The spring sunshine glittered on the small lake as the soft breeze ruffled the water. On the weathered pier, the old man and his grandson sat patiently, waiting for the fish to strike. It had been a good day so far, and a stringer of fish were secured to the pier.
"I think we got about enough for a good fry up lunch, pup. Why don't we start cleaning them up." said the old man.
"Okay grandpa." said the boy. He smiled with the joy of being out by the lake with his grandfather, he loved every moment he could spend learning all the things the old man seemed to know. He had started to imitate his grandfather, putting a tiny flashlight, a keychain screwdriver, and a P-38 can opener on his house key ring that he always carried in his pocket. His grandfather had put aside one of his own old knives for him to use whenever he was visiting, and the boy cherished the feel of the weight of the knife in his pocket. He allways greated an exuse to use one of the long slim blades on something. Now, there was a stringer of fish to clean.
The old man and boy knelt by the lake shore and started to work. Under the watchful eye of the old man, his grandson went and got a stick about thumb thick, and took out his knife. Working carefully, he cut a flat area on one end, and took out the small Altoids tin from a pocket. Out of the tin, he took a pre-drilled beer bottle cap and a small wood screw. Taking the 4-way screwdriver off his keyring, he screwed the bottle cap onto the stick, making a handle for his improvised fish scaler. Then he set the knife down and went to work. It was a slim two bladed pocket knife, with identical clip blades, one on each end, with a single backspring. The bone handle was worn with the passing of years and all the handling, and the jigging was a faint pattern in the old bone scales. But the knife had seen good care, and the blades were a dark gray patina from years of use.
The old man was using a twin of the boy's knife. It was a bit more recently made, but still the old muskrat pattern knife. Together, the old man and the boy made short work out of the stringer of fish. The razor sharp carbon steel blades went through fish bellies and guts like butter.
"Grandpa, why do you like the muskrat pattern so much?" the boy asked.
"Well pup, I don't rightly know myself. I guess I could say I like the design of having just a single backspring, or I could say I like having two indentical blades on hand. That way if one goes dull, I have another one just like it. But the truth is, I think it's just like ice cream."
"Ice cream?" the boy asked in a puzzled voice.
"Yeah, ice cream. Take you for example, what's your most favorite ice cream?" asked the old man.
"I don't even have to think about it, it's chocolate chip!" said the boy.
"Then I couldn't get you a nice two scoop cone of pistashio then?"
"No way grandpa!"
"There it is then," said the old man, "It's just like ice cream. Like that place we stop at over on the state road out of town. They got 31 flavors of ice cream, most of which I have little interest in trying. But each and every one of those flavors has people who just love it. Even if we don't. Maybe that's why I like the muskrat, I just do."
The boy thought about what his grandfather said. Then he had a thought.
"But what about those other knives on your workbench? They are all different kinds of knives. Some have two blades, some have even three. Did you ever like them?"
"Oh sure." the old man replied. "But they were for different times. Different times in a mans life, he sometimes has a bit different taste. Those three bladed ones are called a stockman, and its a darn good pattern. But I carried them when I was a young spark, back when I first married your grandma. But that was a long time ago, and a different time. My taste was different then. It's pretty common for a man's taste to change. Like when you're a kid, you like a nice sweet soda pop. But when you get to be a young man, a cold beer will be your choice. Later on, when you get to be a mature gentleman of leasure, you and your friends may like a glass of whiskey now and then. But you didn't like a taste of whiskey when you had one last time, did you?
"Yeck!" said the boy, "It tasted terrible!"
"Well, some would say a nice smooth Kentucky Bourbon is a wonderful thing. But it can be an aquired taste that usually takes time to fully appretiate. Like knives. Maybe in my youth, the stockman was my beer, and now in my later years, the muskrat in my bourbon whiskey."
'Is that what's in those drinks you and your friends, that grandma call reprobates, have on the porch in the evenings" asked the boy.
"Yes, those are mint jullips and they are made with Bourbon. And they are not reprobates. Billy Caulder has servered his time in the country jail, and has promised not to steal anymore chickens. I think he means it this time." said the old man.
They had been cleaning while talking, and now they had the whole stringer of fish scaled and cleaned, and they swished their knives around in the water, shook them off, and wiped them dry with a bandana. The boy dried his knife carefully, then blew into the pivot like his grandfather did. He inspected the knife carefully, and then folded up the grey patined blade. They walked up the path back to the parking lot, to a 1951 Chevy five window pickup. It had been lovingly restored, and was painted a dark green that was a perfect match to the original factory color. The old man and the boy climbed into the truck, the engine started with a mutted purr of the stovebolt six.
"What taste is this truck, grandpa?" asked the boy.
The old man thought for a moment, his eyes off in the middle distance.
