The Shepherd's Last Stand

The tie—a strip of silk, polyester, or, if you’re feeling particularly adventurous, cashmere. A curious item of clothing, isn't it? It’s essentially a noose we voluntarily wrap around our necks, presumably to show the world that we’re ever so important. As if we’re saying, “Look at me! I mean business.” And let’s not forget its role in hiding the shame of shirt buttons—those little round protrusions that apparently offend the eyes of the well-to-do. All this for an accessory that’s as useful as a chocolate teapot.

But in the world of Espiridión, the world of goats and desolation, ties don’t exist. They’re as foreign as mobile phones were in the 1980s. Espiridión didn’t care for ties, or suits, or status symbols for that matter. His world wasn’t about vanity; it was about survival. He didn’t need a necktie to make an impression, nor a fancy watch to feel dignified. For him, dignity came from something far more elusive, something that modern society, in its air-conditioned offices and overpriced coffee shops, has all but forgotten: honest work. The kind that makes your back ache and your hands calloused, the kind that gets you up at the crack of dawn to face the brutality of nature.

Espiridión, now teetering on the edge of 90 years old, lives out his twilight years in Eagle Pass, Texas, the richest and most powerful country in the world—so they say. But if you ask him, he’d scoff at such a notion. In a nursing home where the TVs are loud and the hallways sterile, he recounts tales of his youth to anyone who'll listen. It was Maria and Armando who crossed his path. A retired couple themselves, likely bored out of their skulls and seeking a bit of purpose by visiting the elderly—a commendable yet somber pastime, especially in a place where most residents have no one left to visit them. And there Espiridión was, sitting quietly, perhaps wondering what to make of his newfound situation.

He didn’t start out life in air-conditioned comfort. No, Espiridión was a shepherd—a proper one. None of this sitting-on-a-fence-with-an-iPad nonsense you might imagine. No, his life was one of hard graft. The kind that leaves you too tired to worry about trivialities like politics or what you’re wearing to dinner. For most of his youth, he toiled in the mountains of central Texas, in the semi-desert that stretched for miles, so arid that even the cacti looked a bit thirsty.

Being a shepherd, you see, is one of those professions that no one really thinks about anymore. In an era of AI and self-driving cars, it feels quaint—romantic even. But I assure you, there’s nothing romantic about the relentless grind of herding goats across unforgiving terrain. Espiridión didn’t have weekends. Goats, after all, don’t observe the Sabbath. They eat every day, and they drink every day. They also have an irritating habit of climbing trees just to chew on the leaves like it’s the greatest snack on Earth. They were his responsibility, those goats, and they knew it.

The job of a shepherd is simple yet demanding. You didn’t need qualifications, nor did anyone ask for your birth certificate. Espiridión didn’t even need to know how to read or write. Life’s essential skills weren’t taught in a classroom; they were passed down through sweat, blisters, and sheer necessity. The only interview you needed was a conversation with the boss—some ranch owner who could tell within five minutes if you were up to scratch. And once you were hired, that was it. You were married to the job. No holidays, no “working from home.” Your home was the mountain, and your work was ensuring the goats didn’t get eaten by coyotes or wander off to who-knows-where.

You lived out there, often alone, with nothing but the sky, the scrubland, and the endless bleating of your flock. Well, not completely alone—there were the dogs. The indispensable dogs, those faithful companions who, in many ways, were better at the job than you were. They knew when to round up the goats, when to chase off intruders, and when to simply sit by your side, sharing the silence of the vast emptiness around you.

Life as a shepherd was solitary, but it wasn’t lonely. There's a difference, you see. Solitude allows you to think, to be at peace with your own mind, while loneliness claws at your soul, making you yearn for something—anything—to break the monotony. Espiridión had solitude, not loneliness. He had his goats, his dogs, and the knowledge that he was doing something real, something that mattered, even if the rest of the world barely noticed.

