-
The BladeForums.com 2024 Traditional Knife is ready to order! See this thread for details: https://www.bladeforums.com/threads/bladeforums-2024-traditional-knife.2003187/
Price is$300$250 ea (shipped within CONUS). If you live outside the US, I will contact you after your order for extra shipping charges.
Order here: https://www.bladeforums.com/help/2024-traditional/ - Order as many as you like, we have plenty.
"Carl's Lounge" (Off-Topic Discussion, Traditional Knife "Tales & Vignettes")
- Thread starter jackknife
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- Dec 2, 2005
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Hope you have a lovely time with your family Frank. All the best
Jack
Jack
Wife is a nurse. She'll work a 12 hour shift at the hospital in Christmas Eve then another on Christmas Day. In reality the shifts are closer to 14 hours. We'll celebrate with gifts about 9PM on Christmas Day and a family meal on Saturday, 28 December. We are blessed in that this Christmas we are not geographically separated and spending the season apart.
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- Sep 2, 2004
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Be safe and have a good time, Frank. I'll try not to chase everyone away while you are gone.
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- Mar 7, 2006
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- 2,171
Safe journey and return and a great visit.
black mamba
Gold Member
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- Oct 21, 2009
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- 23,078
Traveling mercies, Frank . . . . and have FUN!
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- Feb 23, 2012
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Thanks are posting those, great little tool. Synchronicity is a funny thing. Just yesterday I used mine on a can creamed corn (for hearty pancakes). I have the spoon option though. My girlfriend came home and saw it on the counter, "why didn't
you just use the can opener?" "It IS a can opener!"
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:thumbup:
Peregrin said:I'll try not to chase everyone away while you are gone.
~ P.
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- Oct 2, 2011
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- 3,525
I was searching for the "you know you're addicted to traditional knives when" thread, but I think it has died. It has struck me that every year I get excited about Christmas mostly because of the packages and parcels and cooking and what not that require sharp edges.
Actual presents ... Meh... There's nothing I really need these days I must admit, and unless it's food, drink or more knives, I'm never that interested about the contents. I love the wrapping and the unwrapping. I scorn the little serrated edges on my Sellotape dispenser, and the scissors that are offered by my fiancé. I love watching sharp carbon steel glide through Christmas paper along the folded edges, piercing blister packs, the hiss of a vacuum pack being sliced into or the pop of tape under tension being cut. Happiness is a patina with a polished edge.
Paul
Actual presents ... Meh... There's nothing I really need these days I must admit, and unless it's food, drink or more knives, I'm never that interested about the contents. I love the wrapping and the unwrapping. I scorn the little serrated edges on my Sellotape dispenser, and the scissors that are offered by my fiancé. I love watching sharp carbon steel glide through Christmas paper along the folded edges, piercing blister packs, the hiss of a vacuum pack being sliced into or the pop of tape under tension being cut. Happiness is a patina with a polished edge.
Paul
This is why several years ago, we decided to forgo the materialistic Christmas insanity of buying stuff that was not really needed. The adults made the conscious decision that he gifts under the tree were for the kids. We grown ups, stick to some small symbolic gifts of consumables that the grown up in question likes. Uncle John loves his tins of smoked oysters and cigars, with a certain brand of Vodka. I'm easy to please with pipe tobacco, Bourbon, and .22 ammo. Although this year, .22 ammo is hard to find with the insane ammo hoarding going on.
We're trying to teach the kids that mass consumerism is not a good thing.
Besides, a gift wrapped package of pipe tobacco still needs a sharp knife to cut open.
Carl.
- Joined
- Dec 2, 2005
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- 69,891
Good post Paul. Hope you and the missus have a good one :thumbup:
This is why several years ago, we decided to forgo the materialistic Christmas insanity of buying stuff that was not really needed. The adults made the conscious decision that he gifts under the tree were for the kids. We grown ups, stick to some small symbolic gifts of consumables that the grown up in question likes. Uncle John loves his tins of smoked oysters and cigars, with a certain brand of Vodka. I'm easy to please with pipe tobacco, Bourbon, and .22 ammo. Although this year, .22 ammo is hard to find with the insane ammo hoarding going on.
We're trying to teach the kids that mass consumerism is not a good thing.
