A blog about whatever with lots of digressions

Thursday, October 31, 2013

Burning the Lawn, Mowing the Beard

Guten morgen.
Quickly, as I have much to do this morning:

Coffee, first cigarette, back porch.

I am feeling nippy, like the weather.

Sky clear, and fresh. Not the slightest hint of a breeze.
A dozen contrails crisscross the heavens, and a sliver of a moon peeks through the blue.
I won't even mention Allied bombers today.

Anymore.

Bella the dog stands on the tiny lawn, wondering what to do with herself.
Dandelions sprout where I cut the grass a week ago.

It took me ten minutes to cut the grass last week with an electric mower.

There was a time though...
Ages ago, back in the old country, America, when we had ourselves an acre of a yard surrounding our little country rancher.
An acre of a field that was supposed to be a lawn.
The neighbors all had their own acre to mow, and they did mow, regularly. The neighbors behind us, their head of the household a country boy named Jack-- I say country boy though he was twenty years older than me-- happily mowed his acre on a riding lawn mower. The neighbors on one side also had a rider mower. The neighbors on the other side had a push mower, but plenty of teenage labor to push it regularly.
We also had a push mower, a cheap one, and I was always late to mow the yard.
By the time I got around to it, I was harvesting the yard, and not mowing it. I'd work during the week, and harvest the yard all weekend, when I got around to harvesting.
It was a real struggle, pushing that cheap little mower through the tall grass, an acre of it. But it was also a real struggle pushing the same mower through shorter grass more frequently.
One day I drove home from work, and half of our acre was burnt to a crisp. There were tire tracks visible from the fire engine that had arrived to extinguish  the blaze. The blaze had been put out just short of Clyde the Beagle's dog house.
Clyde had stood there on the unburnt part of the lawn, looking at me looking at him, and wondering what to do.
The story was that the neighbor with the push mower but lots of teenage labor had been smoking, and had thrown a cigarette butt into our field with its tall grass. As it had been dry, the lawn had gone up in flames.
As odd as it may seem, I remember being happy about all of this.
Happy that I'd only have half an acre to harvest that weekend with my cheap push mower, and only half an acre for quite some time thereafter; happy that Clyde the Beagle had come through the event unscathed, and happy that I was never accosted by angry authorities or neighbors regarding the wild nature of our acre.

Not much time for rambling this morning though.
I have a job interview at 2pm in Cologne.
I will be interviewing for a job as a Business English teacher.
Really.
No, but really.
I was once a businessman, and I spent many years teaching English, and I have taught a few business classes as well.
I was advised by those who are going to interview me that I am to give a demo of the beginning of my favorite Business English lesson. I haven't got a favorite one, though, because I haven't taught enough Business English to have a favorite. But I'll think of something.

I'm not nervous or anything.

The CV that I sent them was of the type that only pertains to what is relevant to the job, so those who are going to interview me have no idea what I have been doing the past several years. I am sure they will ask, though.

"For the past two years I have been vagabonding for peace, giving lots of Conversational English practice to people I have met along the way, and prior to that I was a hot dog vendor, that is, a Businessman."

Alas, I must go. I have to mow my beard, and get the dirt out from under my nails.


Wednesday, October 30, 2013

Speak From the Heart, but Please Try to Control Yourself

I walk Bella the dog, smoking my second cigarette of the day. The sky is fresh and clean, and though I can now see a few clouds near the horizon, they waft, rather than scud across the sky. The smoke from the distant coal-fueled power plant rises at a 30 degree angle from the ground, and a few of the wind turbines turn in the light but steady breeze.
Where long piles of sugar beets had formed ridges along the country roads just yesterday, there is now a dark chocolate, freshly plowed, field. Two large tractors plow in the distance, producing more dark chocolate, and the adjacent field, a bright, Springtime-like, fluorescent green, provides contrast to make these fields beautiful. Would Allied bombardiers have noticed any such beauty in these fields in the autumn of 1944 before they released their bombs? It must have been difficult to see any beauty in anything when being shot at from the ground, and when focusing on completely destroying the town just ahead.
In these fields, a lifetime ago, where men tried so hard to cut short the lives of  others, swords have long since been turned into plowshares.

Sigh.

