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His gnarled once powerful, dark, cracked fingers moved with the skill of a surgeon, at times slowing with almost imperceptible nuance, and at other times cleaving one or two larger portions away with single strong strokes.

"Rachel is a name from the Good Book," said the woman.  "She was the younger daughter of Laban, whose uncle was Jacob his ownself."

“It’s Jeremias, not Jeremiah," said the man without looking up at me.  "My Momma used the Latin spelling.  I think she was just showin’ off.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said to atone.

Esther waved for me to come closer.  I did and she pulled me down to her and hugged me powerfully, with loud pats to my back.

“Don’t you be sorry, sugar.  Nobody gets it right the first time.  I even got it wrong when we met on the side of that road about a million years ago.”  She laughed, then tears appeared in her eyes almost instantly.  She lifted a small handkerchief to her eyes.

I looked at Jeremias for any indication of what I should do.

Interrupting his whittling, her husband said dryly, "Don’t fret none about Mrs. Jefferson's carryin’ on like that.  It’s what happens when you get old.  When they told us we couldn't drive no more she cried about it, then she laughed about it, then she cried..." 

“Oh," she interrupted, "you still drivin’ alright, Mr. Jefferson, and you know it.  Every once in a while you 'bout drive me plumb crazy is what you do.”

"Oh, Mrs. Jefferson, that ain't drivin', that's just a short putt."

Both old people laughed at each other's cleverness.

They were people who smiled with their whole face, and the deep wrinkles indicated that they did it often.  I liked both of them instantly.

Jeremias continued.  “Sometimes she cries when puppies is born, sometimes she laughs.  Sometimes she laughs when a rare snow falls, sometimes she…”

“She gets the point, Mr. Jefferson,” said Esther without looking at her husband.  “You see what I mean about that drivin’ thing?”

The man resumed his whittling and without looking up asked, “Why you come all this way to talk to us anyhow?”

“I’m writing an article for National Geographic magazine about people who lived through the Great Depression."  So early in the interview I withheld the real reason that I had made the journey.  "So I talked to the mayor of Trustville and he...”

“Young Tom Forbus?” asked Jeremias.

“Well, whatever other mayor is there, Mr. Jefferson?” commented Esther without interrupting her needles.

He ignored her.  “How is he anyhow.  I ain’t seen him in a coon’s age.”

“He’s doing just fine.  Anyway, I asked around and everyone I talked with said Jeremias Jefferson had a story worth telling.”

“Well, you come on a good day.  We’re havin’ a little get together later on,” he said.

“I have this tape recorder if it’s alright with you.”  I held up the device.

They both shrugged, so I touched the record button.

“I would like to take a few photographs while we talk if you approve.”

“Well, if I had known it was a picture story I would have fixed myself up.”  She held both needles with one hand and with the other patted her hair as if aligning errant strands.

I smiled.  “You look just fine.”

“Where would you like me to start?” asked Jeremias.