It's a freezing cold day here in Maryland, much colder than normal. About 20 degrees by my front window thermometer. Karen and I went for a walk in the woods earlier today, as is our custom for exercise. There's this one walk in Black Hill Regional Park that makes a circle that is about a 3 mile walk. Rolling, hilly forrest, creek bottoms and woods. Today as we walked, the cold wind made a express train roar in the tree tops, making me think of another walk long ago.
It must have been the winter I was 12, because I had the new scout knife dad had given me. It was one of those cold but clear sunny winter days, tempratures in the 20's, with bright sunshine. It was a two sweater day. Not having the miricle fabrics and clothes of today, we just used another layer of sweater under our coat when it got really cold. To this day I don't think the wonder fleeces can compare to a nice thick knitted sweater. It must have worked, we never froze to death. Mom had packed us some snacks, and dad and I were off for a boys day out. We drove out to a trail in dad's big old Pontiac, and dad lectured me as to why the Pontiac strait 8 was the best engine ever made.
Once in the woods, we followed a trail, and like today, the wind made that deep rushing noise in the bare tree tops. The dead leaves under foot, made a dry crispy noise as we walked. After a while we came to a big downed tree, and sitting side by side with a little space in between us, we set out our lunch on a cloth napkin. Hard chedder cheese, a length of pepperoni, some fresh baked rolls, and a thermos of hot sweet tea. We talked as we snacked, and dad used his peanut and I used my scout knife, to slice up the cheese and hard dry pepperoni.
Near finished, I went to wipe off the cheese from my new scout knife, and was distressed to find it almost frozen on, leaving a greyish stain on the carbon blade where I got some off with a thumbnail.
"Don't worry about it, it's only life." dad said.
I asked him what he ment by that.
"That bit of stain does not really mean anything bad. It's just life. Life leaves it marks on us in many different ways. A knife is no different. Show me a shiney spotless blade and I'll show you a knife that hasn't lived. It's never done anything, or been cared enough about to be carried and used. Kind of like some people. As we age, life will leave it's mark on us."
Dad picked up his worn pocket knife.
"Now when I got this little knife, I was a young man with a full head of black hair. Now its a bit thin on top, and I'm getting a bit grey too. Well, this knife has aged right along with me. It's a bit grey in the blade, and a bit thinner as well. But thats not a bad thing, it's just from living life. It's what we all do. But the important thing to keep in mind, no matter how much life we live, and how grey we get, or dinged up and maybe even have a point chipped off, is that you stay sharp with what you have left."
He paused, in what for him was a long speech. He leaned over towards me and showed me the edge of the little peanut. Against the dark grey patina of the carbon blade was a bright shiney ribbon of sharp edge.
"That's all that matters in the end." he said. "If I was to buy a brand new knife it wouldn't be any sharper, or open a box or cut twine any better. It would just look newer, thats all. But it wouldn't have something this knife has, and that's the memories. If beauty is in the eye of the beholder, then nothing can compare to my own knife. Its a record of my trip down the road of life. All those stains, every little ding, is someplace I've used this knife. In time we are going to be like that. We'll be dinged up, and we may get grey and weathered, but we'll have to do the best with what we've got left. Keep our edge sharp, even if we are a bit worn. "
For a quiet, even taciturn man, dad had just given me quite a speech. But then he was like that. Not much of a talker, but if there was something he wanted to say, he'd tell you about it.
Today walking in the woods with Karen, and listening to the wind rushing in the tree tops, it brought back the memory. I thought about how things change in life, and how sometimes I think our tradtional pocket knives are a metaphor for ourselves. Upstairs I have a old stag handle Hen and Rooster, with the blades used down to a couple very sharp toothpicks. Yet the original owner still had it in service, and still used the heck out of it. The old man who owned it used it up to his 80th year, and every day it opened his mail, sliced a quick snack off something from the fridge, and other small cutting jobs. They had traveled a long road together, but stayed sharp.
I guess thats all we can do. Keep whatever is left sharp.
It must have been the winter I was 12, because I had the new scout knife dad had given me. It was one of those cold but clear sunny winter days, tempratures in the 20's, with bright sunshine. It was a two sweater day. Not having the miricle fabrics and clothes of today, we just used another layer of sweater under our coat when it got really cold. To this day I don't think the wonder fleeces can compare to a nice thick knitted sweater. It must have worked, we never froze to death. Mom had packed us some snacks, and dad and I were off for a boys day out. We drove out to a trail in dad's big old Pontiac, and dad lectured me as to why the Pontiac strait 8 was the best engine ever made.
Once in the woods, we followed a trail, and like today, the wind made that deep rushing noise in the bare tree tops. The dead leaves under foot, made a dry crispy noise as we walked. After a while we came to a big downed tree, and sitting side by side with a little space in between us, we set out our lunch on a cloth napkin. Hard chedder cheese, a length of pepperoni, some fresh baked rolls, and a thermos of hot sweet tea. We talked as we snacked, and dad used his peanut and I used my scout knife, to slice up the cheese and hard dry pepperoni.
Near finished, I went to wipe off the cheese from my new scout knife, and was distressed to find it almost frozen on, leaving a greyish stain on the carbon blade where I got some off with a thumbnail.
"Don't worry about it, it's only life." dad said.
I asked him what he ment by that.
"That bit of stain does not really mean anything bad. It's just life. Life leaves it marks on us in many different ways. A knife is no different. Show me a shiney spotless blade and I'll show you a knife that hasn't lived. It's never done anything, or been cared enough about to be carried and used. Kind of like some people. As we age, life will leave it's mark on us."
Dad picked up his worn pocket knife.
"Now when I got this little knife, I was a young man with a full head of black hair. Now its a bit thin on top, and I'm getting a bit grey too. Well, this knife has aged right along with me. It's a bit grey in the blade, and a bit thinner as well. But thats not a bad thing, it's just from living life. It's what we all do. But the important thing to keep in mind, no matter how much life we live, and how grey we get, or dinged up and maybe even have a point chipped off, is that you stay sharp with what you have left."
He paused, in what for him was a long speech. He leaned over towards me and showed me the edge of the little peanut. Against the dark grey patina of the carbon blade was a bright shiney ribbon of sharp edge.
"That's all that matters in the end." he said. "If I was to buy a brand new knife it wouldn't be any sharper, or open a box or cut twine any better. It would just look newer, thats all. But it wouldn't have something this knife has, and that's the memories. If beauty is in the eye of the beholder, then nothing can compare to my own knife. Its a record of my trip down the road of life. All those stains, every little ding, is someplace I've used this knife. In time we are going to be like that. We'll be dinged up, and we may get grey and weathered, but we'll have to do the best with what we've got left. Keep our edge sharp, even if we are a bit worn. "
For a quiet, even taciturn man, dad had just given me quite a speech. But then he was like that. Not much of a talker, but if there was something he wanted to say, he'd tell you about it.
Today walking in the woods with Karen, and listening to the wind rushing in the tree tops, it brought back the memory. I thought about how things change in life, and how sometimes I think our tradtional pocket knives are a metaphor for ourselves. Upstairs I have a old stag handle Hen and Rooster, with the blades used down to a couple very sharp toothpicks. Yet the original owner still had it in service, and still used the heck out of it. The old man who owned it used it up to his 80th year, and every day it opened his mail, sliced a quick snack off something from the fridge, and other small cutting jobs. They had traveled a long road together, but stayed sharp.
I guess thats all we can do. Keep whatever is left sharp.
