I have long been a fan of the little peanut, having grown up with a man who used it as his edc pocket knife for most of his life. I can't help but look at a peanut, and have short pictures and images from the past come into my minds eye. Fishing with my dad was one.
I remember one time in the mid 70's when just he and I went out one afternoon for some quality time on a shady river bank. Dad was getting on in years at this point, and it was a chance for us to spend some time togeher and just hang out. This one Saturday I picked up dad at the house for our drive out to the Potomic river.
It was a beautifull spring morning, and he came out of the house with his rod and tackle box, and looked at my car. He never missed a chance to make fun of my car, and today would be no exeption. Money being a little tight, I was still driving my '66 bug. He looked at it and asked me if we were going fishing or going to compete in the Soap Box derby. I stashed his rod and tackle box in the back and we got in to drive off. For a quiet man he had a dry sarcastic wit. Once in the car, he looked in the glove box, down between the two bucket seats, all around. I asked him what he was looking for and he said he was looking for the big key to wind up the rubber bands. Dad was a die hard Pontiac man, and anything less than his Bonnie was a toy car.
Once out at the river we set up in a nice shady spot, and I got the cooler out of the back seat and we enjoyed a cold one. I always enjoyed watching him as he went about his carefull rituals. This morning he took out his old peanut and walked a short way into the woods, coming back with a forked stick. Using his pocket knife, he sharpened one end to drive into the ground to rest his rod on, while he slowly filled his old brier pipe with the brown Amphora tobacco he liked. Of course it was his ritual before filling his pipe, he'd peer into the bowl as if looking for the meaning of life, and then carefull scrape the inside with the small blade of his peanut. He kept the small blade of his knife dull, and it was his scraper, poking, and dirty deed blade. After he got the cake shaped to his satisfaction, he'd tamp in and light the tobacco. Only then would he settle down to the buisness of fishing.
This day we were out for some catfish. Mom had a way of frying them up with a light cornmeal coating that made for a moist, tasty dinner. Add some eastern shore style hush puppys and a cold beer and it was fit for a last meal of a condemed man. For bait we had the old stand-by of chicken livers. Dad would take a chicken liver and using the peanut, he'd carefully cut himself a piece of the firmer part of the liver and imbed the hook out of sight. The main blade of the peanut sliced cleanly through the slippery liver like a scalple. Then, to make sure the carfish couldn't suck the liver off the hook, he'd take a fine bit of cotton thread and tie it around the liver to the hook shank. Again, he'd use the peanut to trim excess thread away from the knot. Dad took his catfish hunting, as he called it, very serious.
Sitting quietly by the water, he and I would have some great talks, and come up with solutions to most of the worlds problems. Now and then we'd catch a fish, and it would go on a stringer, and I'd get to watch dad go through his baiting ritual again. There must have been something to his method, because he always cought more fish than I did.
Sometimes we'd snack off whatever he had brought in his old haversack. He had this old olive green canvas bag with a shoulder strap, and it was his "go to" bag. He'd have a small first aid kit and some twine, and other odds and ends. Sometimes he'd have a few snacks. I had a more modern nylon daypack with some of the same. Once in a while he'd dig into the canvas bag and come up with some cheese and crackers, or a length of pepperoni to go on the sandwichs I'd bring. He'd tell me to "cut off a piece of that pepperoni, pup" and I'd pick up his peanut sitting there on top of his tackle box and cut off some. The knife always seemed to be razor sharp, going through the hard pepperoni like it was butter.
Then there was the time he decied he wanted to try to use a simple pole like in his youth.
We had been fishing on this section of bank that had a nice little stand of poplar's back in the woods. I notice dad kept looking back there, and I knew he was thinking something over. Finally he got up and put his rod down and walked back there. Selecting a slim sappling about 3 feet taller than he was, he knelt down and began cutting around the base. When he notched all around it, he stood up and gently bent it over untill it snapped off at the groove he'd cut around it. Trimming it off he came back to the bank and got to work. He got his old Prince Albert pocket size tobacco tin out of his canvas bag and shook out the contents. there were some various screws, nuts, some paper clips, and other stuff. He selected a paper clip and put the rest away. Then he unbent the paper clip at the halfway point and bent it back and forth till it broke. Straitening it out, he then took out his Zippo lighter. By this time I had no idea what he was doing, but I was facinated watching him. He took the straitened piece of paper clip, and used the holes in the wind guard around the wick of the Zippo as a tool to form the wire of the paper clip into a strait piece with a V in it at the halfway point. He'd stick the wire through the hole to the right spot, and bend the wire with preasure on the Zippo. Like a makeshift pipe bender in miniature. Rooting around in his bag he came up with a half used roll of electrical tape. To dad's generation, the black electrical tape was the duct tape of his era. Using the tape, he attached the bent paper clip part to the sappling and had a eye for the line. He used both pieces of the clip and put two eye's on his pole for the line to pass through. One out at the tip, and another about halfway. He made a nice pole with a long line on it that he could use like a fly rod, using his right hand to take up the slack when pulling in a fish, or letting slack out when casting his baited hook out further than if the line were just attached to the end of the pole. With his peanut, a paper clip, some electrical tape, he'd made a nice casting pole. He cought a fish on it too.
