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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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I'll be away for a few days.
I'm taking part in a fundraising cycle event to raise money for Macmillan Cancer Support Nurses.
I'll be one of about 50 cyclists (Emergancy services personel; police, fire and rescue, ambulance, coastguard and mountain rescue) to cycle 180 miles in three days. We start early tomorrow at the Butt of Lewis and by Friday night we will have reached Barra thus cycling from the most northern to the most southerly points of the Outer Hebrides.
I know this sounds like nothing to the likes of Sturzi but there is some pretty challenging terrain along the way as well as the mercy of the dreaded Hebridean weather.
Wish me luck guys and gals, I'll try and take pictures as I go along then update them on my return.
Paul
I'm taking part in a fundraising cycle event to raise money for Macmillan Cancer Support Nurses.
I'll be one of about 50 cyclists (Emergancy services personel; police, fire and rescue, ambulance, coastguard and mountain rescue) to cycle 180 miles in three days. We start early tomorrow at the Butt of Lewis and by Friday night we will have reached Barra thus cycling from the most northern to the most southerly points of the Outer Hebrides.
I know this sounds like nothing to the likes of Sturzi but there is some pretty challenging terrain along the way as well as the mercy of the dreaded Hebridean weather.
Wish me luck guys and gals, I'll try and take pictures as I go along then update them on my return.
Paul
- Joined
- Feb 27, 2001
- Messages
- 26,713
Good luck and have fun. Hope you raise a bunch of cash too!
To change the subject, this was a very strange blade show for me this year. First time in well over twenty years I did not come home with a slip-joint. (Hope no one faints at that.)
I did come home with something Scottish and quite traditional I wanted to share with friends here. Vince and Grace Evans have been friends for a while now and I have always admired both of them and their work. About 10 years ago after seeing a Scottish Basket hilt I had a dream of asking him to make one for me one day. I scrimped for a few years and the stars aligned as far as his time and everything else involved.
Vince sent it to Jim before the show and Jim delivered it to me at Blade. I still have not figured out what a slip-joint addict is doing with this, but it is pretty awesome.
To change the subject, this was a very strange blade show for me this year. First time in well over twenty years I did not come home with a slip-joint. (Hope no one faints at that.)
I did come home with something Scottish and quite traditional I wanted to share with friends here. Vince and Grace Evans have been friends for a while now and I have always admired both of them and their work. About 10 years ago after seeing a Scottish Basket hilt I had a dream of asking him to make one for me one day. I scrimped for a few years and the stars aligned as far as his time and everything else involved.
Vince sent it to Jim before the show and Jim delivered it to me at Blade. I still have not figured out what a slip-joint addict is doing with this, but it is pretty awesome.
- Joined
- Oct 8, 2006
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We used to drive from Cleveland into Pennsylvania to visit Uncle Rupe. Rupert was married to Mary, my grandfather’s sister. So he was really my great uncle. He had an old farm, about forty acres. Roop ended up on his farm because he was a drunk. Or at least a hard partier. In town, parties and booze were easily available. When life handed Rupe a lemon, he waxed philosophical. “That’s the lean streak in the bacon.” Farming exposed him to less temptation.
It was a working farm, but an old fashioned one. Plowing was done by following the south ends of north bound horses. Farming that way is a lot of work. When the younger generation came to help, Rupe would keep an eye on them. When they looked restless he’d check his watch. “Uncle Rupe! What time is it?” He’d look up at the sun and say, “Oh, about two-forty.” Then he’d pull out his watch and show them. “Yup. Pretty close to two-forty.” When my brother and I worked for my dad, he pulled the same trick on us. I only learned where he’d gotten the trick as an adult.
Visiting Uncle Rupe was a big project. There was a lot of driving on country roads. The roads weren’t good. The cars weren’t good. When you started up a hill you were never sure if your car would make it to the top. Things weren’t quite that bad by the fifties. We’d start early in the morning and arrive in the fading afternoon. Spend the night there, or the weekend. Then take the long drive home. Later they put the interstate through. Better roads, better cars, shortened the trip a lot.
