-chunk noise: “Here,” he said. “That’s how you pack it.”  I put it to my lips, memorizing what a proper tug should feel like. I lit it and it stayed lit. It was the first time I felt the pleasure of smoking…