I know an elderly cyclist who has a large orchard and runs this big garden on his own. He is a fruit vendor in the streets and sometimes accompanies us while hiking and cycling in mountains.

I love the powerful old folks of the village who get up at dawn and start their days with seemingly simple works like breaking firewood, milking cows, watering trees, or picking up fruits. Chores that are not very complicated but eventually all our lives are depending on them. We, the people of the big city don’t understand but it is the essence of existence.

They work and have a healthy body and a glorious spirit.

They have grown up in labor, and the hardships of rural life have given their muscles and their blood vessels eternal strength.

They have kind hearts and live with their spouses and children in a corner of this world and do not hesitate to give fruit to friends. The old man of the village who calls me his daughter always likes me to visit him and we pick fruits together and visit the garden.