Of course, I couldn't make sense of why these people, while content with themselves, participated in family celebrations, yet somehow remained passive. It wasn't important to me as a child anyway. Nevertheless, the image of the smell lingers in my mind. It seemed exceptionally gentle and always familiar.

On the lap of my grandfather, uncle, or whoever else was that calming man in the armchair, I, even as a child, became equally calm and serene. Almost dreamy.

Most of the time, as a small-minded whirlwind, I was gratefully welcomed and served the old man as a vessel that I had to fill again and again with old stories from Wilhelm Busch's books or with events from bygone days.

That, too, had something enduring about it.

And now, for me, pipe smoking is something I celebrate with peace and serenity.

Time couldn't pass faster during the day, but today, as in the past, time stands still. The warm feeling of a beloved pipe in my hand, the special tobacco, the ritual of packing and smoking—these are the almost perfect moments that balance the day.

Now I can understand what it's like to sit in an armchair, let the chaos drift by, and be content with myself, even if I'm not yet one of those old people.