The Colours of Life

By Christos Vardaris

“The atmosphere was heavy. A lot of people had come to the station, almost all our relatives, to bid my sister goodbye. Only the match-maker was absent. She knew better!”
Life stories, real events taking place in a village of Macedonia. Confessions from the heart. Injustice, disappointment, outbreaks but also happy moments.
If life could be painted with colours, some pictures would probably stand out, perhaps they would be brighter and more vivid. Perhaps they would stand out for their peculiarities. Some nice pictures and others not so nice. Some colourful and others in black and white (dark). But, certainly, equally important since they are all parts of life.
The book is composed of 22 short stories, each one painted with a suitable colour.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iWrite - Pigi - Daidaleos
• Release date: Aug 25, 2020

Christos Vardaris

Christos Vardaris est né en 1963, à Arnissa Edessis, dans le nord de la Grèce. Il est le père de deux enfants, employé dans le secteur privé, coureur de fond et cycliste.À travers le livre ‘’Les couleurs de la vie’’, il ambitionne de dépeindre des images et des expériences de sa propre vie.

Book preview

the-colours-of-life_ebook.jpg

title: The Colours of Life

author: Christos Vardaris

ebook edition: August 2020

isbn: 978-960-626-308-8

ebook’s layout was done by iWrite.gr publishing ateliers

Translated by Haris Mantanika

An iWrite Publication

Thessaloniki - Athens

Copyright © by iWrite Publications. Unauthorized reproduction of this ebook is prohibited under the Copyright law of the European Union and the international Intellectual property law schemes.

Author’s bio

Christos Vardaris was born in 1963 in the village of Arnissa in Edessa. He is the father of two children, a private employee, a runner and biker. In his book, The colours of life, he tries to convey images and experiences of his own life.

Introduction by the Author

If I had to paint life with colours, some pictures would probably stand out, perhaps they would be brighter, more vivid. Perhaps they would stand out for their peculiarities. Some nice pictures and others not so nice. Some colourful and others in black and white (dark). But, certainly, equally important, since they are parts of life. I have picked some of these pictures and tried to bring them to life through words in short stories. The people may be imaginary. The stories are true. Each little story has its own colours, its own course in time. Pictures that were meant or able to stay indelible in the passage of time. I want to capture them in this book. Its title is The Colours of Life. The colours every man can experience in his life. He finds them in his path, in his daily life and some of them leave their marks on him, the marks of life. Marks of colours. The colours of life. Because each man’s life is his path and the colours he uses for the pictures he experiences.

This is life.

I wasn’t satisfied

It was the first time I had been waiting for the dawn. I could say for sure I hadn’t slept all night. I was worried my parents may discover the cigarettes I had so skillfully and cunningly acquired the day before. Maybe I had smoked a few cigarettes so far, but they were more of a confirmation of my growing up than a pleasure. My quick response to my mum’s morning call to get out of bed probably made her wonder, since every time she woke me up to go to school, she had to persist like salesmen did. Repeatedly and for a long time.

But this time things are different. I feel old enough and I want to be independent. I have arranged to take cigarettes and matches with me. It took me no more than two minutes to get dressed and wash my face. My milk, waiting for me in my glass, and some bread and cheese went down at the blink of an eye. I had serious work to do today, I shouldn’t be long.

My mum had prepared the dorva¹ with cheese, bread, tomatoes from our garden, all nicely wrapped in a napkin and a flask of water. I don’t know if my father was proud or indifferent to the initiative I had taken. I could, however, see something different in his look -probably a look of wonder rather than satisfaction for having grown up. I felt good, except for the boots I was wearing because they were heavy and worn out and ugly.

My village is very beautiful, amphitheatrical, and at its lower part stretches a beautiful, blue lake. On its right the plain takes over, which must provide food for the residents of the area. It’s big and quite fertile, but for one crop only per year. The summers here are short and the winters very, very long. There is a second plain at the back of the village, where there is enough space and grassland for the herds of cows and sheep to graze, leaving the fields of my fellow-villagers intact. There is also a trough at each exit from the village for the animals to drink water when they go out or come back from grazing.

Each home should have at least one cow in order to have something to put in their plate every dawning day. We also had goats and chickens, some had pigs, too, but we didn’t because my mum didn’t eat pork and so we didn’t, either. We had two cows and thanks to my mum there were milk, different kinds of cheese, yoghurt and trahana² on the table every day. All these were home- made and fresh, since we had no fridge (we acquired a used one years later). My mum needed to arrange what to eat every day. My dad was a photographer and had no time for this. He had to visit all the nearby villages to make a living, as he was the only photographer in the area.

After taking on my dorva, I went to the one end of the village to gather the animals. I needed to cross it to the other end, where I would meet the other man and, having all the animals in front of us, we would lead them to the back grassland to graze for the rest of the day. In the evening, we would return following the same route backwards and delivering the animals.

I kept the cigarettes and matches handy to be able to reach them easily and discreetly. However, the matches got wet from humidity, only two remained dry. Never mind, maybe the other man had a light.

Two men used to go for the animals to avoid damage in people’s land and perhaps for company. The animals were too many for one shepherd, more than two hundred. There were three ways to feed your animals. One was to keep them in a stable, which was costly. The other was to pay a shepherd to take your place. And the third one was what I chose. To go during the season as many times as your animals were. So, I had to go twice in the summer, since we had two cows. Therefore, the morning someone went out with the animals, he didn’t know who his companion would be until he saw him. One thing was certain: that the younger one would run around all day, especially if he was a first-timer.

I feel very good, a new day, a new start. I can feel some looks of admiration for my father, though it’s me they see (a helping hand for his home, some think).My dorva is hanging from my shoulder, I have a walking stick in my hand, the cigarettes in my pocket and I’m in charge of the herd, at least until I meet with my companion. I feel really grown. Every time I saw the village herd, I had a sense of fear, now, on the contrary, I feel strong, I can control it and do what I want (I think). I don’t know why. Responsibility probably makes a man stronger, more mature.

For the first time I saw my fellow men under a different light. Judging. Each one was different in the way he dressed, the way he said good morning -if he did- in whether the animals he gave out to the herd were watered, clean, calm or not. That was the first time I noticed their individuality. You could tell the neat from the sloppy, the clean from the dirty. I think a shepherd with some experience and observation can evaluate each animal’s owner. Some would ask me to pay attention to more restless and dangerous animals.

I slowly reached the other end of the village. At the trough most of the animals drank water (they knew there is no water to drink after that). Here, I also met my partner for the day. I happened to be in the company of an old and experienced shepherd. Whether this is good or bad I’ll be able to say at the end of the day. The old man was good. To be honest, I trusted him right away. He was wearing a hat, filthy but still a hat, while the sun would burn my head all day. But I didn’t care. I only had one thing in mind: the cigarettes. Nothing else mattered.

On our way to the rear grassland, we went through a passage I hadn’t crossed before. The view from here was different, from a different angle. The village looked beautiful from here, too. We had taken the route uphill, so the village was at my feet, the lake in the background and to the right, at the distance, the mountain of Kaimaktsalan with some snow still at its top. I saw my neighbourhood from afar and I liked