Besides, a gift wrapped package of pipe tobacco still needs a sharp knife to cut open.
Yes, it's definitely for the kids - I wish someone would tell my kids they're classed as grown-ups now!
From what I recall from last year, wasn't there a good deal of mass CONSUMPTION going on round the Jacknife household?! Hic!
Jack :thumbup:
- Joined
- Dec 2, 2005
- Messages
- 69,891
The Sheffield Workhouse
When Duncan and Sue visited Sheffield earlier in the year, I pointed out to them the site of Ibbotson’s original Globe Steel Works, which is situated close to the Kelham Island Industrial Museum. Only part of the original building remains today, and the building itself was not originally a steel works, but a silk mill, built in 1758, and employing 150 workers, mainly women and children. Later, the the mill was converted to cotton spinning, but it was burnt down twice, and was abandoned in 1821. In 1829 the Sheffield Guardians of the Poor bought it as a cheap building for the town’s workhouse (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Workhouse). According to a local guidebook: “For the next fifty-three years this vast edifice was held in dread by the people of Sheffield. Up to 600 paupers at a time were crammed in, and thousands more queued to seek “outdoor relief” or “dole”. While admission to the workhouse was voluntary (a choice between that and starvation), conditions inside were no different to a prison, with sexes segregated, and children separated from their mothers and fathers. Discipline was strict, with 14 hour working days (12 hours on Sundays) and harsh treatment. Infractions were punished severely, for example in 1746 two female inmates in Sheffield workhouse caught attempting to steel a linen sheet were thrown into the “black hole” and then whipped (http://www.workhouses.org.uk/Sheffield/).
When my father first started work, he worked with a few old men who had been raised in the Sheffield workhouse. Apparently when workhouse-raised children reached an age where they could be employed in local factories, they were much sought after because the factory owners realised the poor kids had been utterly broken by their upbringing, and were therefore more readily exploited.
Part of the hospital where my eldest daughter was born was originally one of the later Sheffield workhouses. In the 1970’s, the entrance to a tunnel was discovered during the building of some new houses. The tunnel ran for more than half a mile back to the workhouse, and was used to carry corpses out of the building under cover of darkness, so as not to cause unrest among the inmates.
This seasonal monologue (below), published in 1877 by Robert Sims, was once extremely popular here. I’m afraid it is rather gloomy. I also found this very melodramatic old recording:
[video=youtube;kR9jQeXm46c]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kR9jQeXm46c[/video]
Christmas Day In the Workhouse
It is Christmas Day in the Workhouse,
And the cold bare walls are bright
With garlands of green and holly,
And the place is a pleasant sight:
For with clean-washed hands and faces,
In a long and hungry line
The paupers sit at the tables
For this is the hour they dine.
And the guardians and their ladies,
Although the wind is east,
Have come in their furs and wrappers,
To watch their charges feast;
To smile and be condescending,
Put pudding on pauper plates,
To be hosts at the workhouse banquet
They've paid for - with their rates.
Oh, the paupers are meek and lowly
With their 'Thank'ee kindly, mum's'
So long as they fill their stomachs,
What matter it whence it comes?
But one of the old men mutters,
And pushes his plate aside:
'Great God!' he cries; 'but it chokes me!
For this is the day she died.'
The guardians gazed in horror,
The master's face went white;
'Did a pauper refuse the pudding?'
Could their ears believe aright?
Then the ladies clutched their husbands,
Thinking the man would die,
Struck by a bolt, or something,
By the outraged One on high.
But the pauper sat for a moment,
Then rose 'mid a silence grim,
For the others had ceased to chatter
And trembled in every limb.
He looked at the guardians' ladies,
Then, eyeing their lords, he said,
'I eat not the food of villains
Whose hands are foul and red:
'Whose victims cry for vengeance
From their dank, unhallowed graves.'
'He's drunk!' said the workhouse master,
'Or else he's mad and raves.'
'Not drunk or mad,' cried the pauper,
'But only a hunted beast,
Who, torn by the hounds and mangled,
Declines the vulture's feast.
'Keep your hands off me, curse you!
Hear me right out to the end.
You come here to see how paupers
The season of Christmas spend.
You come here to watch us feeding,
As they watch the captured beast.
