By Fred Lynch near Boston
She struck me as someone who would go right home and open the gates wide.
It was another long walk on another hot day. I’ve had many, and I’ve written about them often. I wander for drawing subjects. The resulting drawings—pictures of discoveries, really—tend to turn out better than my destination drawings.
On this sweltering day, I was dizzy from exhaustion. I was practically out of time and certainly out of energy. Following one last road out of town, I came upon a dry, untended grove of olive trees. It looked like a kind of graveyard, or, better still, a field of scarecrows. I’m always surprised by how olive trees look so unbountiful. At home, in New England, we have apple trees, and while they too, have gnarly trunks and branches, they seemingly burst with fruit. Not so, with olive trees. They often look empty. Especially in this field of olive trees. There was no pruning done here. The trees looked overgrown and exhausted. It was an exciting discovery to draw.
I stepped over a toppled fence and stopped before a favorite tree. Looking to my right, I could see in the distance what looked like a little house. There was very little shade around, but I settled for the dappled setting and got to work.
An hour later, a car crept by me. Perhaps heading to the house. It stopped, and I could see that I was being watched. It stayed with the motor running and passenger window rolled down. To cut the tension, I got up off my stool, walked over, bringing my drawing, my paintbrush, and a business card. I knew Italians don’t like trespassers.
It was a stern woman behind the wheel. I opened the conversation by smilingly saying I was an American—an artist. I handed her my illustrated card. She looked at it and showed she was not impressed. She gave the card back and talked quickly in Italian while shaking her head no. I couldn’t understand her. She said, “Cane, cane” (meaning “Dog, dog”) and made a gesture I won’t soon forget. She scrunched her hand and gripped her other forearm hard. It was a biting gesture. There was no concern in her voice or expression on her face.
I said, “Okay” and went back to my spot, packed up, and got the hell out of there. Another great spot spoiled.
She seemed to smirk as she hit the gas and drove away. I’ll never know if there really was a mean dog. But she struck me as someone who would go right home and open the gates wide, if there were.