I am in Control

Guten tag.

Coffee. But there is no cigarette this morning, so I haven't been to the back porch to read the signs in the sky.

Looking through my window, however, the sky seems to be grey, overcast. Or maybe it's still just very early in the morning. Hmmm, no, it's a quarter past nine, not so very early. So then, it is grey and overcast outside. The leaves that are remaining on the trees in the park seem fidgety, and their smaller branches seem a little panicky, which means there is wind. From inside my room, though, looking through the window is like watching a silent film, so I can only see the wind through the medium of a tree.

If I were smoking, I would feel the wind, because I would be outside, in nature.

Meanwhile, today I am feeling a little cloudy, with a smattering of light rain.

But, as I said, no cigarette. No first cigarette, or fifth cigarette. No way to measure time except with a clock, and the passage of the sun. I won't go so far as to say I've quit; it's only been 14 hours since my last cigarette; but as I ran out of tobacco last night, and as today is a holiday, and there is no place open to buy tobacco, it is a good opportunity for me to stop smoking, to stop counting cigarettes.

On a normal day, I smoked something like eight hand-rolled cigarettes; maybe three in the morning, three in the afternoon, another two in the evening. And on a normal day, as you can see, I counted my cigarettes.

While working on an organic farm in the village of Montecchio Precalcino, Italy, the farmer that I worked for, Pierluigi, had told me that he counted his cigarettes. An Ayurvedic guru had told him that if you smoke only a few cigarettes a day, say, two or three, but can't say at the end of the day how many you smoked, then you are controlled by the tobacco. But even if you smoke a whole pack a day,

if you can say

at the end of the day,

“Today I smoked 20 cigarettes,” then you are in control, and not the tobacco.

Then Pierluigi had pulled out his pack of Camels, and offered me one. I'd removed one from his pack. We'd each put a Camel between our lips, looking at each other with squinting eyes, both of us nodding ever so slightly,

Knowingly,

and Pierluigi had given me a light, then he'd lit up himself, and we'd each taken a deep drag,

and he'd said, after exhaling, “Cigarette number seven,”

and I'd said, after exhaling, “Number four,”

and then we'd stood there silently, smoking, in control, before getting back to work.

But today I am not counting cigarettes.

Sigh.

Last night it was Halloween.

As in the Old Country, America, children in Germany also go trick or treating, wearing scary costumes-- or actually not so many in costumes as wearing scary makeup on their faces. They come to your door, as in the Old Country, and ring the doorbell, and when you open the door they all cry out in unison (because there are several, or at least two)(have you ever seen a lone trick or treater?)(If you did, it would seem strange, truly creepy, ja?)-- they all cry out in unison, “Süß oder sauer!?”, which means, “Sweet or sour?!”, which is their way of saying, 'trick or treat.'

Philip, one of Elke's sons, had the foresight to buy candy yesterday for the sweet or sourers, so we were prepared when the children came a calling.

A second cup of coffee, the sky gray and dreary outside my window. Remaining leaves and smaller branches nervous, twitchy. If I could see the street, I am sure it would be greasy wet.

A cigarette would go well with this second cup of coffee, if I had the means to roll one.

A cigarette.

So the children came a calling.

The doorbell rang, and I'd forgotten it was Halloween, and I'd opened the door, and there stood three 'sweet or sourers', with kinda scary makeup on their faces and in normal clothes; toned down versions of their American cousins, which we are, cousins, what with all the Schroeders and Schmidts and whatnot back in the Old Country. This reminds me, this thought about all the Schroeders back in the Old Country; there is another “Schroeder's Ramblings” blog. It is very difficult to be original these days when the whole world is connected through the internet. There's always someone, somewhere, with the same name, the same idea. Anyway, we'll save that for later.

So the children came a calling.

“Suß oder sauer?!”

I was caught off guard, and I stared for a moment, then, oh, right, where's the candy? Here it is, and I gave each kid a little mini candy bar of some kind, and they all said, “Danke shön!”, in a singsong manner, in unison, and they ran away.

I did it one more time, later, but then, because of a bad Halloween experience in my youth, I had to relinquish candy distribution to Philip.

You see, I had been 15 or 16, an age when you can no longer go trick or treating, or sweet and souring, without getting a lot of raised eyebrows.

“You there, with the long hair,” I think they would have thought back then, had I gone trick or treating at that age, “You, with the beer bottle half concealed in your jacket pocket, and the glazed look in your eyes, and not even a Halloween costume, what are you doing ringing my doorbell and holding out a grocery bag for? Didn't you and your friends smash my Jack o Lantern last year? And toilet paper my lawn?”

