He's sixty-nine years old.  "I had a do when I turned sixty-five," he said. "But no one cares when you turn sixty-nine." He told me he taught his wife everything she knows about plants. He spits when he talks. He can carry a lot more than it looks like he could -- or should. "Are you sure you got that?" he'll ask. I'm sure my arms are thicker than his. Every time his wife comes around he says: "There she is." His name is Bob.