When I was medicaly ousted from the army and had to start my life over again, I became a machinist. The V.A. got me into an apprentice program for partly disabled vets, and I ended up working for a place not too far from home. I loved a short commute. Durring this time I strayed a little from my traditional roots, and was hooked into the latest trends in knives. I like to think of those days as a period of temporary insanity that was broken by a man named Andrew Warden.
Andy was a big old country boy from southwestern Virginia in the shadow of Mount Rodgers. He'd grown up on a side hill farm without alot of money, so was frugal by nature. He was also the lead man in the drill press section of the machine shop. Working side by side with a man, you can't help but get to know him. After a while a friendship developes. When this happened Andy invited me hunting back home one weekend. This was before I had quit hunting for good.
It was a clear cold morning there in the Shenandoah mountains and I had my latest hot lick gear. My Remington 870 had the slug barrel, scope, and I had my latest custom fixed blade knife. Andy had an old Harrington-Richardson 12 ga. shot gun and his pocket knife. Andy was one of those non knife guys who have A pocket knife. He had a little Buck cadet, a 3 1/4 small stockman that he used for EVERYTHING. Around the shop he opened boxes of parts, tools, cut fiber tape, cut his sandwich. It was also his hunting knife.
To make a long story short, by an hour after sunrise Andy had his deer with one well place slug. I held out my custom knife, but Andy smiled and good naturedly said he was not skinning a dinasour. I watched him with that little Buck stockman and he was a study in economy of motion. Exact cuts, a slice here, some slicing there, and he had the deer dressed in short order. He reminded me of my grandad back on the eastern shore with his stag Hen and Rooster stockman. Right there I had one of those crystalizing moments, when the lightbulb over your head goes off. I realized then how I had gotten away from all I had been tought by men who were more expert in the field than those writers at the outdoor and knife magazines.
When Andy was done with the deer, he took some cord out of his pocket and tied the front and back legs together. He then took his pocket knife and walked over to a long stout sappling. Again turning down my high dollar knife, he bent over and cut a groove around the base of the tree. Then he made the groove into a v-groove by cutting the other way into it. Reaching up he bent the sappling over and it snapped off neatly where he had notched it around the base. It was the neatest display of presise forthought and action I had seen in a long time. It brought me back to reality.
After that trip I packed up all my custom knives and sent them down to A.G. Russell to be sold off. I stopped reading all the knife and gun rags and just went back to the simple stuff I had learned but forgotten in the glare of the new and glitzy. If I had forgotten what I learned from Grandad, the Andrew Warden reminded me by exellent example. He was a hillbilly version of my grandad, and I know I am very fortunate to have had not one, but two mentors in my life time.
Andy and I continued to work together for several more years till he retired and went back down to the hills to live quietly, doing a little hunting and fishing. It was with a shock I recieved word of his passing. He had died of a heart attack at the age of 75. I went down for his funeral, and to give my respects to his family. When his wife saw me at the house afterward, she said that there was something that Andy had that he had wanted to go to me. She went upstairs and came back with a small cloth wrapped object, and handed it to me.
I unwrapped it, and inside the cloth was a well worn Buck cadet that I knew well. A simple little workmans knife that had re-tought me priceless leasons.
Andy was a big old country boy from southwestern Virginia in the shadow of Mount Rodgers. He'd grown up on a side hill farm without alot of money, so was frugal by nature. He was also the lead man in the drill press section of the machine shop. Working side by side with a man, you can't help but get to know him. After a while a friendship developes. When this happened Andy invited me hunting back home one weekend. This was before I had quit hunting for good.
It was a clear cold morning there in the Shenandoah mountains and I had my latest hot lick gear. My Remington 870 had the slug barrel, scope, and I had my latest custom fixed blade knife. Andy had an old Harrington-Richardson 12 ga. shot gun and his pocket knife. Andy was one of those non knife guys who have A pocket knife. He had a little Buck cadet, a 3 1/4 small stockman that he used for EVERYTHING. Around the shop he opened boxes of parts, tools, cut fiber tape, cut his sandwich. It was also his hunting knife.
To make a long story short, by an hour after sunrise Andy had his deer with one well place slug. I held out my custom knife, but Andy smiled and good naturedly said he was not skinning a dinasour. I watched him with that little Buck stockman and he was a study in economy of motion. Exact cuts, a slice here, some slicing there, and he had the deer dressed in short order. He reminded me of my grandad back on the eastern shore with his stag Hen and Rooster stockman. Right there I had one of those crystalizing moments, when the lightbulb over your head goes off. I realized then how I had gotten away from all I had been tought by men who were more expert in the field than those writers at the outdoor and knife magazines.
When Andy was done with the deer, he took some cord out of his pocket and tied the front and back legs together. He then took his pocket knife and walked over to a long stout sappling. Again turning down my high dollar knife, he bent over and cut a groove around the base of the tree. Then he made the groove into a v-groove by cutting the other way into it. Reaching up he bent the sappling over and it snapped off neatly where he had notched it around the base. It was the neatest display of presise forthought and action I had seen in a long time. It brought me back to reality.
After that trip I packed up all my custom knives and sent them down to A.G. Russell to be sold off. I stopped reading all the knife and gun rags and just went back to the simple stuff I had learned but forgotten in the glare of the new and glitzy. If I had forgotten what I learned from Grandad, the Andrew Warden reminded me by exellent example. He was a hillbilly version of my grandad, and I know I am very fortunate to have had not one, but two mentors in my life time.
Andy and I continued to work together for several more years till he retired and went back down to the hills to live quietly, doing a little hunting and fishing. It was with a shock I recieved word of his passing. He had died of a heart attack at the age of 75. I went down for his funeral, and to give my respects to his family. When his wife saw me at the house afterward, she said that there was something that Andy had that he had wanted to go to me. She went upstairs and came back with a small cloth wrapped object, and handed it to me.
I unwrapped it, and inside the cloth was a well worn Buck cadet that I knew well. A simple little workmans knife that had re-tought me priceless leasons.
what a story
