- Joined
- Feb 3, 2011
- Messages
- 1,941
I have more then a few memories thanks to in part, a Buck knife. I'd like to share a few of them with you all if, you don't mind that is?
The first is about my Dad's most used Buck knife, his 422 Bucklite.
It's amazing how the slightest scent, breeze, sound, change in temperature... ect, can set off a chain reaction bringing fond memories to the fore front of our minds. One of those sounds that set me off and got those memories playing back was the rhythmic grind of the diamond stone running down the length of the blade on my fathers olive drab 422 Bucklite.
I grew up on my grandparents farm that harbored three homes within its borders. The property was big enough that the back forty was the place to be when hunting season started and my entire family hunted it as the season passed by. Its still my favorite place to be come November.
I'm the youngest of three boys and I was blessed with parents who found it vital that my mom stay at home and care for us boys. That choice wasn't an easy one though, times were tough and money was tight, I have to imagine my dad took that into consideration when he walked into an old Army/Navy surplus store and picked out that olive drab Bucklite. Whatever the sum of money was that he laid down that day for that knife, it couldn't touch the amount of money it saved my family over the years. It was the early 90's when that knife came home and from that time on it helped supply my dad put food on the table, or more specifically; venison.
At first the Bucklite was just pocketed and used for the daily mundane tasks that my father faced at work as a machinist, or just at home, but soon the cold winds started to blow and the rifles left the gun cabinet as deer season finally started, the Buck 422 remained at the ready in the front pocket of his blue jeans as he took to the field each day. That knife spent early mornings waiting for the sun to with my dad and it watched as the sun set on many a night as the day passed without a round being fired from my dad's Smith and Wesson 308. Although many times that rifle roared and the Bucklite was called upon..... Such as the time....
A gentle breeze carries the softly falling snow into my fathers face, as dawn turns into daylight. It's the first Saturday of rifle season in Pa and the three walled plywood frame nailed 20" up into the air is my fathers home for the day. Quietly, my father undoes the lid to his Stanley thermos as a small cloud of steam rises into the frigid air before disappearing against the white abyss of falling snow. The shot of warmth and caffeine from the jet black coffee fight any desire to abandon stand and head for home as the snow continues its downward journey. Glancing up from the cup of joe, my father scans the horizon, an open postage stamp field surrounded by a tree line on either side is the view outside of those wooden walls.
Just as the last sip of coffee is poured into the thermos lid, a slight movement catches his eye, a brown blur bursts out from the wood line as it heads across the open field trying to escape danger. The wide view of the Redfield scope catches the seven point's running effort. The Rifle's safety clicks off as the last few remaining feet till safety are quickly being covered by the buck. The crosshairs on the scope fall right behind the shoulder of the deer as the rifle roars, mid leap the buck tumbles to the Earth, mere inches from the safety of the thicket ahead.
Leaving the stand my dad is soon standing over the buck, reaching into his pocket he finds the familiar grip of the 422 Bucklite. The knife "clicks" open audibly and the work begins, that finely honed edge holds from start to finish and carries through the rest of the season, performing the task of field dressing again and again.
That knife was my father's go to knife for over a decade and the edge is proof enough. I'll never forget seeing him sharpen that knife the night before opening day, after opening day. He'd then strop it with his leather belt and the edge would scream through anything. He did end up replacing that knife in his line up, a Buck 110 kicked out that olive drab Bucklite, it semi-retired on the shelf of the gun cabinet. Untimely, that knife is now mine. It's in my pocket for the time being and it's a pure joy to carry a knife so steeped in good memories.
The first is about my Dad's most used Buck knife, his 422 Bucklite.
It's amazing how the slightest scent, breeze, sound, change in temperature... ect, can set off a chain reaction bringing fond memories to the fore front of our minds. One of those sounds that set me off and got those memories playing back was the rhythmic grind of the diamond stone running down the length of the blade on my fathers olive drab 422 Bucklite.
I grew up on my grandparents farm that harbored three homes within its borders. The property was big enough that the back forty was the place to be when hunting season started and my entire family hunted it as the season passed by. Its still my favorite place to be come November.
I'm the youngest of three boys and I was blessed with parents who found it vital that my mom stay at home and care for us boys. That choice wasn't an easy one though, times were tough and money was tight, I have to imagine my dad took that into consideration when he walked into an old Army/Navy surplus store and picked out that olive drab Bucklite. Whatever the sum of money was that he laid down that day for that knife, it couldn't touch the amount of money it saved my family over the years. It was the early 90's when that knife came home and from that time on it helped supply my dad put food on the table, or more specifically; venison.
At first the Bucklite was just pocketed and used for the daily mundane tasks that my father faced at work as a machinist, or just at home, but soon the cold winds started to blow and the rifles left the gun cabinet as deer season finally started, the Buck 422 remained at the ready in the front pocket of his blue jeans as he took to the field each day. That knife spent early mornings waiting for the sun to with my dad and it watched as the sun set on many a night as the day passed without a round being fired from my dad's Smith and Wesson 308. Although many times that rifle roared and the Bucklite was called upon..... Such as the time....
A gentle breeze carries the softly falling snow into my fathers face, as dawn turns into daylight. It's the first Saturday of rifle season in Pa and the three walled plywood frame nailed 20" up into the air is my fathers home for the day. Quietly, my father undoes the lid to his Stanley thermos as a small cloud of steam rises into the frigid air before disappearing against the white abyss of falling snow. The shot of warmth and caffeine from the jet black coffee fight any desire to abandon stand and head for home as the snow continues its downward journey. Glancing up from the cup of joe, my father scans the horizon, an open postage stamp field surrounded by a tree line on either side is the view outside of those wooden walls.
Just as the last sip of coffee is poured into the thermos lid, a slight movement catches his eye, a brown blur bursts out from the wood line as it heads across the open field trying to escape danger. The wide view of the Redfield scope catches the seven point's running effort. The Rifle's safety clicks off as the last few remaining feet till safety are quickly being covered by the buck. The crosshairs on the scope fall right behind the shoulder of the deer as the rifle roars, mid leap the buck tumbles to the Earth, mere inches from the safety of the thicket ahead.
Leaving the stand my dad is soon standing over the buck, reaching into his pocket he finds the familiar grip of the 422 Bucklite. The knife "clicks" open audibly and the work begins, that finely honed edge holds from start to finish and carries through the rest of the season, performing the task of field dressing again and again.
That knife was my father's go to knife for over a decade and the edge is proof enough. I'll never forget seeing him sharpen that knife the night before opening day, after opening day. He'd then strop it with his leather belt and the edge would scream through anything. He did end up replacing that knife in his line up, a Buck 110 kicked out that olive drab Bucklite, it semi-retired on the shelf of the gun cabinet. Untimely, that knife is now mine. It's in my pocket for the time being and it's a pure joy to carry a knife so steeped in good memories.