Frequently we’d sleep in the barn. I don’t remember bailed hay. An old fashioned farm in the fifties probably couldn’t afford those new-fangled bailers. There was always a big hay pile on the floor. Kids climbed into the loft, jumped, and slide down the hay pile. Uncle Roop didn’t mind, he encouraged us. The horses didn’t mind either.
Later we had a canvas tent. The kind with straight walls and then a gable roof. We used that tent camping, and on vacation to New England or through the Appalachians or to Menlo Park.
It was usually a family gathering. My dad had seven brothers and one sister. Add in wives and children and sometimes the older generation, it could be quite a crowd. As crowds go, at an isolated farm. Thus bedding down in the barn. The women brought made dishes to add to Mary’s farm cooking. Sunday lunch was usually a feast.
The farm lay in a bight of a creek. Big enough for fishing, and for skinny dipping. Swimming naked was for the boys and men. I doubt the girls ever skinny dipped. Too much chance roving boys would watch the show.
Rupe had a home built rowboat. I’d row for fun, or float and fish. My dad used to go out at night frogging. This required a big flashlight. Spot a nice frog sitting on the bank, and fix your light on him. Let the boat drift to shore, or scull it there. The froggy squatted, paralyzed by the light. Whoever was nearest would reach out and grab him. Toss him in a sack. Rinse and repeat until you had a meal. The legs really did jump in the pan when you cooked them. Dad said they tasted kind of like chicken. I wish I’d known about frogging when I was a scantling.
Rupe and Mary’s daughter got married. Rupe gave them enough of the farm land to build a house. Many of his nephews worked construction, and helped on the project. My dad included. I would have been nine or ten. I was on the roof, near the ridgeline, nailing sheathing boards to rafters. I lost control and slid. The only thing that saved me was a strip of two-by four nailed on top of the sheathing, just at the eaves. As for Uncle Rupe, he'd climb to the top of the ladder, but no farther, and encourage us. Smart man.
Some ways from the house a path descended through the woods. It came out in a tree shaded dell with an opening into pasture. Against one rise was a stone horse trough. The trough was fed from an uphill spring. The channel was two planks, nailed together at right angles. Not exactly an aqueduct, but it worked. During visits it was the kid’s job to patrol the channel from spring to trough, re-sealing the joints with clay. A notch in the trough let the water free to flow through the pasture to the creek.
I’m sure the farm horses liked that trough. But it my experience it served as a cooler. No sooner did anyone arrive than he would bring a case of beer down to the dell. More than one case was involved, over a weekend. A fence post near the trough had a nail driven part way into it, angled upward. That was the bottle opener. (The twist-off cap hadn’t been invented.) The nail was rusty, and had been there for years. But it never failed us. Fish out a beer, pop the top, return to your seat. Occasionally add more bottles to replace dead soldiers.
I spent many an hour down there, listening to the men talk. Talk family, talk shop, talk politics, talk about anything. The occasional twig was whittled. They sang the old songs; Down by the Old Mill Stream, or In the Shade of the Old Apple Tree. Oddly enough, that creek was an old mill stream. There was only wreckage left. But you could see where the old damn had stored water for the wheel of the old mill. Looking back, it was almost a Norman Rockwell fantasy.
When attending these story fests, Uncle Rupe considered himself off the reservation. He killed a lot of soldiers. Before leaving, the men organized an Easter Booze Hunt. They stashed whiskey bottles here and there around the place. When Uncle Rupe found one, he got pie eyed. After a family visit he had a fun week or two before returning to sober farm work.
It was a working farm, but an old fashioned one. Plowing was done by following the south ends of north bound horses. Farming that way is a lot of work. When the younger generation came to help, Rupe would keep an eye on them. When they looked restless he’d check his watch. “Uncle Rupe! What time is it?” He’d look up at the sun and say, “Oh, about two-forty.” Then he’d pull out his watch and show them. “Yup. Pretty close to two-forty.” When my brother and I worked for my dad, he pulled the same trick on us. I only learned where he’d gotten the trick as an adult.