Ja, I can be maudlin at times, which leads me to something I was previously almost led into, in my last post, i.e., walking with three Buddhists, with whom I walked out of Istanbul. But it is not the walking we will talk about, (Ja, I know, 'we' won't be talking, you won't even be able to get a word in edgewise) but 'speaking from the heart'.

What made me think of them in my last post was that I was writing about my involuntary, inexplicable urge to gush like a geyser, while my right knee was being oiled and stroked by a Danish woman in Elche, Spain.

Hmmm.

... an involuntary, inexplicable urge to become very emotional, while my right knee was being healed with shiatsu and reiki and other therapies of that sort, I should say.

And this recollection of becoming very emotional made me think of the act of 'speaking from the heart,' which was done after meditation while I was with my Buddhist friends. I first experienced this while still in Istanbul. Thomas was the only one of the three there at the time, though he is more accurately Buddhist-oriented than Buddhist. He was staying with several Turkish university students, and he invited me, and the two friends I was staying with in another outlying part of the city, to join him and his hosts. We did join them, and before we ate, all sitting in a circle on the floor, with lots of delicious food set in front of us... mmmmm, delicious food...

I will now break for lunch.

*********************************************************************************

Now returned from lunch.

I made spaghetti with tomato sauce and sliced wieners. I could easily eat spaghetti every day, though not always with tomato sauce and sliced wieners. While in the north of Italy, where sliced wieners in the tomato sauce would be vehemently shunned, I came to really appreciate pasta of all sorts, even more than before, when I had already appreciated pasta of all sorts.
But we'll save this culinary discussion for another time.

Sigh.

So there we were, Thomas, his Turkish hosts, all university students, and my friends, with me, in a small apartment in Sisli, north of Istanbul, near Trump Towers (yes, really, Trump Towers, in Istanbul) though the neighborhood was far enough away from that monstrosity to still preserve its soul.
The food was spread out on a carpet on the floor, and we all sat around it, and Thomas rang a bell, actually a brass bowl, which resonated like a Buddhist eternal moment, and we sat silently, giving thanks, before devouring the food that lay before us.

Afterwards, once the floor had been cleared by the students, we meditated for a bit, which many of the students, all young men, had a difficult time doing, squirming around, stifling laughs, opening one eye to have a look around, which I noticed with my own one open eye-- but they meditated anyway out of their great respect for Thomas.

I also have a hard time meditating, though I've done quite a lot of it, because there is a chimp on a bicycle cycling around in my head.

Anyway, once we had finished meditation, at the sound of the brass bowl's pleasant reverberation, it was time for all of us to speak from the heart. 

Our instructions were, first to give a 'weather report' about how we felt at the moment, then to say whatever else we wanted to say, as long as it came from the heart.

However, I did not want to give a weather report, or speak from my heart. And even if I had wanted to give an emotional weather report, I wouldn't have wanted to speak about it in terms of the weather.

"I feel kinda cloudy and rainy."
or,
"It's really sunny inside of me."

Barf.

The students, though many of them also may not have felt like speaking from the heart or giving emotional weather reports, did anyway, again, out of respect for Thomas, I think. And when they spoke, most of them spoke in the manner of gracious hosts.
For example: 'I am very happy that Thomas and his friends are here...'
Of course, this was sincere, no doubt, yet not spontaneous, and spontaneity, I believe, is truly 'from the heart.'

One of the friends I was with gushed quite a lot, as I thought she might. And she  gave a weather report, sunny, I think. The other also gushed a bit, which I found incredible, perhaps lifting an eyebrow as she described her emotional state in terms of the weather. She was not one to gush, ever; at least not in my presence. And she was always way too cool to say she was feeling sunny or cloudy. Until that moment. I think she may have been partly cloudy.

Soon, everyone had shared from their hearts, though most of the students had failed to give their weather reports.
I was the only one left who hadn't shared.

There was a long silence, as Thomas waited for me to share from my heart.

I did not share.

There was no way I was gonna share.
I would share if I wanted to.
No one could make me.

Long, uncomfortable silence.

My eyes where downcast the whole time, gazing at where the food had been.
There were a few sighs.
I also sighed.

Sighs have a language all their own. There are happy sighs, and sorrowful sighs, and impatient sighs, and self-pitying sighs, and stressed out sighs.
Mine was of the stressed out variety.

