The Old Man on the Mountain

The old man quietly picked his grapes on a lazy afternoon as his German Shepard, Fallah, lay resting in the grass, watching him work. The old man had a thick pair of spectacles and a straw hat, and was dressed in plain overalls. He worked quietly and slowly, taking his time. This was his work ethic, but he did not consider his job "work." It was his life.

One day, the old man heard voices and told Fallah, who was alarmed at these strange sounds, to hush. Fallah hushed and listened with him. The old man saw two men walking along the beach at the foot of his mountain, arguing about something. The old man could not understand what they were arguing about, until he realized they were quarreling over who owned the beach. At this, the old man burst out laughing, a hearty, strong laugh like he had not laughed in years. He continued laughing, and at first Fallah was confused, cocking her head to one side. But soon Fallah joined him in laughing, though she did not know what was so funny. The old man and Fallah continued laughing for nearly half an hour before the laughter died down to a chuckle, and finally stopped. The old man was still amused, tears in his eyes from all the laughing, and concluded this was the funniest thing he had ever heard. Everyone knows that the beach belongs to the mountain and the mountain belongs to the Earth, and that's all there is to it. He noted that he should tell this joke to someone, because it was so funny, but then realized he had no one to tell it to. He shrugged his shoulders and called Fallah in.

One day, the old man looked up to see some dark, monstrous clouds advancing through the sky. They swiftly approached like a stampede of horses, casting their massive shadows over the land, engulfing all. The old man looked up and smiled, for he knew there would be rain. He set to work putting a tarp over his precious grapes, so that they would neither be flooded nor killed, and then he called Fallah in, and sat down in his house. Fallah was puzzled at why they were going in early, and slightly alert, but soon snuggled down in a comfy spot in the house and fell asleep. A crackle of thunder like the clapping the old man made when calling Fallah in signaled the downpour's approach. The old man looked up to see a slender thread of lightning splitting the sky open, and then an army of rain descending on the earth, who quickly gave in. Millions of little droplets parachuted down to the soil, their soothing lullaby soft but audible in the cool air. The old man drummed his fingers to the rain and inhaled, the rich smell of water pounding on earth filling his nose. He took a stone and wrote the most beautiful poem in the world on it. Seeing no use for it, he set it in the fireplace to contain the small but perfectly warm fire. He watched the words fade and melt away, and soon fell fast asleep.

The next morning, the old man checked on his grapes. They were fine, the downpour had not harmed them at all. Had it been a light shower, he would have allowed them water, but he knew that the storm might damage them, and they knew so too, so they forgave him for covering them. As he inspected the plants, he only found one tiny drop of water resting on a single, plump grape. He plucked the grape daintily and carefully, making sure to leave the drop on it. He then popped it into his mouth, concentrating only on the sweet taste. He swallowed the grape and opened his eyes. It was the best he had ever tasted.

One day, the old man was bored. So he devised a game for himself to play. He was tossing a rock up and down when he noticed a large puddle in his vineyard. He nonchalantly tossed the rock in, and it made a big splash. His curiosity aroused, he tossed in another rock. It made another splash, water pelting the earth like a miniature downpour. He decided he would play a game where he would try to throw a rock in the puddle so gently no water would go out of the puddle. He tried his first rock. Splash. He lost. He tired again. Splash. He lost. The old man realized what great fun this was, and played until the Sun was low in the sky, a deep shade of orange that only the Sun could be. He called Fallah in, and thought to himself that he ought to try this game again the next day, which he did. He never won, but that wasn't the point.

One day, the old man woke and felt today was to be an important day. However, he must first make it important. His grapes were almost mature, a comforting light green that reached out and caressed him when he munched one contentedly or gave one to Fallah. His grapes gave an intense joy nothing else could give you, but he did not have much to compare them to, so he did not know this. The old man decided to go down to the beach today, something he rarely did but enjoyed nevertheless. He called Fallah to follow him, and though it was not a part of her routine, she followed loyally behind him. The climb down was steep and hard, but they did not trip or stumble once. At the bottom, they gazed up at the horizon and received instant gratification. They were not expecting anything exciting or new, but rather something so ordinary and everyday it was stunningly beautiful. They saw the sunset as never before, the fiery orb sitting atop the water like the crown jewel of the sea. It was larger than they had ever seen it before, the entire horizon larger than them, larger than the mountain, larger than the world. It was the biggest thing they had ever seen, the horizon a vast mural of all that was beautiful. The sun was a jovial pinkish-red, as intoxicating as the wine the old man's grapes yielded, just as the sun yielded its beauty and the land yielded its bounty, just as everything in the old man's mountain yielded something equally admirable. He did not expect anything more from everything than exactly what it gave. The old man's world was small, very small, but it was all he needed.