Willow wasn't always a pipe smoker, and she certainly wasn't a natural fisherman. She coughed up a lung the first dozen times she tried her grandpa's pipe, and she felt sorry for every fish she caught while out on the Wateree River. But with time, she grew into both of these activities, much like a child grows into a baggy pair of hand-me-down jeans.

Willow's grandfather, Matthew, would take her out on the river at least once a month for as long as she could remember. He would pack his favorite pipe with them — a classic Billiard — along with an Aromatic and all the necessary accoutrements that come with pipe smoking, as well as their fishing gear and a packed lunch. They'd be out there from the wee hours of the morning to the lazy mid-afternoon, and even though Willow grumbled about it as a teenager, she'd come to love the precious time she spent with him, especially for November sails.

It wasn't about fishing or pipe smoking; it was about being with her grandpa and hearing the family stories. She didn't try the pipe until she turned 21, and much like fishing, she had to grow into it. But she learned to appreciate the subtleties in flavor and experience as she shared a bowl with her grandpa, often keeping a journal nearby on the boat to jot down what she was getting from it.

Their annual Thanksgiving boat trip was her favorite tradition; it offered a lazy reprieve from the chaos of the holiday, hours spent drifting out on the water, puffing on the pipe while they fished. November fishing trips meant fishing for crappies, which were abundant this time of year.

On the eve of Thanksgiving one year, Willow set out her old reliable jeans, a light jacket, and packed nourishment for their fishing trip the next morning. She gave her grandpa a quick call to make sure he remembered their trip; Last month, she went to his house bright and early, ready for their day of fishing, only to realize that the old man was still asleep, forgetting about the trip all together. He was misremembering and forgetting small details lately, which concerned Willow a bit, but she just assumed it was a side effect of getting older. She was set at ease when he answered the phone on the third ring and was getting ready for the morning's adventure himself.

Just before sunrise the next morning, Willow headed to her grandpa's house nearby. Though she was a little wary on the way, she was relieved to find him already sitting outside on the porch swing, finishing a cup of coffee and reading the morning newspaper. He refused to get a mobile phone, insisting on newspapers, landlines, and doing things the old-fashioned way.

At 85 years old, he was still quite lively, always finding something new to tinker with in his garage, or a new project to take on in their quiet town. He was a carpenter by trade, passing it along to his son, Andrew, Willow's father. Though his hands were weaker and more soft than they once were, he still was the most talented carpenter in town.

Willow looked up to her grandpa, and hoped to be half the person he was as she grew older. She was a craftsman in her own right as a woodworker, so they had one more thing in common to chat about. "Good morning, Grandpa," she said as she sat beside him on the swing.

He looked up from his paper with a smile, greeting her with a hug. "Hi, sweetheart," he said. "It's a beautiful day for fishing."

"You always say that, gramps."

"Well, any day is," he admitted with a chuckle. "Happy Thanksgiving, kiddo."

"Happy Thanksgiving. Mom and Dad want us back by 5:00 for dinner at their place."

"I figured. We'll be back in plenty of time."

They loaded up her grandpa's pickup truck and made their short commute to the dock. When they arrived, they packed the boat with all their supplies for the day. Their fishing poles were already in their designated spots on the vessel; Willow fished from the port side, and her grandpa fished from the starboard side. She never questioned this; it was where they naturally gravitated.

Once they set sail, she told him about her latest woodwork as he shared about his latest construction projects. As they talked, they cast their lines into the river as they approached the first riverbend. They also passed grandpa's favorite pipe back and forth between them.

"It seems like you're warming up to this old pipe, Lo," he said. He was the only one in her whole family that still called her "Lo" like they did when she was younger. She never told him so, but she liked only him calling her that. It was his special name for her that sounded right only in his aged voice.

"It's grown on me, just like you told me," she said with a small grin, drawing in the smoke and retrohaling, like he taught her just a few months before. She could taste maple and something sweet, like roasted marshmallows at a bonfire. This blend was one of her favorites, though she always mixed up their names.

As the last of the smoke left her nose, she jotted down a few tasting notes. She flipped back a few pages to compare notes and saw that it matched Autumn Evening from Cornell & Diehl perfectly. She smiled to herself for making the connection as she saw her fishing rod bobbing up and down. She set the pipe down on a pipe rest and expectantly reeled the line back in, only to find that her bait had been snatched.

"Crap," she grumbled quietly, turning to the tackle box to fish out more bait for her hook.

"Crappie," he corrected, smirking as he reeled in a fish of his own.