And I think they would have thought that I would have said, “Wasn't me, man,” because John E. was probably with me, hanging back a little, because he'd smashed the Jack o Lantern, but it had been someone else who had toilet papered the lawn.

And then we had stood there for an uncomfortable moment, with me holding out the Publix supermarket brown paper bag, with a glazed look in my eye, wanting munchies, and finally the elderly gentleman had thrown some candy into the bag with furrowed brows, shaking his head and hissing a bit, then slamming the door, and John E. had laughed his irreverent laugh, and I had said, “Cool.”

This is what I think they would have thought we had done.

Would have done.

If I'd gone trick or treating again at age 16.

So there I was, 15 or 16 or so, not going out for Halloween with my chums, who were being turned into donkeys, as in Pinocchio; no, staying home in the Halloween spirit, with a big bowl of candy, the good stuff, candy corn and mini Snickers bars, lots of it, and even a chair by the door, really devoted to waiting on all the little kids with treats, no tricks.

Oh, yes, and with a lifelike, rubber gorilla mask on my head.

A very scary mask.

My little nephew had screamed when he'd seen me in it.

He went into the Army many years later, possibly because of the trauma of that moment.

So there I was, handing out candy, and the trick or treaters who were arriving were thrilled by my scary mask, and by all the huge amounts of quality candy I was giving them, because my mom had bought so much.

Then a hard knock on the door, rather than the doorbell, and I open up, and there's John E., with Jimmy C., and Jim says something like,

“What's up Schroeder?”,

in a very cool way, because Jim was a model of cool, and pronouncing my name as “Shroder”, and not the North Dakota or the German way, and John E. standing there with him, holding a Marlboro, laughing his irreverent laugh, and neither of them in costumes, but with brown paper grocery bags and glazed looks in their eyes.

Jimmy C., by the way, is now a successful engineer and businessman, and a compassionate man, and he even donated money to me to help me on my walk for peace to the Middle East. So do not judge the teenager with a glazed look in his eye, holding out a brown paper bag, cigarette dangling from his mouth, when he comes to you on Halloween. If he comes to you in the same manner on other nights, seeking candy, then you may judge him.

Even then, do not judge, he may be truly hungry.

An aside, in no way related to anyone I know, just an idle thought: 

It's interesting, isn't it, how even the children of hard working arch Conservatives go out trick or treating, begging for candy? But I thoroughly digress.

Where was I?

Talking about cigarettes? No.

Cigarettes...

No, I was talking about the children of conservatives begging for candy... must not judge... my friend Jimmy C.... my nephew... scary mask...

Yes, so then, there is Jimmy C. and John E., getting Snickers bars to satisfy the munchies, but also because they know I live there, and they want to give me a hard time. 

Then a mommy and her little daughter appear. The little girl is dressed as a fairy princess, as my own daughter would be dressed some thirty years later when she went out trick or treating. As they step onto our big front porch, the mommy's look, when she sees my rubber gorilla head, is of pleasant surprise, but the little fairy princess opens her mouth, and her eyes are full of fear, nay, of terror, for about two seconds, real terror, then she backs away as far as she can with her mommy clutching her hand, and begins to scream, and scream, and scream.

“Noooo! No! It's okay! It's okay” I say, but I am waving my human hands at her, and stepping out the door, and shaking my lifelike gorilla head.

She screams even harder.

Meanwhile, Jim and John are both laughing most irreverently. Do not judge them.

Mommy is bent low now, trying to console her daughter, who is still staring at me and screaming in sheer, absolute terror.

I'm still waving my hands like an umpire at second base gesturing, “Safe!”, and saying desperately, “No! Don't scream, it's okay!” through my lifelike rubber gorilla mask with hair and fangs.

Then, ah! And I remove the mask.

“See? See? Just a mask!”

But the little girl continues to scream in terror.

Mommy whisks her away, and I can hear the little girl screaming still.

Jim and John laugh irreverently.

No mask, and the little fairy princess still screamed in terror.

And so it was that I relinquished candy distribution to Philip.

I hope the little girl recovered, and did not join the army.

I did not recover, and I joined the Navy.

Meanwhile, back in Germany, present day, Philip, being far too generous with the candy, and offering the whole bowl to the 'sweet or sourers', and the 'sweet or sourers' taking advantage of this generosity and shoveling the candy into their sparkly pink or black or orange custom Halloween bags-- Philip had soon run out of candy, and we'd had to close the shutters and turn off the porch light and shush the dog when the doorbell rang for the rest of the night.

And speaking of cigarettes...

er...of the dog, I will now take her for a cigarette...

er...a walk.

I am in control.