-Come here, by my side, for a photo.

- Eh, not now.

-Come on. What are you ashamed of?

-Let go of my arm. It’s embarrassing. You’re a grown man…

81-year-old Seryozha Gishyan takes the woman’s hand, asks her to stand next to him, so that I can take a photo. The woman, Susanna, his wife, pulls back. Seryozha laughs and tells me how they turn these daily verbal squabbles into jokes.

Seryozha Gishyan lives with his family in Noyemberyan, a town of some 5,300 in Armenia’s northeastern Tavush Province. It’s a mere two kilometers from the border with Azerbaijan.

Seryozha, the only son, grew up alongside four sisters. His sisters would call out “aper” (brother) so often that Seryozha was officially nicknamed “aper” in the neighborhood.

He has three children and grandchildren.

I suggest that the couple, married for fifty years, celebrate their golden wedding anniversary. They laugh.

"Well, I endured it all," says Susanna.

“She came and went from Koghb so many times, that I asked for her hand," says Seryozha.

"And if I didn’t agree, you would have stayed at home," Susanna asserts and smiles.

"Have I put up with you or you with me?” Seryozha continues.

I ask them how they are coping given the coronavirus state of emergency in Armenia.

“We follow what they say on TV and try not to associate with others. The villager is busy with farming and not disturbing others. Working the land protects you from everything,” Seryozha says.

I ask if farming has suffered during the ongoing crisis.

“My wife and I went up into the hills a few days ago to plant potatoes. We returned and are doing the same here. Peppers and tomatoes are growing over there, near the cucumbers,” says Seryozha.

"When you turn the soil, you have to remove the excess grass so that your soil is clean. I learned from my father. Look. I take it out, put it in a bucket, so that the weeds don't grow again,” he says.

I ask him how long he has been farming.

“Since I was a child. I went to the fields with my mother and sisters. When I retired, I started farming again. It’s the land that sustains us villagers.”

It starts to rain. Seryozha takes the pail and shovel and we continue our conversation at his home.

"When we got married, Susan was cooking dinner at the door, on this old table. Later, we slowly built the house,” Seryozha tells me.

While Mrs. Gishyan removes walnuts and homemade dried fruit from the cupboard, placing some wild medlar jam on the table, her husband continues to talk about his daily work.

He says they wake up early every morning. After seeing their son off to work, the couple heads to the yard to feed the chickens, clean the garden, and complete their daily chores.

“I don't cut my link with the mountains. A few days ago, my wife and daughter and I went to sow potatoes. I have a plot of land on the roadside before reaching Mt. Kozmantala. We also grow onions, garlic and carrots. I love it when my grandchildren and I eat the crops I grow. We know what we eat and what fertilizer we use,” says Seryozha.

The Gishyan family also has a few cows. The couple used to take them out to graze in the hills, but now they hire a herder.  It’s tough work.

"We have a seniors club in the city that I go to. I see people my age sitting there from morning to evening discussing family and government issues. I tell them they should first clean their gardens and then go to the club to relax.”

Mr. Gishyan attaches great importance to education. After serving in the army, he entered the police academy, got his degree, then worked in Alaverdi and later Noyemberyan. He has the rank of major.

“No matter how many cases there were, they’d always say ‘Gishyan, you go!' I learned something from each case. I was on my feet day and night.”