I've been known to play favorites and there's a reason I couldn't include this post with yesterday's feature on Burgfest: I fell head over heels with this precious lady. Her top slipped down revealing her ancient cleavage…and she just giggled and hiked it back up. How could you not love someone who didn't let a little thing like public boobies interfere with her joie de vivre? That's her husband in the shadows; he knows he's married to a free spirit.
She didn't speak a lick of English and yet she managed to explain the entire process of spinning yarn from flax and sheepen wool. She LOVED having her picture taken–she even staged her shots.
Her partner in crime never stopped working. Their affections are carved in the marrow and they have a silent understanding. I have no idea what it is, but I'm sure of it.
I think she had a crush on me, too, because she'd grin and wave every time she saw me. The last time I passed by, she motioned me over, opened my hand, pressed something into it, and closed my fist around it.
A tiny little vial of honey, harvested by her man. That's what they call your husband in Germany–"mein Mann."
It's golden and gold. Precious treasure.
A stranger's hands, ancient and industrious, storied and wise…these hands have loved well.
She doesn't hold the whole world in them, but she holds enough of it to make a difference in the lives of others. Mine.
A single touch told me so.
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