I finally peeked at Thomas, who was staring at me.
I shook my head, no, in the tiniest way, just a millimeter each side.
He seemed displeased.
I believe I must have furrowed my brows.
I may have been trembling a bit, like a hungry dog that has been told to sit in front of a bowl of leftover hamburgers.
 
More sighs from the group, of the impatient variety.

Some shifting of weight.

Not gonna share.

Then, finally, the brass bowl sounded.
I was gone in a flash, and at the window designated for smoking, with the ashtray on the sill. 

Let us jump forward in time now, to a point two weeks into the future.

Much has happened in that time.

Sigh.

After walking with Thomas, his friend, and a Buddhist monk named Phap Ki for the past three days, we sit together in the room of a pension near the Black Sea. A local commander of the paramilitary police has arranged two rooms for us there. As always, in the morning and the evening we meditate and share from the heart.

I had shared a bit at the end of our first day, but in the fashion of Thomas' student hosts.
"I am happy to be walking with you three..."
Etc.
I may have even given a weather report, having decided I would conform.
I'm pretty sure I had been cloudy.
"Yeah, feelin kinda cloudy I guess..."
 
But now, as we sit in this room, cross-legged, I'm really ready to share from the heart.
Much has happened.
I am ready.
I have a lot to share now.
I am primed.

I want to share.

First, Thomas shares, and it is very nice to hear what he has to share, and Phap Ki shares, and there's a subtle lesson in his sharing, which is not at all pedantic and, though it is a lesson, it is clearly from the heart. Thomas' friend shares too, telling about his mind's experience during the meditation, which is interesting.
Then, while Phap Ki continues to look forward, with the barely perceptible smile of equanimity, and as their friend sits with eyes closed, showing contentment, I see Thomas turn his head ever so slightly towards me. He is waiting for me to share.

Here it comes, yo.

And I share.

Yo.

And everything that I have kept inside me these past 16 months, as I, ahem,  walked for peace, comes out. I rage, curse, tell my life story, sob, rant; I do not ramble though, as rambling is for calmer circumstances.

I experience a grand catharsis.

When I am finished, I see that the others are seated in exactly the same way, cross-legged, and Phap Ki still has a look of equanimity, and their friend is still content, it seems, though maybe there's just a hint of tension in his body, as if ready to bolt should I completely lose my mind. Thomas, however, seems a bit annoyed. I have shared from the heart, but it wasn't a pleasant kind of sharing. The weather was dark and stormy, a veritable tornado. The perfect storm.

Now that I think about it, that would have been a good weather report.

"So, Ken, weather report?"
"The perfect storm."
Yeah, that would have been good.

So, after my perfect storm, and after a little pause, Thomas says very calmly, "Thank you for sharing."

Then the little gong.

Then a smoke break, though I had publicly announced to my companions that I had quit smoking when I left with them from Istanbul three days earlier. 

The next morning, I quit walking after having walked some 6000 kilometers, and I stick out my thumb, and start hitchhiking.

Hell wit dis walk, I'm sayin at the time, though I will walk again, from Port Said to Cairo, a few weeks later.

Meanwhile, as 'we speak', Thomas is in Lebanon, still making his walk for peace, which is a walk in which every step is a step for peace. And he has come a long way, and has a long way to go. While I'm having a little fun with him now, I greatly admire the man.

Phap Ki was a real mentor for me those three days. I believe he is back in France now, where he is a monk associated with Plum Village.

Ja. Okay.

Feelin just a little cloudy.

Sigh.








On Loving That Which Causes You Searing Pain

The first cigarette of the day, coffee, back porch.
The sky is fresh and clean. Not a cloud to be seen
scudding across the sky, or even wafting.
Another airliner, but distant, a speck, catching my eye only because of its contrails.
A very light breeze,
moving the orange autumnal leaves
in the neighbor's trees.
Just one tree, actually, but, 'leaves', and 'trees'.
You sees what I means?
Also, Three sparrows flitting eastbound.
Wait, better yet,
sparrows flitting eastbound in threes.
They could have been another kind of bird, though,
and, pensive,
I gaze at my knees.

Speaking of which... wait, I'll get to the knees directly.

First, just to say
that today,
I will not soothsay.
Izzat okay?
Yea.

Right, so, the knees.
But mostly just the right knee.