Visiting Uncle Rupe was a big project. There was a lot of driving on country roads. The roads weren’t good. The cars weren’t good. When you started up a hill you were never sure if your car would make it to the top. Things weren’t quite that bad by the fifties. We’d start early in the morning and arrive in the fading afternoon. Spend the night there, or the weekend. Then take the long drive home. Later they put the interstate through. Better roads, better cars, shortened the trip a lot.
Frequently we’d sleep in the barn. I don’t remember bailed hay. An old fashioned farm in the fifties probably couldn’t afford those new-fangled bailers. There was always a big hay pile on the floor. Kids climbed into the loft, jumped, and slide down the hay pile. Uncle Roop didn’t mind, he encouraged us. The horses didn’t mind either.
Later we had a canvas tent. The kind with straight walls and then a gable roof. We used that tent camping, and on vacation to New England or through the Appalachians or to Menlo Park.
It was usually a family gathering. My dad had seven brothers and one sister. Add in wives and children and sometimes the older generation, it could be quite a crowd. As crowds go, at an isolated farm. Thus bedding down in the barn. The women brought made dishes to add to Mary’s farm cooking. Sunday lunch was usually a feast.
The farm lay in a bight of a creek. Big enough for fishing, and for skinny dipping. Swimming naked was for the boys and men. I doubt the girls ever skinny dipped. Too much chance roving boys would watch the show.
Rupe had a home built rowboat. I’d row for fun, or float and fish. My dad used to go out at night frogging. This required a big flashlight. Spot a nice frog sitting on the bank, and fix your light on him. Let the boat drift to shore, or scull it there. The froggy squatted, paralyzed by the light. Whoever was nearest would reach out and grab him. Toss him in a sack. Rinse and repeat until you had a meal. The legs really did jump in the pan when you cooked them. Dad said they tasted kind of like chicken. I wish I’d known about frogging when I was a scantling.
Rupe and Mary’s daughter got married. Rupe gave them enough of the farm land to build a house. Many of his nephews worked construction, and helped on the project. My dad included. I would have been nine or ten. I was on the roof, near the ridgeline, nailing sheathing boards to rafters. I lost control and slid. The only thing that saved me was a strip of two-by four nailed on top of the sheathing, just at the eaves. As for Uncle Rupe, he'd climb to the top of the ladder, but no farther, and encourage us. Smart man.
Some ways from the house a path descended through the woods. It came out in a tree shaded dell with an opening into pasture. Against one rise was a stone horse trough. The trough was fed from an uphill spring. The channel was two planks, nailed together at right angles. Not exactly an aqueduct, but it worked. During visits it was the kid’s job to patrol the channel from spring to trough, re-sealing the joints with clay. A notch in the trough let the water free to flow through the pasture to the creek.
I’m sure the farm horses liked that trough. But it my experience it served as a cooler. No sooner did anyone arrive than he would bring a case of beer down to the dell. More than one case was involved, over a weekend. A fence post near the trough had a nail driven part way into it, angled upward. That was the bottle opener. (The twist-off cap hadn’t been invented.) The nail was rusty, and had been there for years. But it never failed us. Fish out a beer, pop the top, return to your seat. Occasionally add more bottles to replace dead soldiers.
I spent many an hour down there, listening to the men talk. Talk family, talk shop, talk politics, talk about anything. The occasional twig was whittled. They sang the old songs; Down by the Old Mill Stream, or In the Shade of the Old Apple Tree. Oddly enough, that creek was an old mill stream. There was only wreckage left. But you could see where the old damn had stored water for the wheel of the old mill. Looking back, it was almost a Norman Rockwell fantasy.
