Hi,
I'm going to post this here because, while it's about a knife I just acquired, it is perhaps more about the story for me today.
It's been almost exactly 2 years now since my Father was killed in a car accident. No sympathies needed, he had lived a long and good life. Crap just happens sometimes.
As I read around the forum, I see people posting photos of a knife they had gotten from their Father after they passed on. And while my Father always carried a knife for most of his life, he either lost them or literally destroyed them.
The one knife I most remember him carrying was the unsung, and oft times derided, (by me), Imperial KampKing. I finally decided just before Christmas to go troll one up. Not for carry, but to simply have. Dad would go through about one of these every month. You could almost set your watch by the wreak and ruin of each poor victim.
But first there was the ritual of getting the knife. As a youngster, I didn't fully appreciate what was going on. But after being married, I do now.
To get the knife, we had to go to the small town which was about 12 miles away. So this wasn't a trip to be casually undertaken. There needed to be a pressing farm related reason. The hardware store was a typical small town store. Creaky, warped wood floors, 6 narrow isles, with as much stuff stacked and piled on the floor as was on the shelves. It was almost a hazard to move through the store without being crushed by a toppling stack of electrical boxes, barrel of nails, or a precariously perched lefse iron.
We would enter the store, where we would be immediately accosted by my Mother's gaze from her position behind the register. She was the single employee of the store. Tom, the owner being mainly a plumber by trade and seldom around in the afternoons. Mom would often teasingly demand to know what it was we had broken now.
After getting what we would needed, we would approach the counter, (and my Mother), and my Dad's hand would quickly and furtively dart into the 1 gallon metal bucket next to the register that these knives were kept in. Of course he would be busted by Mom. And she would give him The Look. She would then silently write it down in the paper charge account book and Dad would sign it. Never a word was ever spoken during the purchase of a new knife. Though oddly, sometimes he would make a big show of selecting a new knife from the bucket. Examining 3 or 4 of them closely before choosing one. All the while my Mother's Look deepening during the process. We would then hurriedly beat a retreat from the store.
From that point, the life expectancy of the victim could be measured in mere hours.
By the end of the second day there would be several deep chips or dents out of the knife blade because of repeated closings on the bail. By mid-week, the bail would be bent and the crimped on scales would be loosening.
During the second week, the punch/scraper would be bent or twisted and then roughly hammered back into shape so it would kind of close again. And he would have roughly assaulted the blade with the pedestal grinder in an attempt to sharpen it and remove the dings. And occasionally, the can opener would be re-purposed with the grinder too. The bail would be gone sometime during the week.
At the third week, the scales would literally rattle from being so loose. The frame itself would be loosening up now. Because he would use the cap-lifter/screw driver as a pry bar. And the knife blade would be subjected to the same treatment at the other end. The punch blade would now either be snapped off or it would refuse to open, perhaps both. Further assaults with the grinder would be made upon the blade. With a full 1/4 to 1/3 of it now ground away.
When the fourth week arrived, the end would be in clear sight. Sometimes one or even both scales would abandon the frame. The final assaults with the grinder on the poor blade would be made. And finally, when it could take no more, it would make a clean escape, lost in the great unknown. But safe from further harm and damage. Or the poor knife would give it's all. With the frame finally torn asunder by a hammer from being used as a chisel.
And the process would start again.
What is sad to me, is that when he could no longer get another KampKing, he pretty much stopped carrying a knife. Oh, he had some junk advertising knives in drawers and boxes, but he never carried them. My Brother and I even bought him a Buck 110 for his Birthday once. It shortly ended up at the bottom of a local lake during a fishing trip. We even got him a multi-tool once, a Gerber I believe. I never saw him use it. And I, like an idiot, never thought to get him a KampKing from an auction.
This is the one I picked up. The blade's a bit lazy on the close and the bail is a tiny bit bent. But otherwise pretty well unused. It is already a touch stone to my past. So thanks for letting me meander through my memories and prattle on about some of them. I kind of need it today.
Dale
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been outta work for over 2 months now (total of 5 months in 2010).