"Of course you caught yours," she said. "You always get the first catch of the day. What's up with that?"

"I think it's some sort of magic, my dear," he joked. "You'll have to consult with them." He gestured down to the fish in the water as he hauled his catch to the live tank. Willow grimaced when she thought he wasn't looking. She still felt bad for the 'ol crappies.

"This blend is so comforting," she said. "I think it's my favorite."

"Mine too, especially this time of year," he agreed.

"I really do enjoy this pipe," she said. "Maybe someday I'll get one of my own."

"Have I ever told you the story of this pipe?"

"Other than that it's old and has been in the family since it was made, nope." She felt a strong pull on her pole and began reeling in her line. At the other end was a crappie. "I got one! I'm tossing it back, gramps."

She released the fish and watched as it sank back deeper into the water. She grabbed some more bait and cast out her line once again. As they continued fishing, her grandfather shared the fascinating history of the pipe.

That particular pipe, a sleek red-black Billiard with a smooth finish from an unknown pipe maker from over a century ago, had been in the family for four generations. Though it was worn from smoking over a century, it was his very favorite.

"This pipe is more than just a smoking instrument. It's a symbol of our family. It's been passed down for generations and it's very special. It's a tradition for the next generation to give it a try on their 21st birthday," he said as Willow listened intently. "My siblings and my kids were never very fond of the pipe... I'd like for you to have it when I'm gone, Lo."

"Thank you, grandpa. But don't talk like that! You've got so much life left in you," she said with a soft smile.

Matthew drew in a small breath before cautiously smiling back, eyes leaving hers as he scanned the water and shifted his pole's position. Changing the subject, he said, "I'm glad you're here with me. So you'll have it, right?"

"Of course I will," she said. "And look, my journal is nearly full from the last few years I've kept it. I'm glad you told me to start one. It's cool to see how much my palate's changed as I've grown accustomed to the pipe."

"I knew you would," he said absolutely. "Look out, your pole is bobbing again!"

The pair spent the rest of the morning into the early afternoon enjoying their day on the river, fishing and smoking. After several hours, they tossed their lines as far as they could for their last cast.

Tragedy struck while Willow smoked on the old pipe and jotted down notes close to the edge of the boat — She withdrew the pipe from her mouth, losing her grip on the pipe's stem, and it fell from her hand into the river, floating until it slowly began to sink.

"Oh, no!" she shouted, causing her grandpa to turn fast, giving him slight whiplash. As he winced and grabbed for his neck, he looked over the side of the boat where Willow was frantically searching. For what, he didn't immediately know. But then he saw that the pipe was no longer dangling from her mouth, or resting on their small table on the pipe rest. And he knew.

At his realization, Willow began to cry. "Grandpa. I-I'm so sorry, I-" she began as he pulled her in for a tight hug.

"These things happen, Lo. Don't worry about it. If it's meant to turn up, it will."

She was a bit shocked that he wasn't more upset. How ironic, she thought. He finally tells me the story of the pipe, granted not too many details, but still, and in return I went and dropped it like a dope only moments later.

They had to get back home as they watched the sun creep further down the skyline ahead of sunset. She attempted to jump into the freezing water but her grandpa held her back.

When they returned to land, they docked the boat and tied it up tightly. They made their way back to his pickup truck and he dropped her off at her house only a minute away from his. She went inside and cried some more. After giving herself a few minutes to melt down, she gathered herself and headed into the shower to wash up for dinnertime in a few hours.

When she arrived at her parents' house right around 5:00, she didn't see her grandpa's pickup truck in the driveway. She figured he wasn't far behind until she realized that her father's truck was also missing. Upon entering their house, she was faced with reality, like a cutting knife.

Matthew had suffered a stroke about an hour after he dropped Willow off. Her father went to check on him and help him gather the pies he baked for dessert and found him on the floor. The medics came and revived him, bringing him to the emergency room. Her family, minus her father, were waiting for Willow to arrive at the house before heading to the hospital.

Her father was sitting in the waiting room as the whole family barrelled through the double doors, looking alarmed and saddened. For the next several hours, they sat and waited for answers, fearing the worst, until they were finally allowed to see him.

Each visitor went in one at a time, so as to not overwhelm him. Upon entering the room, Willow was met with a tired and pale version of her grandpa, looking somehow smaller and fairer than he had earlier that day. Perhaps it was the way the fluorescent lighting left no room to hide, making his skin glow extra white and revealing every detail of his aged skin and weathered body.

"Hi, gramps," she said quietly, fighting back tears.