When attending these story fests, Uncle Rupe considered himself off the reservation. He killed a lot of soldiers. Before leaving, the men organized an Easter Booze Hunt. They stashed whiskey bottles here and there around the place. When Uncle Rupe found one, he got pie eyed. After a family visit he had a fun week or two before returning to sober farm work.
Last edited:
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Nice read Raymond. It's a small world. I was born in Lorain, just west of Cleveland. My great grandfather had a farm in Slippery Rock, PA. Although the farm was gone by the time I was a lad, I heard a lot of stories from my dad about the summers he spent there.
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Thanks, Gary.
I wrote this because there are two generations in the family who have never heard of Uncle Rupes farm.
Memory fades with the generations. Written witness remains.
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Nice read Raymond 
Good luck Paul, let us know how it goes - onesie pics obligatory!
:thumbup:
Beautiful piece Rob Roy! Just the sight of that steel fair chills my old English bones! :thumbup:
Good luck Paul, let us know how it goes - onesie pics obligatory!
:thumbup:Beautiful piece Rob Roy! Just the sight of that steel fair chills my old English bones!
:thumbup:
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This is pretty far off topic for us, but I figure there's enough experience and travel running around here that y'all are a good bunch to ask. The short version is that I inherited a keyring from my father that I never carried because it had a lot of sentimental value. It was a neat thing, though, and I found a newer one a few years ago that I used, but both of them burned up in the fire. I finally found another one on that auction site the other day, so now I just want to know what the bloomin' thing is called. Any ideas?
James
James
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- Oct 16, 2003
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That's a heck of a fire, Frank. And toxic.
James
James
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- 43,102
This is pretty far off topic for us, but I figure there's enough experience and travel running around here that y'all are a good bunch to ask. The short version is that I inherited a keyring from my father that I never carried because it had a lot of sentimental value. It was a neat thing, though, and I found a newer one a few years ago that I used, but both of them burned up in the fire. I finally found another one on that auction site the other day, so now I just want to know what the bloomin' thing is called. Any ideas?
James
We (my family) used to have one like that in something like the 1960's. I think the idea was that it was too big to just put it in your pocket without absolutely knowing it was there, so you didn't walk off with it. A more elegant solution than attaching the key to a large stick. I think we used ours for the key to the garage. We seldom used that key, but we always knew where it was. I think the thing is called a BKR.
Yeah, that's why they sent us home. We were down wind and people were getting headaches from the gunk.
Modoc ED
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I think Frank gave a good answer. Even if you hadn't said; key ring in your question, I would recognize it as a key ring - the small open ring with the little ball on the end to screw on or off as you added or subtracted a key from it and the large closed ring to hang it up with and to make it difficult to walk off with. So, to answer your question - what is the thing called - I'd say a keyring.
Now, that long thing with all the numbers on it below the keyring is what my Mother used to use to smack my hands when I wasn't cooperative.
Now, that long thing with all the numbers on it below the keyring is what my Mother used to use to smack my hands when I wasn't cooperative.
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Thank you for your insight, Ed. But to be clear, I was looking more for suggestions about what this particular type of key ring is called. I believe the thing at the bottom is some sort of device for measuring, but I could be wrong.
James
Modoc ED
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I see James. As it stands now, I don't have an exact name for the ring. I would add though that I'd say "nose ring" is out of the running.
As to the thing at the bottom of the picture, I think you're onto something about it being used for measuring but my Mother had a longer version called a yard stick that she used for long range strikes.
As to the thing at the bottom of the picture, I think you're onto something about it being used for measuring but my Mother had a longer version called a yard stick that she used for long range strikes.
Last edited:
Modoc ED
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I've just seen an advertisement/commercial on FOX News about Alzheimer's. In the commercial, it was stated that misplacing objects in unusual or unlikely places was a sign of Alzheimer's. Are you kidding me!!!!!! I guess I've had Alzheimer's since childhood as I've misplaced objects in unusual or unlikely places from the get go!!!!!