Hear why a penniless pauper
Spits on your paltry feast.
'Do you think I will take your bounty,
And let you smile and think
You're doing a noble action
With the parish's meat and drink?
Where's my wife, you traitors -
The poor old wife you slew?
Yes, by the God above us,
My Nance was killed by you!
'Last winter my wife lay dying,
Starved in a filthy den;
I had never been to the parish, -
I came to the parish then.
I swallowed my pride in coming,
For, ere the ruin came,
I held up my head as a trader,
And I bore a spotless name.
'I came to the parish, craving
Break for a starving wife,
Bread for the woman who'd loved me
Through fifty years of life;
And what do you think they told me,
Mocking my awful grief?
That 'the House' was open to us,
But they wouldn't give 'out relief.'
'I slunk to the filthy alley -
'Twas a cold, raw Christmas eve -
And the bakers' shops were open,
Tempting a man to thieve;
But I clenched my fists together,
Holding my head awry,
So I came to her empty-handed
And mournfully told her why.
'Then I told her 'the House' was open;
She had heard of the ways of that,
For her bloodless cheeks went crimson,
And up in her rags she sat,
Crying, 'Bide the Christmas here, John,
We've never had one apart;
I think I can bear the hunger, -
The other would break my heart.'
'All through that eve I watched her,
Holding her hand in mine,
Praying the Lord, and weeping,
Till my lips were salt as brine.
I asked her once if she hungered,
And as she answered 'No,'
The moon shone in at the window
Set in a wreath of snow.
'Then the room was bathed in glory,
And I saw in my darling's eyes
The far-away look of wonder
That comes when the spirit flies;
And her lips were parched and parted,
And her reason came and went,
For she raved of our home in Devon,
Where our happiest years were spent.
'And the accents long forgotten,
Came back to the tongue once more,
For she talked like the country lassie
I woo'd by the Devon shore.
Then she rose to her feet and trembled,
And fell on the rags and moaned,
And, 'Give me a crust - I'm famished -
For the love of God!' she groaned.
'I rushed from the room like a madman,
And flew to the workhouse gate,
Crying, 'Food for a dying woman!'
And the answer came, 'Too late.'
They drove me away with curses;
Then I fought with a dog in the street,
And tore from the mongrel's clutches
A crust he was trying to eat.
'Back, through the filthy by-lanes!
Back, through the trampled slush!
Up to the crazy garret,
Wrapped in an awful hush.
My heart sank down at the threshold,
And I paused with a sudden thrill,
For there in the silv'ry moonlight
My Nance lay, cold and still.
'Up to the blackened ceiling
The sunken eyes were cast -
I knew on those lips all bloodless
My name had been the last;
She'd called for her absent husband -
O God! had I but known! -
Had called in vain, and in anguish
Had died in that den - alone.
'Yes, there, in a land of plenty,
Lay a loving woman dead,
Cruelly starved and murdered
For a loaf of the parish bread.
At yonder gate, last Christmas,
I craved for a human life.
You, who would feast us paupers,
What of my murdered wife!
. . . . . . . .
'There, get ye gone to your dinners;
Don't mind me in the least;
Think of the happy paupers
Eating your Christmas feast;
And when you recount their blessings
In your smug parochial way,
Say what you did for me, too,
Only last Christmas Day.'
George Robert Sims
When Duncan and Sue visited Sheffield earlier in the year, I pointed out to them the site of Ibbotson’s original Globe Steel Works, which is situated close to the Kelham Island Industrial Museum. Only part of the original building remains today, and the building itself was not originally a steel works, but a silk mill, built in 1758, and employing 150 workers, mainly women and children. Later, the the mill was converted to cotton spinning, but it was burnt down twice, and was abandoned in 1821. In 1829 the Sheffield Guardians of the Poor bought it as a cheap building for the town’s workhouse (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Workhouse). According to a local guidebook: “For the next fifty-three years this vast edifice was held in dread by the people of Sheffield. Up to 600 paupers at a time were crammed in, and thousands more queued to seek “outdoor relief” or “dole”. While admission to the workhouse was voluntary (a choice between that and starvation), conditions inside were no different to a prison, with sexes segregated, and children separated from their mothers and fathers. Discipline was strict, with 14 hour working days (12 hours on Sundays) and harsh treatment. Infractions were punished severely, for example in 1746 two female inmates in Sheffield workhouse caught attempting to steel a linen sheet were thrown into the “black hole” and then whipped (http://www.workhouses.org.uk/Sheffield/).