But now, in the nursing home, things were different. There were no goats to look after, no wild dogs to keep him company, and no mountains to gaze upon at dusk. Just the buzzing of fluorescent lights, the occasional hum of a vacuum cleaner, and the distant sound of television soap operas, which he found utterly baffling.

He often thought about the goats and the life he’d left behind. He thought about the simplicity of it all—the days when he didn’t have to wonder what the world thought of him because the world didn’t care. And neither did he. The idea of status was as foreign to him as the concept of wearing a tie. Who cared what kind of clothes you wore when you spent your days in the company of animals who only judged you based on how well you led them to water?

And yet, here in Eagle Pass, in the “richest and most powerful country in the world,” everything seemed to revolve around appearances. Around the illusion of importance. People judged each other by the things they wore, the cars they drove, and the titles they held. It was as if the tie had become a metaphor for life—a piece of cloth, tightly knotted around the neck, restricting breath, but giving the illusion of control.

Comet and Glass Eye

There are three verbs that define a shepherd's life: to guard, to guide, and to feed. It’s biblical, isn’t it? Straight out of the Old Testament. You know, those ancient professions that have been around since the dawn of civilization—the kinds of jobs that sound heroic in poetry but, when put into practice, tend to involve a lot of sweat, dirt, and downright exhaustion. Shepherding is one of them, right up there with prostitution and mining. Both of those are grueling, unpleasant, and necessary, and like the latter, shepherding has rarely been rewarded with more than a pat on the back—if you’re lucky.

Yet Espiridión, the goat herder in question, was more than content. He wasn’t after applause or medals. He didn’t need a parade in his honor or, God forbid, a TED Talk. His satisfaction came from knowing he’d done something vital, something that mattered, even if most of society couldn’t be bothered to care. People look at shepherding with the same disinterest they reserve for road sweepers and bin men. Essential, yes, but not exactly glamorous. However, Espiridión knew better. While most people sit in their air-conditioned cars, stuck in traffic, wondering why their Wi-Fi is slow, Espiridión had spent his days outside, walking for miles in the open countryside, breathing in air so fresh it could’ve been bottled and sold to city folk at some organic market.

You see, he wasn’t just guarding goats. No, he was guarding a way of life that’s as old as human civilization itself. And let me tell you, when you’re out there, under the wide-open sky, with nothing but the scent of wildflowers and sagebrush to keep you company, it’s hard not to feel a certain sense of pride. It’s work that feeds humanity, after all, in the most literal sense. Forget your tech startups and hedge funds—none of that would matter if no one was around to herd the goats and sheep that keep us all alive.

And while we’re on the subject of hard work, let’s talk about walking. Not the sort of leisurely stroll people take through the park on a Sunday afternoon, mind you. I’m talking about the kind of walking that grinds your feet into the dirt, day after day, kilometer after kilometer. Espiridión did this for decades, and do you know what? He was all the better for it. While city dwellers were choking on smog, he was filling his lungs with the crisp scent of pine and juniper. While others were drowning their sorrows in cheap whisky or smoking enough cigarettes to power a steam train, Espiridión was walking towards another sunset, probably chuckling to himself at the madness of it all.

It’s little wonder that he lived a long and healthy life. No one needed to tell him about fitness trackers or five-a-day fruit and veg nonsense. His daily routine was his fitness plan, and his meals were simple but honest. Nature provided, and he reaped the benefits. He got to witness the world in all its raw beauty: sunrises that would leave you speechless, sunsets that painted the sky with the kind of colors you’d never find on a city billboard, and, on the rare occasion, a comet streaking across the heavens. He saw Halley’s Comet in 1986, albeit dimmer than what his ancestors had witnessed back in 1910, but still, a comet nonetheless. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t a spectacular show; what mattered was that he saw it at all, out there in the quiet of the predawn sky, when most people were too busy worrying about their electric bills.