I don't think I ever knew another person who got more milage out of a few common items, or a small two bladed pocket knife called a peanut.
I remember one time in the mid 70's when just he and I went out one afternoon for some quality time on a shady river bank. Dad was getting on in years at this point, and it was a chance for us to spend some time togeher and just hang out. This one Saturday I picked up dad at the house for our drive out to the Potomic river.
It was a beautifull spring morning, and he came out of the house with his rod and tackle box, and looked at my car. He never missed a chance to make fun of my car, and today would be no exeption. Money being a little tight, I was still driving my '66 bug. He looked at it and asked me if we were going fishing or going to compete in the Soap Box derby. I stashed his rod and tackle box in the back and we got in to drive off. For a quiet man he had a dry sarcastic wit. Once in the car, he looked in the glove box, down between the two bucket seats, all around. I asked him what he was looking for and he said he was looking for the big key to wind up the rubber bands. Dad was a die hard Pontiac man, and anything less than his Bonnie was a toy car.
Once out at the river we set up in a nice shady spot, and I got the cooler out of the back seat and we enjoyed a cold one. I always enjoyed watching him as he went about his carefull rituals. This morning he took out his old peanut and walked a short way into the woods, coming back with a forked stick. Using his pocket knife, he sharpened one end to drive into the ground to rest his rod on, while he slowly filled his old brier pipe with the brown Amphora tobacco he liked. Of course it was his ritual before filling his pipe, he'd peer into the bowl as if looking for the meaning of life, and then carefull scrape the inside with the small blade of his peanut. He kept the small blade of his knife dull, and it was his scraper, poking, and dirty deed blade. After he got the cake shaped to his satisfaction, he'd tamp in and light the tobacco. Only then would he settle down to the buisness of fishing.
This day we were out for some catfish. Mom had a way of frying them up with a light cornmeal coating that made for a moist, tasty dinner. Add some eastern shore style hush puppys and a cold beer and it was fit for a last meal of a condemed man. For bait we had the old stand-by of chicken livers. Dad would take a chicken liver and using the peanut, he'd carefully cut himself a piece of the firmer part of the liver and imbed the hook out of sight. The main blade of the peanut sliced cleanly through the slippery liver like a scalple. Then, to make sure the carfish couldn't suck the liver off the hook, he'd take a fine bit of cotton thread and tie it around the liver to the hook shank. Again, he'd use the peanut to trim excess thread away from the knot. Dad took his catfish hunting, as he called it, very serious.
Sitting quietly by the water, he and I would have some great talks, and come up with solutions to most of the worlds problems. Now and then we'd catch a fish, and it would go on a stringer, and I'd get to watch dad go through his baiting ritual again. There must have been something to his method, because he always cought more fish than I did.
Sometimes we'd snack off whatever he had brought in his old haversack. He had this old olive green canvas bag with a shoulder strap, and it was his "go to" bag. He'd have a small first aid kit and some twine, and other odds and ends. Sometimes he'd have a few snacks. I had a more modern nylon daypack with some of the same. Once in a while he'd dig into the canvas bag and come up with some cheese and crackers, or a length of pepperoni to go on the sandwichs I'd bring. He'd tell me to "cut off a piece of that pepperoni, pup" and I'd pick up his peanut sitting there on top of his tackle box and cut off some. The knife always seemed to be razor sharp, going through the hard pepperoni like it was butter.
Then there was the time he decied he wanted to try to use a simple pole like in his youth.
We had been fishing on this section of bank that had a nice little stand of poplar's back in the woods. I notice dad kept looking back there, and I knew he was thinking something over. Finally he got up and put his rod down and walked back there. Selecting a slim sappling about 3 feet taller than he was, he knelt down and began cutting around the base. When he notched all around it, he stood up and gently bent it over untill it snapped off at the groove he'd cut around it. Trimming it off he came back to the bank and got to work. He got his old Prince Albert pocket size tobacco tin out of his canvas bag and shook out the contents. there were some various screws, nuts, some paper clips, and other stuff. He selected a paper clip and put the rest away. Then he unbent the paper clip at the halfway point and bent it back and forth till it broke. Straitening it out, he then took out his Zippo lighter. By this time I had no idea what he was doing, but I was facinated watching him. He took the straitened piece of paper clip, and used the holes in the wind guard around the wick of the Zippo as a tool to form the wire of the paper clip into a strait piece with a V in it at the halfway point. He'd stick the wire through the hole to the right spot, and bend the wire with preasure on the Zippo. Like a makeshift pipe bender in miniature. Rooting around in his bag he came up with a half used roll of electrical tape. To dad's generation, the black electrical tape was the duct tape of his era. Using the tape, he attached the bent paper clip part to the sappling and had a eye for the line. He used both pieces of the clip and put two eye's on his pole for the line to pass through. One out at the tip, and another about halfway. He made a nice pole with a long line on it that he could use like a fly rod, using his right hand to take up the slack when pulling in a fish, or letting slack out when casting his baited hook out further than if the line were just attached to the end of the pole. With his peanut, a paper clip, some electrical tape, he'd made a nice casting pole. He cought a fish on it too.
I don't think I ever knew another person who got more milage out of a few common items, or a small two bladed pocket knife called a peanut.
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