QUIET AMONG THE LEAVES

Years ago I loved autumn in Valkenswaard.  North Brabant, in fall, has marvelous colours and smells, and in addition to the tannic odour of the forests around town and the golds and bronzes along the roads through the farm areas, there were parts in the very centre of Valkenswaard which where glorious. Though modest about it; one had to be receptive and attuned. Most people will probably not see much special in small streets with low mean houses jammed together, with drifts of crunchy leaves along the very narrow sidewalks.

One such street terminated at the triangular square outside the factory gates of Willem II Cigars, one of the last rolling enterprises in a town whose prosperity had grown up in smoke.
There were trees there. Many trees. Early in the morning the fecund pong of fermenting tobacco from Indonesia and the Caribbean already dominated the air, combining with a dusty reek from fallen leaves in deep drifts along the eastern edge, where a row of drinking establishments welcomed the working classes.
Those bars were not open then, but one previous evenings they had been doing a booming business.
Stable adults early on, gradually replaced by younger wilder individuals, till at midnight the future of the town seemed entirely doubtful - the generation that would inherit the place seemed composed entirely of crazed yobbos listening to bad music.

Word to the wise: only drink with mature individuals.
There's less chance of insanity that way.


THE NATIVE CLAIM TO FAME

The smell of cigars, both in the manufacturing stage, and post-production, was a background perfume for the entire town. Old men smoked stubby bolknak cigars (a bolknak is a turd-like torpedo shape, thick in the middle and narrowing at both ends, like Anne Elk's brontosaurus), refined ladies in their middle years, who knew what they wanted, favoured half-coronas or tuit-knakjes (a tuit-knak is like a bolknak, but shorter and more elegant, often better tobacco), gallant young men preferred "wild" cheroots with an untrimmed floss at the end, or senoritas, which are rather like a lancero in ring gauge, but only half that length. There were many shapes, and a multitude of qualities.
Local cigars were mostly machine-made products, but only a few generations ago half the town spent all their time stripping central veins from leaves, layering the tobacco to ferment and mature, spraying on moisture to make it pliable, then bunching, and rolling the cigars by hand. The finished products were once sold as far afield as Moscow and Saint Petersburg, but were most avidly consumed within the narrow Netherlandish confine.

In Autumn, around the fabriekspoort square, the dominant leaf was quite unsmokeable, but delightfully crisp underfoot. Especially just after dawn, when the fog that had blanketed the town overnight still sluggishly dissipated. Trees lined the street that led indirectly to the Kleine Markt and the Leenderweg, and with scarcely any other souls about one could imagine oneself in another world. From somewhere a fragrance of coffee might drift, to remind one that the day was starting soon. Occasionally a passing bicyclist would ride crunchily through a sea of fallen leaves, providing the only sound so early.
Halflight eventually gave way to day.

Obviously these are fond memories. Willem II cigars are no longer made in Valkenswaard, and the Hofnar factory also closed down years ago.
Tobacco has ceased to be a significant element of local life.
But there is a museum that shows artifacts from that age.


AN ELSEWHERE ECHO

Here in San Francisco, cigars stopped being made far further back. The tabacaleras that once occupied industrial hutchings and basements in Chinatown disappeared at least a generation before the world war. Cigar smokers in this day and age are considered irredeemably depraved, possibly even conservative! Quelle horreur!
Enlightened people pull up their narrow noses at even the concept.
Damned wheatgerm freaks.

There are many trees along Hyde Street, past Washington both sides are dense with foliage. At intersections lights fade and flicker among the trembling leaves, and when fog covers the city at night glowing orbs at regulated distances guide the sight in four directions.
My friend the bookselling amphibian and I will once a week smoke a few cigarillos together at the end of an evening, after having contemplatively enjoyed some whiskey at a place whose name I will not mention, because I do not wish it to become any more popular than it is.
Long after closing time we will wander up Pacific between Nob and Telegraph, till we come to Hyde Street. Here we stop for the final smoke before parting.
It is my favourite intersection.
Quite otherworldly at three in the morning, and timeless at that time.

It always reminds me of the triangle outside the cigar factory.
It is the same, but not the same; it is different, but equivalent.

And, at times, it is fragrant.


Last night Nob Hill was beautiful in the fog.
Now is Autumn, there are fallen leaves.
I just thought you should know.
You were probably asleep.

TOBACCO INDEX


==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================