Full Boar Ahead

My uncle was thrown from his motorbike the other day when he swerved to avoid a wild boar.

He's the only person I know who would give me the occasion to write that sentence. In a family that's produced more than its share of colorful characters, Philippe is a standout.

Aside from the occasional brush with death, he leads a fairly charmed existence. Semiretired in Tuscany, he lives in an ancient hilltop farmhouse surrounded by vineyards, olive groves, forests, and a funny little menagerie. It's an open-air museum of Roman and Etruscan history, and the stupendous views include a glimpse of Dante's summer home. So idyllic is the setting, Philippe left San Francisco for it.

This was not his first motoring mishap. A few years ago, driving a load of books to his office, he rolled his car. (A harlequin edition VW Polo, it's a traffic stopper even when it's right side up.) That time the swerve was provoked not by wildlife but by another indigenous phenomenon: a shrine to the Blessed Virgin. Having seen it myself, I can testify that its placement is bizarre and dangerous, jutting distinctly into the road. In Greek mythology the Sirens lured sailors to their deaths, but in modern-day Italy the deed is done by plastic Marys. (Ironically, those shrines tend to be erected at the sites of fatal accidents.)

Fate permitting, Philippe will be 70 next month. He hasn't slowed down much, and he retains my lifelong admiration. I just hope he'll pay careful attenzione as he careens down the road. Because the lesson is clear: If Mary doesn't get you, she might send a boar to do the job.