Tales Of Crete -- Dances With Sheep -- 6

Tales of Crete© “Dances with Sheep” 6 By Jack Schimmelman

Carlos was a lovely man. I found it delicious that he could be so gay and be Jorge’s good friend since Jorge was clearly homophobic on some level. But good friends they were and I became close with Carlos. We shared certain views although I cannot tell you to this day what they were. He loved walking around in shawls, panchos of some kind; very colorful. I think he was not Indian, but European origin living in Buenos Aires. We all fell into step with the sun. We had no choice. It did not matter if you lived outside, inside, immaterial. The sun in Greece has character, personality. He rules. After a few months living in his majesty, one can truly understand worship. It wasn’t difficult and I think some of us fell into this stance. I did. I worshipped his sister, too. Sounds pornographic. I kept remembering through my bones the years of playing in the summer, in the sun by the sea. A young purely happy boy. But I wasn’t young. Not by any standard. And impure. A few miles north of Damnoni there lived a village named Plakias. Early in the season, perhaps just after the equinox, I became curious about this village. I walked there one night, passing goats in the haze of moonlight and warmth. We were instant friends, but then I’ve always been partial to horns. I arrived in the town, not a village at all. It was electric with pleasure. Night had just slumbered into town. Light from his majesty was now replaced by light from candles and Diana. In that radiance were hundreds of people, animated. I was invited to sit down by a couple from England. He was ordinary. Perhaps an accountant. She was the very embodiment of a goddess. Blonde, tall, chiseled features, unworldly eyes, the entire package. Of course, I fell in love. Before we spoke, a woman whisked into town, skipping and singing at the top of her lungs along the main drag, “sex and drugs and rock and roll.” One could only hope. After several swigs of ouzo the accountant and the goddess invited me to their room and do whatever we felt like doing. I told them, fine. Then they discussed their lives. That was my mistake.

Staying to listen. What flowed out of their minds was a relationship conflicted at best with children in London and they were looking for someone who could be a nanny to them. I felt they must have been very comfortable. I volunteered to be a manny. After all, why not. She was wild for the idea agreeing immediately. They were her children. Not his. He felt differently and so we argued like children and needless to say I never made it to their room where they insisted lounged the best black shiny hash I would ever see from Morocco. At the end Carlos had wandered by, sat down at our table and witnessed the debacle. I was very upset. He commiserated and laughed. After a while -- some more ouzo and I excuse myself. I go back to Damnoni in the moonlight walking in the shadows and puddles of moonlit beams. I start to sing and I hear all these sheep go “baaaa!” No kidding. So, I sing another long note and the same happens. It’s unmistakable, even for a chubby, curly headed boy from the Bronx. I follow their sound and come to a pen, which I hadn’t noticed in the dark. They are all there, gathered, watching me. So, I start to sing again and they respond. Like being in Church. I had a great time. I started to sing “Dancing in the Street.” If you’re interested, the best versions I have heard are the original by Martha and the Vandellas and Laura Nyro on her Fillmore East album. She always sang the shit out of that song. But I digress. So there we are and when I come to the words “every guy grab a girl, everywhere, around the world,” I sang “every sheep grab an ewe,” etc. I was delighted with myself. How clever. The sheep baaaaed nevertheless and we had a great party. This happened several times over the next short period of time. A month or two later, I learned that shepherds fed the sheep at midnight. St. Francis that I am, thought, “oh, brain boy!” There fled out my veins the thought of being a conductor of sheep. There vanished my mystical connection to the natural world. I was the guy going to feed them! They probably sensed what I needed so played along. They must have been hungry when I left. At this poignant moment, I’d like to announce that up until my 40’s I seriously considered petitioning the Congress (or whomever) to have “Dancing in the Street” replace our national anthem or at least America the Beautiful. If that didn’t succeed at a minimum to ensure it played during 7th inning stretches – the original with Martha and the Vandellas or Laura Nyro live at Fillmore East with just her piano. The next day, after that first symphony, I met Carlos and Jorge and I told them what happened. Jorge knew exactly why the sheep did what they did then, but he wouldn’t puncture my happiness. He came from

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La Pampa in Argentina – plains Native American. That first night, after the sheep symphony, I went to sleep under a canopy of light in my convertible cave. I dreamt I was dancing with the sheep. In the Street. And Laura Nyro was playing the piano.

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