"The taste of a time gone by, when a man's hand and his word was worth more than some leagal document, when things were made to last, and people fixed things, instead of just throwing them out." replied the old man.
"I think we got about enough for a good fry up lunch, pup. Why don't we start cleaning them up." said the old man.
"Okay grandpa." said the boy. He smiled with the joy of being out by the lake with his grandfather, he loved every moment he could spend learning all the things the old man seemed to know. He had started to imitate his grandfather, putting a tiny flashlight, a keychain screwdriver, and a P-38 can opener on his house key ring that he always carried in his pocket. His grandfather had put aside one of his own old knives for him to use whenever he was visiting, and the boy cherished the feel of the weight of the knife in his pocket. He allways greated an exuse to use one of the long slim blades on something. Now, there was a stringer of fish to clean.
The old man and boy knelt by the lake shore and started to work. Under the watchful eye of the old man, his grandson went and got a stick about thumb thick, and took out his knife. Working carefully, he cut a flat area on one end, and took out the small Altoids tin from a pocket. Out of the tin, he took a pre-drilled beer bottle cap and a small wood screw. Taking the 4-way screwdriver off his keyring, he screwed the bottle cap onto the stick, making a handle for his improvised fish scaler. Then he set the knife down and went to work. It was a slim two bladed pocket knife, with identical clip blades, one on each end, with a single backspring. The bone handle was worn with the passing of years and all the handling, and the jigging was a faint pattern in the old bone scales. But the knife had seen good care, and the blades were a dark gray patina from years of use.
The old man was using a twin of the boy's knife. It was a bit more recently made, but still the old muskrat pattern knife. Together, the old man and the boy made short work out of the stringer of fish. The razor sharp carbon steel blades went through fish bellies and guts like butter.
"Grandpa, why do you like the muskrat pattern so much?" the boy asked.
"Well pup, I don't rightly know myself. I guess I could say I like the design of having just a single backspring, or I could say I like having two indentical blades on hand. That way if one goes dull, I have another one just like it. But the truth is, I think it's just like ice cream."
"Ice cream?" the boy asked in a puzzled voice.
"Yeah, ice cream. Take you for example, what's your most favorite ice cream?" asked the old man.
"I don't even have to think about it, it's chocolate chip!" said the boy.
"Then I couldn't get you a nice two scoop cone of pistashio then?"
"No way grandpa!"
"There it is then," said the old man, "It's just like ice cream. Like that place we stop at over on the state road out of town. They got 31 flavors of ice cream, most of which I have little interest in trying. But each and every one of those flavors has people who just love it. Even if we don't. Maybe that's why I like the muskrat, I just do."
The boy thought about what his grandfather said. Then he had a thought.
"But what about those other knives on your workbench? They are all different kinds of knives. Some have two blades, some have even three. Did you ever like them?"
"Oh sure." the old man replied. "But they were for different times. Different times in a mans life, he sometimes has a bit different taste. Those three bladed ones are called a stockman, and its a darn good pattern. But I carried them when I was a young spark, back when I first married your grandma. But that was a long time ago, and a different time. My taste was different then. It's pretty common for a man's taste to change. Like when you're a kid, you like a nice sweet soda pop. But when you get to be a young man, a cold beer will be your choice. Later on, when you get to be a mature gentleman of leasure, you and your friends may like a glass of whiskey now and then. But you didn't like a taste of whiskey when you had one last time, did you?
"Yeck!" said the boy, "It tasted terrible!"
"Well, some would say a nice smooth Kentucky Bourbon is a wonderful thing. But it can be an aquired taste that usually takes time to fully appretiate. Like knives. Maybe in my youth, the stockman was my beer, and now in my later years, the muskrat in my bourbon whiskey."
'Is that what's in those drinks you and your friends, that grandma call reprobates, have on the porch in the evenings" asked the boy.
"Yes, those are mint jullips and they are made with Bourbon. And they are not reprobates. Billy Caulder has servered his time in the country jail, and has promised not to steal anymore chickens. I think he means it this time." said the old man.
They had been cleaning while talking, and now they had the whole stringer of fish scaled and cleaned, and they swished their knives around in the water, shook them off, and wiped them dry with a bandana. The boy dried his knife carefully, then blew into the pivot like his grandfather did. He inspected the knife carefully, and then folded up the grey patined blade. They walked up the path back to the parking lot, to a 1951 Chevy five window pickup. It had been lovingly restored, and was painted a dark green that was a perfect match to the original factory color. The old man and the boy climbed into the truck, the engine started with a mutted purr of the stovebolt six.
"What taste is this truck, grandpa?" asked the boy.
The old man thought for a moment, his eyes off in the middle distance.
"The taste of a time gone by, when a man's hand and his word was worth more than some leagal document, when things were made to last, and people fixed things, instead of just throwing them out." replied the old man.
Last edited:
