A gleaner is a person who collects small, leftover, or overlooked things, usually by hand, slowly, attentively. It comes from old agricultural practice: after farmers harvested a field, poor or landless people were allowed to glean — to pick up the remaining grains, stalks, or produce.
He caught my eye at once, the man who’d come to the beach front where I had my tent set up and where Geo had parked the van a short distance from me. We were in a western point of Sicily and found a marvellous open spot between hills. No houses where surrounding the openness, only the sea and natural views. It seemed okay to park the vehicle and camp out here, a rare occurrence in Europe. We stayed here for nearly two weeks, almost daily setting up our camp and taking everything down the next morning. We would sometimes move to other places but then came back to the quietness near San Vito lo Capo.
And always he was there. At first I wondered whether he would be annoyed with us, free campers. But he wasn’t. Slowly and attentive he would walk the shore line, collect buckets of snails. He reminded me of myself, as I’d sit in the tent and embroider, equally slowly, equally attentive.
I would greet him and he would greet back. Arriving in his little ragged white Fiat 500 he’d come very early morning and would only gather for an hour or so. Snails are a delicacy and this time of year there were many. They’d stick to my tent each morning and ventured around while I sat waking up, embroidering and preparing chai.
My piece of fabric, hand dyed with marigold and tagetes from my garden, would travel to cafe’s where Geo and I sat enjoying latte. It would go to merceria shops to find more threads in the same color (something that I not succeeded in, therefore there is a color difference). It would go up the hill to do a trekking through Zingaro national reserve. It was here that I got caught in a storm, deciding to walk on I met with several semi wild horses. Enchanted by their beauty and remarkable way of living I walked on over rough terrain, not following the path but instead, trying to go to the end of a steep edge. I wanted to see the sea that was covered in mist, from high above without barriers in front of me. Then these horses came running towards me, or so it seemed, and suddenly, like in a circus act, they started parading in a line. As if to warn me not to go further down the cliff. Watching the horses in delighted excitement I was, of course, much more enthralled by their behavior than a sea covered in mist.
Upon coming back to our camp spot the next day, where Geo had picked me up from the hike, I woke up with the Shoreline Gleaner coming in his white Fiat 500 and his slow patience to fill up his tattered bucket. We’d greet and I kept on embroidering.