And speaking of technology, Espiridión did eventually adopt one bit of modernity: the transistor radio. This wasn’t some trendy gadget he’d picked up because it was “in.” No, this was a lifeline of sorts, a companion in the wilderness. By the late 1970s, radios had become affordable enough for even a humble shepherd to own. And what a world it opened up! The music, the soap operas, the ballads that told the stories of love, loss, and vengeance. One that particularly stuck with him was Porfirio Cadena, El Ojo de Vidrio—Porfirio Cadena, the Glass Eye. It was both a radio drama and a popular corrido sung by Los Alegres de Terán.

Now, El Ojo de Vidrio was no ordinary story. Porfirio Cadena was the sort of anti-hero who loses an eye in a fight, replaces it with a glass one, and sets off on a path of revenge and mayhem. Think of it as a Mexican Clint Eastwood but with a far worse temper. And in true cowboy fashion, Porfirio meets his end not in a hail of bullets, but at the fangs of a coral snake. And if you think snakes aren’t that dangerous, Espiridión would set you straight. “The poison of a coral snake is deadlier and faster than a rattlesnake’s,” he would say, with the kind of authority that only comes from living in a world where such creatures are a very real threat.

He knew all about snakes—real ones, not the metaphorical kind that politicians and used-car salesmen peddle. And let me tell you, Espiridión didn’t buy into any of those ridiculous legends about snakes sneaking into the cribs of breastfeeding mothers and sucking milk from their breasts while sticking their tails into the baby’s mouth. That’s just plain daft. If you know anything about snakes, you’d know they don’t “suckle” anything. They swallow their food whole, thank you very much. And anyway, Espiridión didn’t have time for myths. He was too busy living in the real world, dealing with real problems—like making sure his goats didn’t wander off into the wilderness or fall prey to a mountain lion.

The Accidental American

It’s funny, isn’t it? Life has a way of surprising you when you least expect it, usually with a firm slap to the face. One minute, you’re a humble goat herder, working in the sun-baked wilderness with not a care for anything but the next herd of goats, and the next, you find out you’re an American. Not just in the philosophical, “I’ve watched a lot of Hollywood films” sense, but a bona fide U.S. citizen. It’s the sort of plot twist you’d expect from a cheesy soap opera, but this wasn’t some scripted drama. No, this was Espiridión’s life.

But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. To really appreciate the absurdity of it all, we need to step back and look at where it all began—on a ranch, somewhere between the blistering heat of the desert and the unforgiving, craggy hills where goats thrive, and just about everything else clings to survival.

You see, the extreme climate of northern Mexico was something Espiridión took in his stride. While most people would melt into puddles of sweat the moment the temperature hit 40°C, he was out there, stoic, not giving a damn about the weather. He wasn’t exactly on holiday in the Bahamas, but for a man whose life revolved around tending goats, the blistering heat and bone-chilling cold were just part of the scenery. He didn’t have time to complain; there were goats to herd, and they weren’t about to take care of themselves.

The 1950s, though—that was something else entirely. Espiridión remembered it vividly, mainly because of the drought that lasted for seven years. Seven. Bloody. Years. Imagine that for a moment. Not a dry spell, not an inconvenient lack of rain for a couple of months, but an unrelenting, soul-crushing drought that dragged on for the better part of a decade. President Ruiz Cortines, bless him, had even declared “the march to the sea,” some desperate government effort to find a solution that was as useful as a chocolate fireguard. Almost all the cattle withered away, falling like dominoes in the dusty fields. The cowboys who prided themselves on herding tough, hardy cattle were left staring at empty pastures. All except the goats, that is. Goats stood tall, chewing on whatever miserable vegetation remained. While everything else keeled over, the goats kept going, like some kind of scruffy, four-legged apocalypse survivors.

Espiridión’s world, though simple, was not solitary. He had a wife, and they built a family, starting in Frontera before moving on to Monclova, where his daughter settled down. Now, this is important because while the goats had kept him company in his younger days, it was his daughter who would see him through his final chapter. As time does to all of us, it began to take its toll on Espiridión. The once-strong shepherd, who had spent his days walking miles through the countryside, started to falter. His body couldn’t keep up with the man he used to be. And when that happens, when you’ve lived your life outside of the typical 9-to-5 grind, society tends to forget you.

