Her hair is flaming orange-red, eyes bright and lively and her baby a masterpiece of tiny humanity. Barely hitting the five foot mark, she has on an emerald dress, black simple shoes and a white bonnet perched atop the sunset that are her locks. The baby girl is wearing a miniature navy blue dress with the same simple lines. Even the wee puffed sleeves are the same as her mama’s – and (I can hardly bear the overload of cute) her tiny head has an impossibly adorably tiny white bonnet.

But I’m here for the husband, and I tear my eyes away with what I hope is professionalism as I continue introducing myself to everyone behind the curtain in bay 6. Curly hair tops his face and the beard of a married Amish man fringes his chin. Homemade black pants, simple black shoes and a teal shirt also handmade complete his traditional garb. His right hand is elevated and wrapped within an inch of its life. Bright red blood has soaked thru a patch roughly one inch by one inch.

He tells the story of slipping at work – work is in a local shop crafting the traditional Amish furniture us English people are happy to pay good money for, knowing it will last for generations upon generations. With a crooked grin, he denies pain. I tell him there is no shame in pain medicine, and point out that he is slightly pale. He feigns astonishment and points to his chest with eyes exaggeratedly elevated. She giggles. His top lip curls as he waves away an imaginary syringe. He’s fine.  >> Click to read more of the story...