I had the strangest experience yesterday. I was in a restaurant, one of those 'not fast food but not sit down and be waited on' types that are popular now (and wonderful, as far as I am concerned). As I headed to the drink machine to fill up my cup, I spied a group of retirement aged ladies talking quietly. They were happy and relaxed. But, that wasn't the most interesting thing about them. They were also all either knitting or cross-stitching. I had stumbled upon some needle-arts club of sorts out for their weekly Saturday conclave. I was drawn to them bodily, and I fairly floated over, unfilled cup in hand, and went from woman to woman looking over their shoulders examining and commenting on their work. I even asked the woman knitting if I could touch her project so my fingers could confirm the softness of the yarn that my eyes anticipated. They were pleasant--probably pleased that someone had taken an interest in their endeavors. Perhaps they were even surprised that someone my age cared (these skills are a dying breed among my peers I have noticed). But for me, something more profound had happened. Something unlooked for and something unexpected. A pin prick. Let me explain...
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Wendy Picard GorhamWendy lives and works in the midst of words everyday--English teacher by profession, and writer by passion! Archives
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