In January of 2012, after a good two months of walking with my daughter, Olivia, from Castelo de Vide, Portugal, to a point some ten kilometers north of Meknes, Morocco, I stepped down heavily on my right foot while negotiating
the uneven terrain,
and the corresponding knee exploded
in searing pain.

I cursed my right knee, and hobbled into Meknes, where we stayed with a wealthy man and his wife, who were both involved in the 20th of February Movement there. But that is beside the point.
We then continued on to Fes, passing our 1000 kilometer mark halfway between the two cities, and camping that night in yet another olive grove, congratulating ourselves on our accomplishment and celebrating with a meal of khobz and little triangular chunks of that nasty fake cheese wrapped in golden foil.
But, also beside the point. Must resist multiple digressions.
The point is, the right knee.
Olivia returned to Portugal from Fes, and I walked east, to a barren zone without tourists, hobbling along alone.
Alone I hobbled, east, then north, yet not alone, escorted by the Gendarme Royale, for one reason or another, but that is not the point.
Must... get... to.. the... point.
What was the point?

Yeah, so, for the next month or so I walked with this bad knee. It got so bad that in the south of Spain, all the way from the Spaghetti Western zone around Cabo de Gato to the beginning of the Hint of Catalan zone at Elche, I was often not only hobbling, but literally dragging my right leg behind me, like a zombie in an old film (Because in the new ones, zombies are fast. In the old films, even as a kid watching them, I was never very scared, because I thought, 'Just run from the slow-ass, moron zombies', but now zombies are scary fast... I digress). 
So like an old-fashioned zombie I made my way through the coastal mountains of Andalucia and Murcia, camping most of the time on rocky ground, and cursing my knee all the way.
'How am I gonna get to the Middle East with you dragging your ass all the way?'
I would ask my knee.
And as I favored my left knee, it too, became weak.
'When both of you weak ass knees quit on me, I'll go on in a wheelchair,' I told them.
And so I cursed them both.

Then in Elche, I had a host, Javier, who noticed my zombie hobbling. He arranged a Shiatsu session with a friend, a Danish woman, and she shiatsu'd and reiki'd and soothed my knees, and especially the right one. As she did her magic, I found myself nearly sobbing inexplicably, which makes me think of the time I walked for three days with three Buddhists out of Istanbul. You see, I had met one of them, Thomas, earlier.... must... not... digress.
The knees.
Anyway, I told this woman that I often cursed my knees, and she told me that I mustn't curse them, but speak softly to them, encourage them, love them.
'Yes, I'll do that,' I had said, but I was thinking, 'Yeah, okay, whatever.'
After leaving Elche my knees were better. But then, after passing Benidorm, and on the way to Altea, the right knee once again seared with pain.
I cursed it.
But then, I stopped for a while, and I rubbed some of the ointment that I had been given on it, and I looked around to make sure no one was near, and I spoke to it, gently.
'I love you, knee,' I said. 'You have carried me far. I have abused you with my plodding, and with this extra weight on my back. I must carry this weight, but I will no longer plod, I will walk softly, and carefully, like an aged but graceful woman, thinking of you. You and I can carry this weight together, right knee. We can go all the way to Israel, and Palestine, and to the pyramids of Giza together, just you and I.'
Then, sensing the jealousy I may have created, I said to the left knee, 'And that goes for you too.'

When I continued, my right knee still hurt like hell, but I understood. Sometimes the wounds are too deep to forgive right away. And when the searing pain hit again, on that final kilometer to my host by the sea in Altea, I cursed the sky, the traffic, the map (as I was a little lost), ( a navigator is only as good as his map) (and I could never seem to find a decent map) (but I digress) ... I cursed and swore, so that innocent passers-by would have seen a dirty, unkempt man with a big backpack, shuffling along, dragging his right leg, swearing audibly, loudly at times, even thrashing the air, his arms waving about with clenched fists; yea, this would they have spied, but would they have spied that disheveled vagabond directing his rage at his right knee? Nay. They would not have set their eyes on that. They would have seen said wayfarer stop, distraught, yet calming himself, becoming quiet, and soothed somehow, and gazing at his knees, and saying to them, 'I love you.'



Tuesday, October 29, 2013

Schroeder the Soothsayer

Guten tag.

