Beyond the small village

   Climbing  uphill,  on  our  way  back  from  school,  we  would stop  by  Mr. Myron's  house.  We  sat  on  the  bench  in  the yard  and  looking  at  him, thought  how  different  he was from  the  old men  we  knew. He  usually  sat  on  a  low  stool he’d  made  from  poplar  wood  a  few  years  before,  which he  kept  in  the  middle  of  the  small  vineyard  he  used to roam  when  we  first  met  him.

   He  spent  many  hours  alone.  Me  and  three  of  my  classmates were  his  only  good  friends  in  the  area;  the men in  the  village  looked  down  on  him  with  suspicion  ever since  he  had come  to  their  parts,  when  his  house  on  the mountain  was  destroyed  by  a  summer  flood.

   He sought  to  buy  a  small  patch  of  land  and,  after labouring  hard  tending  the  land  of  others,  he  eventually succeeded.  Then  he  continued  to  work  as  hard  as  before and  told  the  villagers  he  was  happy  with  the  land  he  had,  and  could  make  more  than  he  needed  for  himself, and  also  would  be  able  to  help  his  children,  who  lived  in the  city.

   The  villagers  would  usually  laugh  and  say  the  soil  there was  infertile  and  stony;  you  needed  more  than  a  few acres  to  earn  a  decent  living.  The  soil  isn’t  infertile,  he replied;  it’s  just  a  little  poor,  but  that’s  exactly  how  it should  be  for  grapes  to  yield  good  wine.

   He  was  the  only  one  in  the  village  to  grow  grapevines. He  didn’t  have  the  equipment  for  the  annual  crops  the rest  of  them  grew  in  large  stretches  in  the  plain. But even if  he  had,  he said,  he  would  still  keep  vines,  because  he preferred spending  time  where  they  thrived,  on  the  hills by the  river  that  is,  rather  than  down in  the  plain.  He added also  that  he  liked  whatever  he  grew  to  live  longer  than  a year,  so  he  could  watch  it  change,  as  he  grew  older.  

 “Why  do  you  even  bother,  old  man;  have  you  seen  anyone  in  the  village  here  make wine?”,  we  once  heard  someone  tell  him. “You  toil  over  five  acres  harder  than  we toil  over  a  hundred  fifty”.  The  old  man  probably  didn’t  reply;  or  I  don’t  recall  what he  said,  if  he  did.  It  was  late  summer  and  a  few  white  clouds  would  often  drift  over the  river  around  midday. They  sailed  swiftly  and  soon  the  sky  would  clear,  until  there was  nothing  to  see  against  its  deep  blue  but  the  leaves  of  the  tallest  trees  swaying softly  in  the  breeze. 

   “They  tell  me  the  soil  is  very poor,  but  they  haven’t  got  a clue”,  he  told  me  one  day.  “I’ll  mix  in  some  pebbles  and sand,  to  make  it  a  little  poorer.  That  will  help  the water  drain  faster  and  the  sun  warm  the  soil  better”.

   We  watched  Mr. Myron carry  pebbles  and  sand  from  the river  and  scatter  them across  his  vineyard  and  the  other men of the village  scatter  their  fields  with  expensive fertilisers.  He carried  the  sacks  in  the  heat  and  we watched  him  sweat, thinking  they  must  weigh  as much  as he.  We’d  give  him  a hand  sometimes  and  afterward  sit with  him  under  the poplars,  alongside  the  nearby  river.

   One  day,  lying  on  the  riverbank,  he  told  us  why  vines give  better  grapes  when  grown  on  poor  soil. We  were amazed,  since  all  the  fruit  we  knew  up  to  then  grew tastier  and  better  on  rich  soil.  “In  poor  soil,  such  as  this, grapevines  must  struggle  hard  in  order to  survive.  But vines,  unlike  most  other  plants,  relish  the  struggle.  They drive  their roots  deep,  seeking  water  and  nourishment and they  also  find  there  some  elements  that  rarely  exist near the  surface.  Their  growth  is  lower  than  it  would  be in  rich  soil,  though  they  allocate more important  resources to  their  fruit.  You  see,  it’s  precisely  this  struggle  which makes  their fruit  so  tasty;  and  they  also  seem  tasty  to the birds  that  eat  them  and  carry  their seeds  elsewhere.  I sometimes  think  that  might  be  the  reason  the  poorer  the soil,  the tastier  their  fruit,  so  that  their  offspring  might be carried  off  to  more  fertile  lands. Perhaps  vines  rejoice when  the  birds  eat  their  fruit,  then”, he said. 

