Spread the Ashes

Memorial Day for me was a spent entirely out of doors. I went camping at a lake and burned stuff and rode around on a boat. It was great fun despite the sweltering heat, hordes of pestilential insects, and the discombobulated campsite neighbors who insisted on feats of loudness far into the night (they were subsequently “persuaded” to leave by the Sheriff).

There are many necessities to a camping excursion: gallons of insect repellent, extra-strong deodorant, knives, ear plugs, meat, fire, beer, and of course, tobacco. Armed with these must-haves a campout stands a decent chance of being a success. Now each one of the afore mentioned condiments stands its own thorough examination of usefulness; for example: an entire post-doctoral research assignment is probably necessary to examine the intricate vicissitudes of the place of strong deodorant in the camping experience, for its impact on social networking and the collective group psyche is not to be denied.

For now, however, I seek only to explore one of the items. Tobacco, by way of the Cigar.

Now the necessity of tobacco to camping hardly needs explanation–indeed, the image of friends gathered round a fire conversing, drinking, and smoking is undoubtedly archetypal in nature; it is buried deep in your consciousness as a fundamental image and needs merely a gentle nudge to assert its authority, if it hasn’t already done so. It is this primordial image that induced me, one who rarely smokes (and when I do it is a pipe), to purchase the only available cigars at a local gas station for our impending campfire soiree. Before I proceed I hasten to point out that my hands were tied–no cultured establishment of fine tobacco existed in the near or even semi-near vicinity; perhaps I am to blame for allowing the primordial image to remain dormant until I was already at the campsite, but is that really my fault?

At the gas station I scanned the shelves for suitable cigars and was dismayed to find nothing but Swisher Sweets and Black and Tan, both abominations consumed only by suntanned philistine farm boys. I was left with no choice. Choking down bile I asked for the Swisher Sweets with a trembling voice and looked at the floor in embarrassed horror.

Back at the campsite I managed only several pulls on the godless cigar before, rife with hatred and perturbation, I dashed it to the ground and washed out the taste with beer. The Swisher Sweet is a lie of the devil, it promises the archetypal reality, but its siren call only brings destruction. Next time I go camping I will be armed with the truth, i.e. good quality tobacco and my favorite pipe, perhaps a hand picked cigar from the Tinder Box. If you’ve read to here you have no choice but to do the same.

You can see this post and others like it by visiting Eye of the Tempest – Cigars.