When my father first started work, he worked with a few old men who had been raised in the Sheffield workhouse. Apparently when workhouse-raised children reached an age where they could be employed in local factories, they were much sought after because the factory owners realised the poor kids had been utterly broken by their upbringing, and were therefore more readily exploited.
Part of the hospital where my eldest daughter was born was originally one of the later Sheffield workhouses. In the 1970’s, the entrance to a tunnel was discovered during the building of some new houses. The tunnel ran for more than half a mile back to the workhouse, and was used to carry corpses out of the building under cover of darkness, so as not to cause unrest among the inmates.
This seasonal monologue (below), published in 1877 by Robert Sims, was once extremely popular here. I’m afraid it is rather gloomy. I also found this very melodramatic old recording:
[video=youtube;kR9jQeXm46c]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kR9jQeXm46c[/video]
Christmas Day In the Workhouse
It is Christmas Day in the Workhouse,
And the cold bare walls are bright
With garlands of green and holly,
And the place is a pleasant sight:
For with clean-washed hands and faces,
In a long and hungry line
The paupers sit at the tables
For this is the hour they dine.
And the guardians and their ladies,
Although the wind is east,
Have come in their furs and wrappers,
To watch their charges feast;
To smile and be condescending,
Put pudding on pauper plates,
To be hosts at the workhouse banquet
They've paid for - with their rates.
Oh, the paupers are meek and lowly
With their 'Thank'ee kindly, mum's'
So long as they fill their stomachs,
What matter it whence it comes?
But one of the old men mutters,
And pushes his plate aside:
'Great God!' he cries; 'but it chokes me!
For this is the day she died.'
The guardians gazed in horror,
The master's face went white;
'Did a pauper refuse the pudding?'
Could their ears believe aright?
Then the ladies clutched their husbands,
Thinking the man would die,
Struck by a bolt, or something,
By the outraged One on high.
But the pauper sat for a moment,
Then rose 'mid a silence grim,
For the others had ceased to chatter
And trembled in every limb.
He looked at the guardians' ladies,
Then, eyeing their lords, he said,
'I eat not the food of villains
Whose hands are foul and red:
'Whose victims cry for vengeance
From their dank, unhallowed graves.'
'He's drunk!' said the workhouse master,
'Or else he's mad and raves.'
'Not drunk or mad,' cried the pauper,
'But only a hunted beast,
Who, torn by the hounds and mangled,
Declines the vulture's feast.
'Keep your hands off me, curse you!
Hear me right out to the end.
You come here to see how paupers
The season of Christmas spend.
You come here to watch us feeding,
As they watch the captured beast.
Hear why a penniless pauper
Spits on your paltry feast.
'Do you think I will take your bounty,
And let you smile and think
You're doing a noble action
With the parish's meat and drink?
Where's my wife, you traitors -
The poor old wife you slew?
Yes, by the God above us,
My Nance was killed by you!
'Last winter my wife lay dying,
Starved in a filthy den;
I had never been to the parish, -
I came to the parish then.
I swallowed my pride in coming,
For, ere the ruin came,
I held up my head as a trader,
And I bore a spotless name.
'I came to the parish, craving
Break for a starving wife,
Bread for the woman who'd loved me
Through fifty years of life;
And what do you think they told me,
Mocking my awful grief?
That 'the House' was open to us,
But they wouldn't give 'out relief.'
'I slunk to the filthy alley -
'Twas a cold, raw Christmas eve -
And the bakers' shops were open,
Tempting a man to thieve;
But I clenched my fists together,
Holding my head awry,
So I came to her empty-handed
And mournfully told her why.
'Then I told her 'the House' was open;
She had heard of the ways of that,
For her bloodless cheeks went crimson,
And up in her rags she sat,
Crying, 'Bide the Christmas here, John,
We've never had one apart;
I think I can bear the hunger, -
The other would break my heart.'
'All through that eve I watched her,
Holding her hand in mine,
Praying the Lord, and weeping,
Till my lips were salt as brine.
