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Subscribe to Pipes and tobaccos magazine click hereA Christmas Pipe - Winter 2010
Editor's Comment
Chuck Stanion
Have you ever had a pipe so nice that you almost hated to smoke it? My father did—I remember it distinctly.
When I was 10 years old I wanted to buy my dad a pipe for Christmas. I knew they were expensive—maybe as much as three or four dollars for a really good one—so I started saving in September. In mid-December I called my favorite relative, my aunt Tina, for a ride into town so I could keep the whole enterprise secret from my parents. As I watched for her car to arrive, my dad was reading his evening newspaper and smoking some boring straight pipe. I would find something more interesting for him—something big and bent; maybe even a hookah.
“I’m going out,” I told him.
He looked up, amused. “Going bar hopping?”
“Yeah, a little drinking, a little gambling,” I said.
“Well, try to be home before dawn. It’s a school night.”
Aunt Tina’s car pulled into the drive. “No problem,” I said and sauntered casually into the hall, where I pulled on my coat, slipped quietly out and ran to the car. “Drive!” I commanded.
Mayor’s Smoke Shop in Ithaca, N.Y., was a wonderful store, full of exotic tobacco smells and manly accessories. I’d insisted I wanted to do this by myself, so Aunt Tina hung back, browsing the magazines while I looked at the pipes. A clerk soon asked if he could help me.
“I’m looking for a pipe for my dad for Christmas,” I said.
The clerk was grizzled and ancient—maybe 35 years old, which to me seemed about as old as anybody could get without an iron lung. “What kind of pipes does he smoke?”
“Mainly straight wood pipes,” I said. “But I want to get him something different, something his friends will admire and be jealous about.”
“Well, we have some meerschaums here that smoke very nicely.”
But the meerschaums didn’t appeal to me. White pipes seemed even more boring than wood.
Then I saw it—the most perfectly fantastic pipe ever created. I could almost hear angels singing as I gazed at it in stupefied admiration. “That one,” I said, pointing.
“This?” said the clerk, pulling it from the case. “I don’t know—it’s been here for years. Your dad may not like it.”
But I knew that was impossible. No one could see this pipe and not be smitten. It was shaped like a pistol with the wooden bowl as the handle grip and the stem as the barrel. A pipe shaped like a gun—wow! “That’s the one,” I said.
“OK, if you’re sure. It’s $7.95 plus tax.”
Disappointment made my heart stop beating for a moment. I had no idea any pipe could cost that much. “I have only $3.85,” I said. “Maybe I should look at those white pipes again.”
The clerk gazed down at me. “Tell you what. Since it’s been here so long, I’ll let you have it for $3.85. And if your dad doesn’t like it he can bring it back.”
“Oh, he’ll love it,” I insisted. “Thank you very much.”
And my dad did love it—at least he said he did. “Holy cow, look at that,” he said on Christmas morning. “Beautiful! Too nice to smoke, really.” He did fire it up that afternoon at my urging, but only rarely after that. It was gratifying, though, that he liked it so much he wanted to preserve its newness.
When I was 10 years old I wanted to buy my dad a pipe for Christmas. I knew they were expensive—maybe as much as three or four dollars for a really good one—so I started saving in September. In mid-December I called my favorite relative, my aunt Tina, for a ride into town so I could keep the whole enterprise secret from my parents. As I watched for her car to arrive, my dad was reading his evening newspaper and smoking some boring straight pipe. I would find something more interesting for him—something big and bent; maybe even a hookah.
“I’m going out,” I told him.
He looked up, amused. “Going bar hopping?”
“Yeah, a little drinking, a little gambling,” I said.
“Well, try to be home before dawn. It’s a school night.”
Aunt Tina’s car pulled into the drive. “No problem,” I said and sauntered casually into the hall, where I pulled on my coat, slipped quietly out and ran to the car. “Drive!” I commanded.
Mayor’s Smoke Shop in Ithaca, N.Y., was a wonderful store, full of exotic tobacco smells and manly accessories. I’d insisted I wanted to do this by myself, so Aunt Tina hung back, browsing the magazines while I looked at the pipes. A clerk soon asked if he could help me.
“I’m looking for a pipe for my dad for Christmas,” I said.
The clerk was grizzled and ancient—maybe 35 years old, which to me seemed about as old as anybody could get without an iron lung. “What kind of pipes does he smoke?”
“Mainly straight wood pipes,” I said. “But I want to get him something different, something his friends will admire and be jealous about.”
“Well, we have some meerschaums here that smoke very nicely.”
But the meerschaums didn’t appeal to me. White pipes seemed even more boring than wood.
Then I saw it—the most perfectly fantastic pipe ever created. I could almost hear angels singing as I gazed at it in stupefied admiration. “That one,” I said, pointing.
“This?” said the clerk, pulling it from the case. “I don’t know—it’s been here for years. Your dad may not like it.”
But I knew that was impossible. No one could see this pipe and not be smitten. It was shaped like a pistol with the wooden bowl as the handle grip and the stem as the barrel. A pipe shaped like a gun—wow! “That’s the one,” I said.
“OK, if you’re sure. It’s $7.95 plus tax.”
Disappointment made my heart stop beating for a moment. I had no idea any pipe could cost that much. “I have only $3.85,” I said. “Maybe I should look at those white pipes again.”
The clerk gazed down at me. “Tell you what. Since it’s been here so long, I’ll let you have it for $3.85. And if your dad doesn’t like it he can bring it back.”
“Oh, he’ll love it,” I insisted. “Thank you very much.”
And my dad did love it—at least he said he did. “Holy cow, look at that,” he said on Christmas morning. “Beautiful! Too nice to smoke, really.” He did fire it up that afternoon at my urging, but only rarely after that. It was gratifying, though, that he liked it so much he wanted to preserve its newness.
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