Mr. and Mrs. Stoez (Friends for Life)

Mr. and Mrs. Stoez (Friends for Life)
     by Mr. Safety R D 

Good people these two. Our neighbours on the north. The Stoezes. We felt closest to Mr. Stoez. He loved having us over to his house. Norm, Ronn and I would sit on the floor in front of their little TV set, backs against the couch, and watch two or three episodes of “Gunsmoke,” “Have Gun Will Travel,” or “The Rifleman.” And….we’d smoke our pipes!
     Yes, we actually sat there smoking our homemade corncob pipes at the age of 14 or 15. Unbelievable, really. And old man Stoez had no criticism of it or us. He himself continuously smoked Old Chum roll-your-owns. He enjoyed our company I could tell. The living room itself was dark as dark could be, with wallpaper ancient and tobacco stained, with a couch almost as venerable as the house. And with Mrs. Stoez periodically standing in the kitchen doorway watching the television set while she was also peeling potatoes, sweeping the floor or cooking something on the stove. She wore always what must have been her only dress, a dress in which fashion had never played a part. And Mr. Stoez. So taciturn he barely ever said a word. He wore the same outfit day after day, year after year: a green jacket faded with daily use, an old checked shirt beneath that and 30 year old pants with suspenders and a button fly. But what I remember most about his attire was his tie. He wore it every day, without fail, a tie that must have been colourful once but now shone black with handling, like my own and only church pants, ironed so frequently they reflected light.
     These two kind friends not only tolerated us three boys but encouraged us, gave us courage to be alive instead of only determined by our moral environment, and enlivened us by not telling my parents about our activities. They thought of us as people. If my mother or father smelled the tobacco smoke on me, I would simply explain that Mr. Stoez smoked all the time inside and that’s what they were smelling on my clothing. I would go to the trouble of inventing a lie because in my house smoking was not allowed. Smoking was a punishment offence. Smoking was somehow equated with sin. Norman, Ronn and I never felt sinful about our use of tobacco, although we felt, or I should say I felt, guilty about having to lie to my parents. But I did not feel guilty enough to actually quit smoking and quit lying. Our neighbour’s house with its ancient smells and furniture and wallpaper ambiance was a haven for this 14-year-old. Here I was certainly happy! And that’s probably why I still like to smoke to this very day.