As I sat on the back porch this morning, smoking my first cigarette of the day and having a cup of coffee, I again looked at the sky to look for signs of imaginary Allied bombers. Instead, I saw only a northbound airliner, the crescent moon, a westbound dove, and some dark, low, fast moving clouds, eastbound. Other than this scud, which is what low, dark, fast moving clouds are called, the sky was clear.

Like a soothsayer, I will interpret these omens.

The northbound airliner portends future travel to the north. Indeed, the grocery store lies somewhat to the north, about a kilometer away, and I will be going there sometime today.
The crescent moon symbolizes 'new beginnings and the making of dreams into reality.' (Answers.com) Hmmm, yes.
The westbound dove represents peace in the west, perhaps in Holland or Belgium, which makes sense as these are relatively peaceful nations.
It may have been a pigeon, though, and not a dove.
Ach so! But 'pigeons symbolize the same thing as doves, which is peace, love, and happiness.' (Ask.com)
Finally, the most ominous of the omens, the eastbound scud.
I do not see any affiliation with the Scud missile, which was used in much the same fashion as the proverbial arrow shot into the air against US troops during Operation Desert Storm.
No, I see the scud clouds as portending cold air, as they often move along with or behind cold fronts. (weather.com)
Indeed, it is much colder today.

Of course, I could be wrong.

Just for the sake
of rationalité,
Let's say,
that I soothsay
in a somewhat different way,
if I may.
Okay?

It could be that the signs in the sky portend  Armageddon. (Sound of thunder)

Peace-loving Western Believers, symbolized by the dove, could soon be clashing with Scud-missile-firing Eastern Heathens, symbolized by the low, dark, fast-moving clouds known as scud, and by the crescent moon, which is also a symbol of Islam. The northbound airliner could represent hordes of immigrants from Godless Southern regions, just to make the mix more interesting... (More thunder)...

But, nah, it really is going to be as simple as grocery shopping, new beginnings, peace in Belgium and cold weather. Everybody living in harmony. (Sound of chirping birds). The people in line in the grocery store with a week's worth of groceries will see the guy who's behind them, with only a carton of milk and a loaf of bread to buy, and they'll let him get in front of them. And there will be new beginnings for everyone who wants them. At any time. And peace in Belgium, both Belgiums, the French one and the Dutch one, as always. And the cold weather will encourage people to bundle up together, no matter what their faith, or lack of it. This is what the signs tell me today. 

Unfortunately, I know that there are more than a few 'peace-loving' Western Believers who believe that those who work for peace are working for the Antichrist. Really. So, as one who believes in world peace, in this world, I may be seen by these folks like this:



Whoops! Sorry, that's the way they see Obama. Let me try again:




Something like that, though it's not the effect I'd hoped for.
Anyway, the photo below represents the real me.



Yikes! Wrong photo again. Though if you go back to my last post, this is what I looked like around the time I was explaining how to pronounce my surname, Schroeder, to the girl in Glasgow, and a few years later, to the jail guard in Ensenada, Mexico.
Let me try again.




NOOO! That's not it!

Not usually.


Once more.




Ja, that's the one. I believe this was taken as I cycled through the Champagne region of France, back in August.

Monday, October 28, 2013

The Heroic Schroeder Brothers

I am Schroeder.
Only hours ago I mentioned this to clarify to the reader who I am, but I mention it again, not to remind the reader, but as a lead-in to a discussion on the pronunciation of the name, 'Schroeder.'
Back on the farm in North Dakota, my dad's family referred to themselves as (pronunciation follows) "Shraders".
When my dad left the farm, he referred to himself as a "Shroder", believing this pronunciation to be more in line with the spelling. I was also, therefore, a "Shroder".
For much of my life, and especially since coming to Europe, which I have spent mostly in the southern part, I have had to tell people how to pronounce my name. I remember a few of these times in great detail.
A girl in Glasgow, Scotland, back when I was a sailor, had said I had a foreign name, and I'd had to pronounce it for her.
A policeman in Ensenada, Mexico, also back when I was a sailor, when calling my name out from the door of a jail cell, had had a difficult time pronouncing it, and I had helped him to pronounce it correctly.
Customers at my hot dog stand in Portalegre, Portugal, when reading my vendor's license out of boredom while waiting for a hot dog, had struggled with the name, and while asking the customer I was then serving what he wanted on his hot dog, I had paused just long enough to pronounce my surname for the others who were behind him.
It went something like this:
"Chili? Grilled peppers? Onions? Schroeder, it's Schroeder. Ketchup?..."
In some places I've been, it's been enough to help people to pronounce my first name, Ken, and we've never made it to my second name. In Egypt, for example.
But now in Germany, people are telling me how to pronounce my surname.
"Hallo, ich bin Ken Schroeder (Shroder)."
"Schroeder (Shroder)....? Ach, so! Schroeder (Shruydeh)!"