You see, shepherding is one of those jobs that doesn’t come with perks. No health insurance, no pension plan, no cushy retirement home waiting for you at the end of it all. Espiridión worked in the forest, out on the ranches, where no one ever thought about signing up for Social Security. So when his health began to fail, and he needed third-level care—surgery, no less—at the Gonzalitos Hospital in Monterrey, he was, quite frankly, stuffed. He didn’t have the money, and neither did his family. The only thing they had in abundance was worry.

One day, his daughter, perhaps in a fit of both frustration and curiosity, decided to play amateur genealogist. She’d heard whispers from her great-aunt when she was just a little girl—rumors that Espiridión wasn’t just any old Mexican goat herder. No, according to family lore, he was born in a small town in southern Texas. A gringo, by birth, if you can believe it.

At first, Espiridión didn’t care. Why should he? He’d spent his whole life not needing a birth certificate, let alone pondering where he came from. The only date that ever mattered to him was the day he was paid for another hard day’s work. The whole concept of nationality seemed like a bureaucratic afterthought. But as the days wore on, and as his daughter dug deeper into this strange revelation, something became clear: this wasn’t just some dusty family rumor. This was real. Espiridión, the goat herder who had lived most of his life in the rugged Mexican countryside, was, in fact, an American citizen. And with that citizenship came something he never expected—benefits.

Yes, benefits. The very thing that had eluded him his entire life was suddenly within reach. Pension in dollars, Medicare, monthly checks from the U.S. government—it was like winning the lottery without ever buying a ticket. But there was one small catch. To collect on these newfound entitlements, Espiridión would need to move. Not far, mind you—just across the border to Eagle Pass, Texas. About 150 kilometers from Piedras Negras, where countless others had tried to cross illegally, risking life and limb, only to be caught and deported. Espiridión, though, wouldn’t be smuggling his way across the Rio Grande in the dead of night. He’d be going in like a true-blue American, with all the paperwork to prove it. He’d arrive not as an immigrant, but as a citizen, born and bred on U.S. soil, with the full backing of the U.S. government.

His daughter laid it all out for him one morning, the excitement barely contained in her voice. “Dad, everything’s arranged,” she told him. “The consulate and the county have helped us, and you’re going to Eagle Pass. You’ll get your pension, you’ll have Medicare, and we’ve found you a little room with an emigrant countryman. And the best part? You’ll receive a check every month from the government. You’ll be sorted, Dad. Sorted.”

It must have been a surreal moment for Espiridión. After all, how does one process the news that, after 80-odd years of living off the grid, they’re suddenly part of the system? But that’s life, isn’t it? One minute you’re living under the radar, and the next, you’re part of a bureaucracy so vast it makes your head spin.

The Lone Star State

At first, he couldn't quite wrap his head around the notion. Sitting there, listening to his daughter lay out the grand plan—complete with pensions, Medicare, and a life of relative comfort—it all felt distant, unreal. Crossing the border for work? Sure, that made sense for younger men, men still full of ambition or desperation. But to live out the rest of his days there? That had never even flickered in his mind, and now it loomed large as his only option. His wife was gone. His daughter, though devoted, couldn’t possibly look after him. And Espiridión himself? The once indomitable shepherd could no longer be the self-reliant man he had always prided himself on being.

Of course, it wasn't death that bothered him. A lifetime spent among goats in the harsh wilderness had made him well acquainted with the concept of life’s end. He had walked with it, side by side, in his line of work. You can’t herd goats without dealing in death; it’s as integral to the business as the animals themselves. After all, a good chunk of his income had come from selling goats for cabrito al pastor, that delicacy of the northern states, where the goats are roasted whole and served up in fancy Monterrey restaurants to people who’d never set foot in the rugged terrain those animals came from. Espiridión knew his goats would never live long enough to graze lazily into their twilight years. He knew life wasn’t forever, and that was fine by him.