   Next  morning  we  found  him  still  at  the  same  spot.  He was  gazing  at  the  birds circling  in  the  air,  as  if  they were dancing.  He  told  us  he’d  spent  the  entire  night there, lying  by  the  riverside,  looking  at  the  stars  and  smoking.

   

   We  didn’t  talk  much  when  we  were  with  him;  we  liked listening to  his  tranquil  and  powerful  voice.  In time,  he  taught  us  how  to  tend  the  vineyard  from  one  season  to  the  next  and explained  why  things  were  done.  There  wasn’t  much  to  do  in  the  summer,  but  we spent  as  much  time  there  as  we  did  during  the  rest  of  the  year.

   One  summer  the  slope  caught  fire  and  the  mountain  beyond  the  river  was  burnt.  I remember  how  sad  the  scorched  earth  appeared  to  me,  the  water  running  through  it gray  from  the  reflection  of  the  surrounding  blackness,  the  revulsion  I  felt  for  the ashes.  And  I  still  remember  how  quickly  that  revulsion  vanished  the  next  day,  when  Mr. Myron  told  us  to  gather  some  ashes  and  mix  them  in  with  the  vineyard’s  soil. “Ashes  are  normally  useless,  but  not  always.  For  this  particular  variety  of  vine, they’re  just  what  it  needs”,  he  said.

   Three  years  later  that  vineyard  produced  its  best  wine.  It  was  less  than  seven  hundred  litres,  but  Mr. Myron  found  a  company  that  bottled  it  and  sold  it  at  a  very high  price  in  countries  around  the  world.  In  some  of  these  the  wine  was  awarded  and  one  day  we  read  his  name  in  an  international  magazine. He seemed then  happier  than  ever  and  time  and  again  would  repeat  how  the  magazine  was published  in  fifty  countries.  But  by  late  spring  the  following  year he had passed  away;  we  were  angry  with  those  who  looked  down  on  him  in  the  past  and felt  that,  for  some  vague  reason,  his  death  was  their  fault.  His  children  had  some people  manage  the  vineyard  and  the  first  few  days  we  sat  there  as  often  as  before, because  we  thought  of  him.  But  when  our  sorrow  gradually  subsided,  we stopped  going.

   Many  in  the  village  tried  to  make  wine  after  that.  They  planted  their  vines  in  the  plain  which  was  more  fertile  than  the  slope  and  closer  to  their  homes.  But  they  soon  lost  interest  and  abandoned  their  efforts  when  they  saw  their  wine  couldn’t  fetch  a  price  nor  be  sold  beyond  the  boundaries  of  the  small  Greek village.

    Yesterday,  walking  past  the  small  village,  by  the  river,  where  the  vineyard  used  to  be,  now reduced  to  a  bare  patch  of  land  muddy  most  year  round  and  rented  out  as  a  landfill,  i  thought  of  old  Myron.  At first  in  tears,  then  with  a  smile.         

"The struggle itself towards the heights is enough to fill a man's heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy"    

Reviews

[Onlyme]

This was a wonderful read, as Samuel said a good few lessons rolled into one epic story. That takes it time to explain a lot of valuable things in life we all need to hear out loud. Well worth the time to read. Enjoyed it a lot. Thank you for sharing.

[Themistocles Parnassos]

Thank you a lot Dee! I am glad you enjoyed it!

[Samuel Dickens]

There are several lessons to be had in reading this. A lesson on the benefits of hard work, faith in one's abilities, the turning of something near-worthless into metaphorical gold, and the failure of some to learn. A fine tale, this is.

[Themistocles Parnassos]

Thanks Samuel!

[Davidgeo]

I was gonna leave such a similar review I figured this would save us all a little time.

[Davidgeo]

Well done.

[Donna]

I like this story. The boys learned a lot from the old man. Nicely written, easy to read. Nice job.

[Themistocles Parnassos]

Thank you, Donna!

[Ms Paragon]

A man paving his path,doing what he is passionate about,standing out from all others.Inspiring story,it flows nicely.Well done!