So (zo), I am Shruydeh. 

As we're speaking about the German language now-- and this is a characteristic of a rambler, to believe that 'we' are speaking about something when it is an 'I' who is speaking-- yet, though I am aware of this error, I like to imagine that it is we who are speaking-- so, zo, as we're speaking about the German language now, I would like to point out that though I know only a few words and phrases in German, I have a Köln accent. I find it difficult to pronounce the 'ch' with that airy, back of the throat sound, so I pronounce it as 'sh', as in Ish bin Shruydeh, and apparently people in Köln also say 'Ish' rather than... the other way. And Köln is only 50 kilometers away. So...zo... Ish bin proud to say that Ish habe eine Cologne accent. Gut.

Furthermore, as we were speaking about the name, 'Schroeder', I will briefly  tell (really) the story about the Schroeder brothers who came to America from Germany back around 1850 or so. It was a nationalistic time in Germany, and they were facing army conscription, and they stowed away on a ship to America, which took them all the way through canals and whatnot through the Great Lakes to Wisconsin. The draft dodging 'Schraders' then settled later in North Dakota.

I told you it would be brief.

Anyway, when I first heard this story, as a kid, I was a little ashamed, not that the brothers had stowed away on a ship-- I'd thought that was pretty adventurous-- but that they'd run away from army conscription, even if it was German army conscription. Now, though, I like to brag about it. If everyone followed the example of my German ancestors, refusing to be sucked into a nationalistic or ideological frenzy, wherever that frenzy may be, we wouldn't have so many scenes in the world like the ones pictured below.

So, just before writing this, my second post in one day, which is a first for me regarding blogs-- when I'm on a roll I usually write one post a week, and I often only write one post a month-- but as it's a rambling affair, I could probably just write this as one endless post, stream of consciousness style, but that would be exhausting, not so much for me, but for you, so I'll limit it to two posts... where was I ?

Ah, yes, just before sitting down to write this latest post, I was in the backyard, smoking my sixth cigarette of the day, and looking at the sky, and imagining what it must have been like to look at the sky back in the autumn of 1944, when it would have been full of Allied bombers. I was imagining this because I had previously been reading about the history of the area I am now in, and I had read that the town of Jülich, only seven kilometers away, had been destroyed by Allied bombing in World War 2. To quote from Wikipedia:

On 16 November 1944 (World War II), 97% of Jülich was destroyed during Allied bombing, since it was considered one of the main obstacles to the occupation of the Rhineland, although the city fortifications, the bridge head and the citadel had long fallen into disuse. The ruined city was subject to heavy fighting for several months until the Allies eventually managed to cross the Rur on 23 February 1945. Newsreel footage exists of Supreme Commander Eisenhower at the southern entrance to the citadel.

 Ninety seven percent destroyed.

I've been to that southern entrance of the citadel where Supreme Commander Eisenhower stood, while taking a peaceful walk with Elke.

Earlier, while walking Bella the dog, and smoking my fourth cigarette of the day on the downwind side of the line of trees separating the sugar beet field from the potato field, and just before conceiving the idea for this blog, I had been looking at the fields around me and wondering if this scene,


which is of an American soldier running past a burning German tank near Aldenhoven in December of 1944, had occurred anywhere near where I was standing.

And the next time I go into Aldenhoven's center, about 2 minutes away on my bicycle, I will wonder whether I am cycling where this scene took place,



when US Army soldiers were in Aldenhoven, also in December of 1944.

I wonder if that bombed house isn't where the MacDonald's is now.

Finally, here is a photo of Jülich back in 1945.






I don't have to wonder or imagine about this photo, as I've been down that street a few times already. I recognize the tower, which is still there. Maybe that's the three per cent of Jülich that wasn't destroyed.