What wasn’t fine, though, was losing his independence. His identity had always been tied up in the fact that he could manage on his own, thank you very much. Whether it was tending the herds through freezing winters, building makeshift shelters with flat stones to shield the newborns from the nortazos—those brutal northern winds—or fending off the aire chivero, a cold front that snuck in from the Gulf of Mexico and was known for killing off any goat that hadn’t been properly protected, Espiridión could handle it. He was a survivor. But this? This need to rely on others for help? This was a different kind of battle.

When he finally moved into his new room in Eagle Pass, it was a modest affair. A bed, a table with a single chair, something resembling a stove, and a freezer that was more a comfort than a necessity. He couldn’t stand the thought of living without some kind of connection to the animals that had shaped his entire life, so naturally, he acquired a couple of chickens—chickens that soon enough became roosters, crowing at the crack of dawn. It wasn’t much, but it brought a little of the ranch life back to him, a tiny echo of the world he’d left behind. He didn’t need much to survive: just some beans, eggs, coffee, and corn flour to make his own cornbread. The staples of a lifetime lived outdoors.

But age is relentless, and even the toughest shepherd can’t outrun the slow decay of his own body. The illnesses crept up on him, as they do. Visits to the county hospital became frequent. And while his daughter would travel from Monclova to check on him, the reality was becoming clear to everyone involved: Espiridión could no longer live alone. His body had given up the fight long before his spirit was willing to admit defeat. It was time to move into the nursing home.

Now, let me tell you something about nursing homes. They might be palaces of hygiene and modern medicine, but for someone like Espiridión, they might as well be prisons. The man had spent his entire life outdoors, breathing in the raw, unfiltered air of the mountains and the plains, his eyes attuned to the sunrises and sunsets that marked his days. So, being cooped up inside, surrounded by four walls, under the fluorescent lights of a place that smells faintly of antiseptic and boiled cabbage? It was unbearable. Worse still, the food was an insult to his palate. It wasn’t his food, it wasn’t the simple, hearty fare he was used to—beans, tortillas, the occasional roasted goat leg. This was bland, institutional fare that left him longing for the tastes of his old life.

Espiridión tried to make it work. He did. But it wasn’t long before he’d had enough and returned to his little room, his sanctuary. He was stubborn, still clinging to the last remnants of his independence, but reality wouldn’t let him be. His body was a relentless reminder that those days were behind him. Back to the nursing home he went, despite every fiber of his being screaming against it.

In the nursing home, he struck up a connection with two fellow residents, Maria and Armando. They were a retired couple, not unlike himself, and they became his lifeline to the outside world. They were the only people he really talked to, the only ones who understood him enough to bring him the little comforts he needed—vitamins for his aching body, analgesic gel to rub into his rheumatic joints. They were the ones who checked in on him when the loneliness became too much, and they were the ones who brought a little humanity into the otherwise sterile environment.

But even as his body weakened and his world shrank to the size of a nursing home room, Espiridión’s mind remained sharp. He understood what was happening. He knew he was no longer the man who could walk miles through the countryside or fend off a pack of wild dogs from his herd of goats. He had come to terms with his mortality. What he couldn’t reconcile, though, was the loss of independence. The quiet dignity of being able to live life on your own terms, even if that life was hard and unforgiving.

The Tie That Binds

You’d think after 90 years of watching life ebb and flow, death would be as natural as taking your boots off at the end of a long day. But for Don Espiridión, the humble goat herder from the rugged plains of northern Mexico, it wasn’t death that troubled him. No, it was something far more bizarre: a necktie. A piece of cloth, an utterly pointless accessory, had become the single most vexing thing in his final days.

