True Grit, The Beloved True Grit!

In many ways, Greece is still a fledgling country, the remnants of pre-modernism still apparent. Lots of barely paved roads, electric lines strong like Christmas lights, small stores, modest homes, low and solid tying them securely to the earth. But where it is most evident is their economy of material. They still make use of scraps to improve their lot. Small boards of driftwood become a garden fence, bamboo becomes a shade awning on the porch, and the ever-present stone builds everything. I have grown to love this country and its people. The originals are short, sturdy, weatherworn to deep bronze, a good people, a solid people, they make do. I also do not know who all the others are, who is a tourist and who are immigrants migrating down from middle and eastern Europe. Lots of olive-skinned, dark-eyed beauty in men and women, mostly young and always more timid. And then there are Westerners, mostly European, very few, no Americans, and no Asians. If you were coming here you have to have a certain set to yourself a bent toward grit, true grit.

I have seen but a small section of Greece, southern all and one island. These are the lands of holidays, well-oiled bodies, white hamlets nestled here and there. Small restaurants, narrow streets, a mountainous, long country stretching out a long rocky and jagged coast, up steep hollows and along lonely passes. The wind keeps all things low, close to their sustenance, the earth. We learned quickly to keep all things with the wind if we expected to keep them. Between the wind and the rock, not much is available so low is what survives, plants and people. But then austere conditions sustain a certain flourishing, religion, and kindness. I do not testify to a current religious fervor but it has certainly animated those of the past. Churches are everywhere and like the people and fauna, they are strong, sturdy, beautifully built, and carved into the land as plentiful as the olive groves. This is a good land but one would have to set himself to it in order to stick.

These churches are everywhere even on the lonliest 
backroad like this one, high in a mountain pass.

Betty coming in the low door.

And ever thing ends in the sea.