I started smoking a pipe when I was eighteen, as I was lucky to have a dad who spoiled me with quality pipes he no longer smoked. Despite their age and, often, abuse, almost all of them punched well above their weight, particularly since they were free to me and anything free automatically rocks. Two of dad’s pipes were from the storied Italian firm Savinelli: a Punto Oro bulldog with a vulcanite saddle bit, and an Autograph freehand that was worth probably $500 until I dropped it on the asphalt parking lot of my Fort Wayne apartment. Bam. Good morning, concrete! Dad just about kicked my ass over that. It could have been repaired, and would have, eventually.