Hats off to my German ancestors, the Schroeder (Shruydeh) brothers.





Bella the Dog and the Ramblin Man

I am Schroeder.

I was walking the dog, Bella, in a very windy sugarbeet field near Aldenhoven, just a short time ago, when I conceived of this blog. I had stopped to smoke my fourth cigarette of the day on the downwind side of a row of trees that separated the sugarbeet field from a potato field, and I had thought, 'What shall I do with myself when I get home?' And so the blog.

I was not only taking Bella for a routine walk, but also training her to heel. Bella, a shiny black Border Collie-like dog, perhaps not quite as clever as a Border Collie, sits and lies down on command. In German, the commands are, 'Sitz!' and 'Platz!', and Bella obeys these commands very well, but she hasn't been a good dog on the leash. She pulls in every direction, and wants to attack every other dog or anything she can't identify in the distance.
The other day, Elke and I were walking Bella, and in the exact place where I was now smoking my fourth cigarette of the day and thinking of this blog, a woman had passed with a chocolate lab with a blue neckerchief on its neck. The dog was very well behaved, but Bella strained and pulled and snarled.
Elke had said something like, 'Guten tag,' to the woman, but the woman responded with many words that I didn't understand. Her words were measured, neither polite nor impolite, like the words of a school teacher. Elke and I walked on a bit before she told me the woman had said that we had to train our dog.
So now I am training Bella so that, in the future, when we pass the woman with the chocolate lab, whatever it is that she says, whether 'Well done,' or, 'It's about time,' I can tell her to shut up.
If she says nothing I can still tell her to shut up, referring to the last time we met.
And if Bella isn't yet trained to heel, and again pulls and snarls, I can still tell her to shut up.
Meanwhile, Bella's training is going well.

I have named my blog, 'Schroeder's Ramblings' because I have done a lot of rambling, in both senses of the word. My original idea was to call it simply, 'Schroeder's Blog', but when I typed in the blog address with the same words as the title, the computer informed me that that address had already been taken. So I came up with the far more clever title, which hasn't been taken.

I chose the 'Awesome' layout for the blog for the sake of irony.

Though the reader may already understand my rambling in one sense of the word, the other may need some explanation.
You see, I've been a 'ramblin' man' for the past two years, though any image the reader may have of me in relation to the song may be misleading. My father was not a gambler down in Georgia, though I understand he'd played a little blackjack once or twice somewhere in Nevada. Nor was he ever involved in gunplay, though he'd taught me how to shoot a .22. No, my father, though born and raised on a farm in North Dakota, had turned out to be a computer engineer for America's space program.
And I was born in a hospital in Santa Monica, California, and not on a Greyhound Bus. I've ridden a few Greyhound buses though, and I can tell you that no one should give birth to a child on one.
Finally, though I have lived in the South, I lived in the suburbs, in Satellite Beach, Florida. We had a swimming pool and a big yard and two cars, neither of them jalopies. 
I have been to both New Orleans and Nashville though. As a child I was in Nashville as a tourist. In my twenties I was there on a road trip, then later I was there as a truck driver, which is more in the spirit of bein a ramblin man. I've only been to New Orleans as a tourist though.  I have never been to the bayou, and I've never met a Delta woman, or never one who identified herself as such.
Nevertheless, I have indeed been a ramblin man of sorts these past two years, trying to make a livin, more or less, and doin the best I can.

In the strictest sense of the word, my ramblin began on November 4th, 2011, when I walked away from our little home in Portugal accompanied by my daughter, Olivia.
In the strictest sense of the word, my ramblin ended about two weeks ago, when I settled down in Aldenhoven, Germany.
In the strictest sense of one sense of the word, that is.
Still ramblin in the other sense of the word.

My ramblin began because I was called to a vocation, to walk for peace to the Middle East, which is not so much like the Allman Brothers' Ramblin Man.
My ramblin has ended because I did the walk, then cycled to Aldenhoven from Italy while on the way to Syria, only to discover that the whole ramblin epic journey had been designed by the Grand Designer to meet Elke, the woman whose home I now live in with three of her six children and Bella, the dog.

And now I think I'll quit ramblin for a spell and have my fifth cigarette of the day.