I asked her once if she hungered,
And as she answered 'No,'
The moon shone in at the window
Set in a wreath of snow.
'Then the room was bathed in glory,
And I saw in my darling's eyes
The far-away look of wonder
That comes when the spirit flies;
And her lips were parched and parted,
And her reason came and went,
For she raved of our home in Devon,
Where our happiest years were spent.
'And the accents long forgotten,
Came back to the tongue once more,
For she talked like the country lassie
I woo'd by the Devon shore.
Then she rose to her feet and trembled,
And fell on the rags and moaned,
And, 'Give me a crust - I'm famished -
For the love of God!' she groaned.
'I rushed from the room like a madman,
And flew to the workhouse gate,
Crying, 'Food for a dying woman!'
And the answer came, 'Too late.'
They drove me away with curses;
Then I fought with a dog in the street,
And tore from the mongrel's clutches
A crust he was trying to eat.
'Back, through the filthy by-lanes!
Back, through the trampled slush!
Up to the crazy garret,
Wrapped in an awful hush.
My heart sank down at the threshold,
And I paused with a sudden thrill,
For there in the silv'ry moonlight
My Nance lay, cold and still.
'Up to the blackened ceiling
The sunken eyes were cast -
I knew on those lips all bloodless
My name had been the last;
She'd called for her absent husband -
O God! had I but known! -
Had called in vain, and in anguish
Had died in that den - alone.
'Yes, there, in a land of plenty,
Lay a loving woman dead,
Cruelly starved and murdered
For a loaf of the parish bread.
At yonder gate, last Christmas,
I craved for a human life.
You, who would feast us paupers,
What of my murdered wife!
. . . . . . . .
'There, get ye gone to your dinners;
Don't mind me in the least;
Think of the happy paupers
Eating your Christmas feast;
And when you recount their blessings
In your smug parochial way,
Say what you did for me, too,
Only last Christmas Day.'
George Robert Sims
Last edited:
silenthunterstudios
Slipjoint Addict
- Joined
- Feb 2, 2005
- Messages
- 20,039
Carl, from Bass Pro Shops right up the road from you, to Cabelas in the coal hills, .22 is in short supply ().
I enjoy seeing everyone open the presents I got them. Yeah, I try to put a lot of thought into them. My father and little brother both got knives. My father loves the tiny knives, like peanuts, and my brother likes balisongs, and they always make a joke about knowing "what Danny got for them". Why break with traditions?
Most of all, I like to see my 16 yr old baby sister get the Christmas I had. Everyone is grown up now, but she is still a kid. Why stop any traditions? I want to keep Christmas for the kids going for her, and any nieces and nephews that may come down the pike, or short people of my own. I plan on getting out of work early tomorrow, driving straight home, cracking open a hard cider and wrapping some last minute gifts. Then, going to midnight mass, coming back, and getting right and proper snookered. Watch the Pope at Christmas mass when I get back, go to bed, and be awoken by the singing of labradors that got too many holiday treats the night before. I usually get the most joy seeing those lunkheads walk around the back yard with their smoked beef bones, growling at each other. Some try to bury them, the old man forgets where he put his, the baby tries to get all three in his mouth and run off with them.
). I enjoy seeing everyone open the presents I got them. Yeah, I try to put a lot of thought into them. My father and little brother both got knives. My father loves the tiny knives, like peanuts, and my brother likes balisongs, and they always make a joke about knowing "what Danny got for them". Why break with traditions
?Most of all, I like to see my 16 yr old baby sister get the Christmas I had. Everyone is grown up now, but she is still a kid. Why stop any traditions? I want to keep Christmas for the kids going for her, and any nieces and nephews that may come down the pike, or short people of my own. I plan on getting out of work early tomorrow, driving straight home, cracking open a hard cider and wrapping some last minute gifts. Then, going to midnight mass, coming back, and getting right and proper snookered. Watch the Pope at Christmas mass when I get back, go to bed, and be awoken by the singing of labradors that got too many holiday treats the night before. I usually get the most joy seeing those lunkheads walk around the back yard with their smoked beef bones, growling at each other. Some try to bury them, the old man forgets where he put his, the baby tries to get all three in his mouth and run off with them.
