I never thought I’d still be standing at my workbench at 78.
My name is Eleanor, and for the past 62 years, I’ve been crafting knives by hand — alone, quietly, here in my little workshop just outside Portland.
It started in 1963. I was 16, barefoot in my father’s shed, watching him work steel like it was poetry. I remember the smell of the forge, the rhythm of the hammer, and the quiet pride in his eyes. One day he handed me the tongs and said, “Go on. Shape something that’ll outlive you.”