Maria and Armando, the couple who regularly visited him in the Eagle Pass nursing home, had never seen him like this before. Usually, Espiridión was the epitome of calm. He had faced down the nortazos—those brutal winds that swept across the desert—had spent years tending to his herd in the solitude of the wilderness, and had outlived friends, family, and even his goats. Yet here he was, unnerved by something as trivial as funeral fashion.

"The undertaker came to buy my burial," he told them one day, his usual stoicism giving way to a faint sense of alarm. "He said they wanted to start paying for everything. I’m not afraid of death, no, that’s not it. I’ve learned that here, everything is about money. No surprises there, the nurse warned me. It’s just... it’s the tie."

Espiridión looked genuinely perplexed. He’d spent his entire life never needing to wear a tie. In fact, I’d bet that a tie would’ve been as useless to him in his previous life as a fur coat in the Sahara. Goatherding doesn’t require formal wear, and the goats certainly wouldn’t have been impressed by one.

"I’ve never worn a tie," he said, the wrinkles on his weathered face deepening with concern. "And now they want to bury me in one. How am I going to look in a tie?"

I can picture Maria and Armando trying to stifle their smiles. Here was a man who had lived through droughts, raised children, worked himself into the ground, and outlived most of his contemporaries, worrying about something as petty as a necktie.

But Espiridión was nothing if not pragmatic, and Maria, ever the quick thinker, offered a simple solution. "Don’t worry, next Sunday we’ll bring you a tie. Armando can fix it up for you, knot it properly, and you can try it on in front of the mirror. That way, you’ll know exactly how you’ll look." Problem solved.

Days passed, and as promised, Maria and Armando returned with a tie. They found Espiridión, tie in hand, looking uncharacteristically serious. The usual twinkle in his eye, that quiet satisfaction of a man who had seen it all, was gone.

"Have you tried on the tie yet?" they asked.

"Yes, already," he replied curtly, and then quickly changed the subject. No more talk of ties, no more fretting about funerary fashion. It seemed the ordeal had left its mark, but Espiridión, in his typical fashion, wasn’t going to dwell on it.

It’s funny, isn’t it? A man who had lived his entire life on the fringes of society, outside of modern conventions and norms, suddenly grappling with something so thoroughly modern as the idea of being dressed up in death. And yet, he faced it just as he had faced everything else in his life: with quiet dignity and acceptance, even if he didn’t particularly like it.

As time passed, Espiridión’s health inevitably declined, as it does for all of us, even the tough ones who seem invincible. Maria and Armando continued to visit him, but eventually, as it happens, the day came when he simply wasn’t there anymore. One day, when asked about him, Maria responded with a short, somewhat somber, "He died. They didn’t tell us about the funeral."

It was a strangely fitting end. Espiridión, the man who had lived in near isolation for most of his life, died without much fanfare. Just as his birth had been an unremarkable entry into a hard, nomadic life, his death followed suit. It was quiet, understated, and the world carried on.

But I like to think that, in death, Espiridión went out in a way that made sense to him. Perhaps, in that final passage, he wasn’t burdened by the silly tie or the sterile atmosphere of a nursing home. Instead, maybe he found himself walking once more through the terrain he knew so well—past the rugged hills, across the sunburnt plains dotted with ash trees and purple flowers that bloom after a rare rain. And there, in the distance, he would have seen the Rio Grande, its black whirlpools swirling treacherously as they had for centuries. A border, yes, but one that meant nothing to him. He was born across that line and lived his life on the other side of it, but it was all the same to him. Land is land, after all.

And as Espiridión walked, the goats would reappear. They would follow him as they always had, nudging at his heels, bleating softly. His faithful dogs, too, would trot alongside, ever vigilant, ever loyal. No ties, no beds with rails, no undertakers talking about money. Just Espiridión, returning to the life he’d known. The earth beneath his feet, the sky overhead, and the mockingbirds singing songs that would carry him forward.

In-text Citation: (Corona Lozano , 2021, pp. 24-28)