(Here is part 1)
The Shepherd
The sun was just starting to come up, the air still cool from the night. The fields sparkled with dew. The shepherd was making his way with his flock through the village, gathering sheep as he went, bells clanging, hooves clattering on the stone. He passed through the village and continued down the road toward the hills, all of the sheep now following. A dog—a huge, shaggy, northern looking animal—ran around and behind the sheep, to make sure that they did.
The clatter died off gradually as they went out of sight. The village became quiet again, except for the church bells which would ring out once in a while, a resounding clang at first, becoming rather solemn with their fading echo. Other than that it was quiet. A dog would bark, occasionally, but the town wasn't really going yet. Those were the things that happened first, while it was still early.
When I got up early enough I could walk into the village and go to the cafe for an Espresso, and drink it with the men standing up at the bar. The women were nowhere to be seen. I would stand there with the men and hold the tiny cup like they did, rather daintily between the thumb and index finger.
After the men had drunk their coffee they would go outside and smoke. They smoked pipes, leaning against the doorway, legs crossed, and watched the world from beneath the caps pulled low over their eyes. They looked pretty tough, stolid, toughened by life and poverty and working outside. There was a sort of dignity about them, or at least a solidity. You felt, looking at them, that they knew who they were, and what to do. There was none of the nervousness or unsurety of the young. It was an admirable quality, this assurance, and more attractive because it was unself-conscious. But it was maybe a little rigid, too. You got the feeling that these men were nothing if not set in their ways, bullheaded.
Their wives kind of stayed in the background. You could see that the men were, nominally, in charge, but that the women were the stronger force, ruling from behind the scenes. They wore shawls and long skirts and did the housework and gossiped, shrugging their shoulders and shaking their heads at the men. I couldn't understand what they were saying, but their voices were shrill enough. It did seem like they were doing most of the work, but I could tell that the men had put in their fair share of time; it showed in their skin and their hands which were brown and calloused. Even though they had gone slightly to seed, shoulders stooped, and with the tell-tale belly—they still seemed strong.
We camped a lot like that—in the fields or woods surrounding tiny villages—over most of western Europe, and in some of the northern countries too. Often in the morning we were woken by the sound of sheep bells as a shepherd and his dog would set out with their flock. I loved to watch them walk down the road and over the hills.
Sometimes the shepherd was nowhere to be seen, and there were just the sheep and a dog—doing the work of a man, or more than one man.
Nicely crafted images, I could see it all.
How incredibly lovely! I must catchup with you. Can I ask God for an 8th day? It's incredible the talent here!