A feeling of dread, fear, or anxiety.
Every year or two, Karen's cousins all have a cousins reunion, and usually it's been held at Key West by mutual agreement. We love the Keys in general, and Mona's place in particular. A wonderful Cuban lady named Mona has a guest house all the way down Duval street on the opposite end of the island from the hot spot of Mallory square. It's a nice quiet old rambling plantation house and grounds from the late 1880s or 90's, and the grounds afford a nice quiet place for a family get together in the tropics. I love both the place and Karen's family, so it's usually something I look very forward to.
Usually.
I'm not one to be easily flapped, and in fact usually quite calm about most things. But Karen just got off the phone making our reservations, and the thought came unbidden into my mind, that flying down this year, I have to leave my peanut behind. Last summer, we had the cousins reunion at her cousin Barbara's property up in the Shenandoah mountains, so we just drove down. This year it's Southwest airlines. Flying. TSA security nazi's. Oh crap.
I've never felt this before over a pocket knife. Usually I just drop a sak into the checked bag, and that's that. A sak. It does a nice job of a tropical edc, cutting limes for the necks of the cold Corona's in ice. It also is easy to replace if some low life baggage guy swipes it, even if I have it out of sight shoved down in a roll of socks, or balled up in spare BVD's. But there's the rub, I haven't been carrying a sak for the past year. I've not been that attached to a sak. For the past year, I' ve become very attached to my amber bone and damascus peanut. It's become part of me like no other knife with the exception of my old Buck stockman was. I've become like my father. Of course, back then, you could fly with a pocket knife.
This is the first time in my life I have the feeling of angst at having to leave something I edc behind, even if for just a while. Oh sure, I'll stick a sak down in my undies, and it will probably be there when we land in Key West. But it won't be my precious.
Over the past year, the damascus peanut has become almost like a signature item with me. I can slip my hand in my pocket and feel the jigging on the amber bone scales, and every indent and ridge is familiar to me. I don't bother even looking at it when I go to open and cut something. The knife seems to orient itself in my hand from so much handling. Familiar to the grasp.
Oh I know I'll survive just fine without it. And I'll even enjoy myself kayaking the mangroves, fishing the flats, cooking out on the BBQ grill on Mona's palm shaded patio with a gentle tropical breeze on my face. But I won't have my precious.
I guess I'll muddle through a vacation with some 'other' knife. But I'm still surprised at the feeling of a bit of angst at leaving this little thing behind. Weird.
Maybe I'll have to change my name to Smeagol.
Carl. (For now)
Every year or two, Karen's cousins all have a cousins reunion, and usually it's been held at Key West by mutual agreement. We love the Keys in general, and Mona's place in particular. A wonderful Cuban lady named Mona has a guest house all the way down Duval street on the opposite end of the island from the hot spot of Mallory square. It's a nice quiet old rambling plantation house and grounds from the late 1880s or 90's, and the grounds afford a nice quiet place for a family get together in the tropics. I love both the place and Karen's family, so it's usually something I look very forward to.
Usually.
I'm not one to be easily flapped, and in fact usually quite calm about most things. But Karen just got off the phone making our reservations, and the thought came unbidden into my mind, that flying down this year, I have to leave my peanut behind. Last summer, we had the cousins reunion at her cousin Barbara's property up in the Shenandoah mountains, so we just drove down. This year it's Southwest airlines. Flying. TSA security nazi's. Oh crap.
I've never felt this before over a pocket knife. Usually I just drop a sak into the checked bag, and that's that. A sak. It does a nice job of a tropical edc, cutting limes for the necks of the cold Corona's in ice. It also is easy to replace if some low life baggage guy swipes it, even if I have it out of sight shoved down in a roll of socks, or balled up in spare BVD's. But there's the rub, I haven't been carrying a sak for the past year. I've not been that attached to a sak. For the past year, I' ve become very attached to my amber bone and damascus peanut. It's become part of me like no other knife with the exception of my old Buck stockman was. I've become like my father. Of course, back then, you could fly with a pocket knife.
This is the first time in my life I have the feeling of angst at having to leave something I edc behind, even if for just a while. Oh sure, I'll stick a sak down in my undies, and it will probably be there when we land in Key West. But it won't be my precious.
Over the past year, the damascus peanut has become almost like a signature item with me. I can slip my hand in my pocket and feel the jigging on the amber bone scales, and every indent and ridge is familiar to me. I don't bother even looking at it when I go to open and cut something. The knife seems to orient itself in my hand from so much handling. Familiar to the grasp.
Oh I know I'll survive just fine without it. And I'll even enjoy myself kayaking the mangroves, fishing the flats, cooking out on the BBQ grill on Mona's palm shaded patio with a gentle tropical breeze on my face. But I won't have my precious.
I guess I'll muddle through a vacation with some 'other' knife. But I'm still surprised at the feeling of a bit of angst at leaving this little thing behind. Weird.
Maybe I'll have to change my name to Smeagol.
Carl. (For now)
never once lost a knife while traveling, even internationally...