His eyes were closed, yet opened slightly at her voice. He reached his arms up ever so slightly for a hug. "Hi, Lo. It's been quite an eventful evening," he said, his grovelly voice but a whisper.

"What happened? The doctor said you had a stroke and passed out."

"Yeah, it was the strangest thing. I was shuffling around the kitchen when I suddenly got very dizzy and felt weak. I had a horrible headache too. It felt like my eyes were going to explode from their sockets. And then everything went dark."

Willow and her grandpa chatted some more. All the while, she wondered whether she would ever be able to find his pipe, which would someday be hers. Or would have been, she thought, kicking herself for her stupid mistake earlier. She gave him a long squeeze before returning to her seat in the waiting room.

They didn't celebrate Thanksgiving that year. Not in the traditional way, that is. Matthew recovered after about a week, though he was left with a range of new troubles to live with, like further memory loss, trouble paying attention, and a lack of appetite, leading to weight loss. He hardly touched their Thanksgiving dinner that they froze and re-heated. He only took a few bites of the pie he baked, the recipe of his late wife, Marie, bringing a semblance of comfort to his troubled heart.

Willow spent the night with her grandpa before their first fishing trip in December. Each family member had taken turns spending time with him nightly after his stroke, despite his protestations, to look after him. The next morning, they were out on the water when her grandpa withdrew a pipe from his pack. He had many pipes, but Willow was surprised to see his very special pipe she had lost on Thanksgiving right there in his hands.

"The pipe!" she exclaimed. "Where did you find it, Grandpa?"

"It was never lost," he said with a shrug, "what are you talking about?"

"I dropped it overboard on Thanksgiving, gramps. Don't you remember?" She was shocked but also elated to be ridden of the guilt she had carried from losing it. She had spent hours on end for weeks searching for it in the early mornings, with no luck.

"I don't, Lo," he said, "but I believe you. There's more to this pipe than just being a generational family heirloom. It's quite magic, my dear."

"I don't understand," she started as he shared the full truth.

He explained that the pipe could never be truly lost. Anytime he had misplaced it, it would always turn up somehow. He imagined he found it before his stroke while on a quick walk, finding it on the shore washed up. Or that he looked at his pipe collection and it was right in its designated spot as if he'd never taken it out. Of course, he didn't remember the actual truth, so any of those scenarios could be true or false.

Willow was mystified. She was also skeptical by nature but she believed him because she trusted him. No matter the real truth of the pipe, she was so glad it was recovered. And glad he had recovered, too, even if he would never be quite the same after his stroke. She loved the pipe, but most of all, she loved her grandpa.

As they fished, he began sharing a story from some 50 years before. "When I was a much younger man than I am today, I also dropped this pipe into this very same river. Me and my own grandpa had been fishing, and I was depressed for weeks. Somehow, though, he found it on the side of the riverbend one day. I looked every day, seemingly everywhere, with no luck. But he found it so simply, as if it had drifted there of its own accord, right back to its owner. It's some pipe, I tell you."

They spent the rest of the afternoon leisurely smoking and fishing, one of Willow's most favorite memories of her life.

Matthew passed away five years after his stroke. Willow grew older and had one child, her daughter Maple. When Maple grew up, she had a son of her own, whom she named Matthew after her late great grandfather she heard so much about from her mother's stories.

Willow brought Matthew out on the water in her own boat, in the very same river of her childhood, as she had many times before. Every trip reminded her of her grandpa. She had taken Maple for years, but the girl never quite fell in love with fishing or pipe smoking the way she had.

Yet, Matthew was curious and loved his grandma so very much, and he quite enjoyed fishing. As fate would have it, the young man's 21st birthday fell on Thanksgiving day. The pipe was now Willow's, after yet another 50-some odd years of smoking it since her grandpa passed away. She shared the story of the pipe with Matthew, and the life of her grandpa, her hero, though she omitted its magical properties, for he wouldn't believe it until he someday lost it himself, and learned of its connection to the family when it strangely made its way back to her.

The pipe served as a beacon of hope and a symbol of familial love. As she puffed away on Autumn Evening, she handed him the pipe to try for the first time. Though he coughed and coughed, and seemed rather weary of the old thing, she promised that he would grow into it.

I am thankful to all of you readers here at Smokingpipes for checking out my blog posts and leaving kind comments for me to read. I appreciate you all. I hope you enjoyed this story. If you have any Thanksgiving tales of your own, I'd love to read them in the comments. Happy Thanksgiving!