Going Back to my Rutz
I took myself on an Artist Date to the local flea market this morning.
It's called "Roots" but everyone pronounces it the Pennsylvania Dutch way: Rutz.
I saw this painting there:
And this colorful sign:
An Amish girl sold me a bouquet of snapdragons and marigolds from a mason jar. She bundled the stems in a plastic bag full of water as though they were goldfish I'd won at a carnival.
We live in a wonderful world indeed when $3.75 will buy you this much beauty:
Later I got my hair cut, and overheard a story David Sedaris would have liked. At the washtub, the hairdresser gestured to an elderly woman across the room.
"That's Gertrude," she whispered. "She's 84 years old and ornery as hell. I can't help but laugh at her. She don't take no crap from nobody."
Over the course of my haircut, I learned that Gertrude kept a swear jar, and every December she took out the quarters to buy Christmas presents.