He never liked the brocante,
When we first married, he told me flea markets didn’t exist in France.
When I saw one, I screamed, “Look!! It’s a flea market!” He replied, “That’s junk.”
They didn’t exist because he thought that it was junk.
Though he tolerated it because of me.
Love does crazy things to us.
Then, little by little—there are a million stories to tell, but I will cut to the chase and say little by little, he started getting into it.
Eventually, years later he is starting to spot things I miss.
Nearly a yard long.
Framed in a gilded ruin decay, which says “MUST HAVE.”
1800s classic French engraving.
It reminds me of French Husband and me on our first trip together to
Angel’s camp.
But that is another story.
That starts with camping, swimming nude, being stuck on a ledge after hiking the wrong way, trusting the balancing act, and understanding that planning is sometimes good.
If only our balancing act had been so tender as this.
But the engraving softens the memory of that experience. Well, sort of.
The best part is that French Husband found it for me.
And managed to get us off that ledge in one piece.
Wonders never cease.
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