To each, his own

Spring Field. Oil on stretched canvas, 11x14

There are lots of ways to get from our house in Gales Ferry to our daughter's house in Westerly, R.I. One is to drive up Route 184, go around the rotary, and pick up Route 2.

For lots of reasons recently, we've been taking that route. And I've noticed, time after time, a field beside a small house just south of the rotary. It's backed by trees and a stone wall. Its small hill and rippling undulations are covered with a dark moss and bright yellow grasses. And in the middle of it, a stand of thin trees is tipped now with springtime red, the buds pushing toward the sky.

And so, Sunday afternoon, I headed over to paint it.

When I arrived, I realized there was no good place to pull over close to the field. So I pulled up in a parking lot across the street, farther away than I'd like, but safe.

I set up and began painting, and in about 10 minutes, an older man made his way across the street. Would I mind if he looked over my shoulder? No, I said, of course not.

We talked a little, then. Turns out he owns the field I was painting, and he, too, thinks it's beautiful. He invited me to pull up in his driveway and paint whenever I want.

Then he came a little closer, took a look at my painting, a look that lasted about a half a minute, and said "Nice to meet you!" and headed back to his home.

Well, my painting is not for everyone.

Thanks for reading!