Remember the old man I was going to interview for a story who wanted to talk for at least two hours and who cut a lot of wood?
I met with him today.
After I drove past his house, thinking, "Oh Lord, it CAN'T be that one," I had to turn around and go, "Oh CRAP, it IS that one."
When I pulled into the driveway, he quickly shook my hand and pointed toward his car, which I then noticed was running.
"Get in, I have to show you something," he says.
This is where I begin to freak out. I have only communicated by phone and e-mail and if you were to judge a book by its cover, this cover being his house, I was definitely the girl who needs to run away in the horror movies.
I grabbed my phone, notebook and pen and camera and lock my car with a silent prayer as well as a click of the keychain.
Just as the car pulls out of the driveway, I realize I'm not going to have cell phone service for at least 10 miles.
"This is where I die," I thought, holding onto the car door with my fingernails. "Maybe I can etch my name and the time in the door..."
The drive actually turns out to be a historical tour of an area I'm writing about for my Sunday story and it's pretty fascinating. This man has obviously spent his entire life learning about the people before him and places around him.
There were a couple of odd moments, however.
For instance, "I shot a big buck in 1956 from 1,000 yards away right around by that farm there."
And the killer:
"I have to pull over here real quick," he says as he pulls the car to the side of a DESERTED, DIRT road.
"NOW is when he stabs me and dumps me in the woods," I think.
"I have to pee," the old man says. "You know, take care of business and stuff."
And he limped out of the car and peed. On my side of the vehicle.