I'm a teacher (writing...I also work with kids who have learning disabilities). It wasn't my plan to become a teacher, but it happened. After years as a sportswriter. Years of sweaty shows in smoke filled clubs, banging out the same songs on the Gibson SG I bought with lawn cutting money when I was 13. Making enough money to buy beer. Or getting paid in beer directly. But I digress...I figured since I can't sleep I might as well share a sort-of-knife related story that came back to me today.
A while back, my buddies and I took a motorcycle trip up the lost coast. I'm the president of an adventure riding club (I guess you'd call it). The PPMC. We are a small club, we all ride KLRs. We are not out to set speed records. We are fathers and like to ride our bikes in the dirt without having to trailer them there.
On this particular trip, my buddy Tom and I rode up and spent the night before we left in Cloverdale with my friend Dave and his family. Tom and I rode up, sweaty and tired and ready to spoon a new rear tire on my bike. We were wearing our gear and I had a Sharpfinger on my belt. I got off my bike. I hugged Dave and with a bang of the garage door his boys ran out to see the old guys with their bikes. His boys are 6 and 13. First thing they wanted to know was why I was wearing a knife on my belt. I explained to them that a knife is one of the most important tools you can have. That we were going to be going pretty far off the beaten path. And that I wanted a knife that was easily accessible even with gloves on. (Dave is not a knife guy, he is a wonderful man, but his interests lean toward rock climbing and dirt bikes). The boys were intrigued. They saw a weapon. Then they saw the Leek on my backpocket and I showed them the slipjoint in my front pocket. We discussed the virtues of each knife and why I carried more than one.
I like talking about knives. And it didn't hurt that while I was fielding the spastic questions only young boys can ask, my tire was getting spooned on by Dave and Tom. The boys asked me if I wanted to see their knives and, of course, I said yes. I don't know what I was expecting, but the six year old came out with three junky fake SAKS and a pristine Camillus Army knife. Old. I was taken aback and told him what a nice knife he had...nicer than my Camillus army. He swelled up a little and I asked him where he'd gotten it. He wasn't sure and I encouraged him to find out. I told him to take good care of it because it was a very special thing. I told him a little bit of the history...as much as he could handle.
Then the boys moved on to nerf guns, and I decided I should probably do my share of the work on my bike. We finished up and decided to go to some private land on the Russian River that Dave has permission to use. Tom and I got back on the bikes (we both had our fishing rods of course). We rode out to the river through a washed out stream bed that got our adrenaline up. Dave drove out and then went back to get food with the boys. Tom and I hustled to the river.
It was one of those nights that you get a few of if you're lucky. It was warm and the sun was just dipping behind the trees. There was a hatch and fish were rising all along the river. I had been told by Dave (Dave does not fish either) that people fished for bass here. Nope. The fish rising around us were most definitely not bass. I would have given anything for my fly rod. Instead, I had my spinning rod with 8 lb. test and an old battered tin with bass plugs and Rooster Tails. Oh well. I tied on a yellow Rooster tail, shucked my riding boots, rolled my jeans up and waded out until my jeans were just wet enough. The opposing bank was lined with downed trees and I cast downstream and drifted the lure along. Nothing. I was happier than a pig in slop.
By this point the sun was setting and the sky was an expanse of liquid fire. The water reflected the trees and the sunset turned the ripples around my knees into cool lava. Bats dipped and flashed by in the diminishing light, feasting on the same insects as the fish rising all around me.
For want of anything better to do fishing wise, I tied on an old Rapala crankbait, hoping there was an old bass in there someplace. I was wading downriver and trying to keep sight of Tom, watching the smoke from his cigarette drift into the night sky like a signal fire. I was completely at peace. The strike took me by surprise and I gave Tom a holler. After a brief battle...I didn't want to hurt what I knew had to be a misplaced stocker trout or a native steelhead...I pulled the silver/purple fish gently from the water, cursing myself for being dumb enough to put on a lure with treble hooks when I should have been using a barbless dry fly. Luck prevailed, and the fish was barely hooked. Tom and I stared at it for a moment, half out of the water, and then I let it slip through my fingers like those memories that are kind enough to visit sometimes...homeruns...first kisses...native steelhead where you were told to fish for bass.
It was near dark by this point, and there was no point in trying to walk back without light, so I stood in the water and tried to soak it in, to let it all penetrate deeply enough that I would be able to take it home with me. To wear it as a cloak against the thrash and chaos of the City. Soon enough, I heard the boys and saw flashlight beams stabbing through the dark. I called to them to bring a light and help me get back on terra firma. It took a while to find my boots.
We made a fire and opened a bottle of Maker's Mark. We passed the bottle and Tom and Dave were in silent revery. For whatever reason...because I am the youngest in the Club...because I spend a lot of time with teenagers...because I have tattoos and played in bands...or maybe because I was there, the boys spat questions like machine gun fire. Where was the fish? Why didn't I keep it. I explained that I had killed my share of fish. We did not need to eat it. It was not hurt and there was no reason to keep it. They were surprised by this. Wasn't the point of fishing to kill fish? No. Will you show us how to fish? Of course.
As we ate, the questions continued and the boys bickered. I told them that they would always bicker because they were brothers. But that it was also the most important thing in the world. The older boy was clearly annoyed by his brother, and I told them both that there is nothing like the magic of being a spastic six year old boy, and that they should both enjoy it while it lasted. Dave caught a lizard seeking warmth by the fire and we admired it. The older boy asked me about girls and bullies, and I answered him as honestly as I could. He was surprised, I think. I told him that I make it a point to tell the truth, especially to kids.
The stars rained down on us and the fire started to die out. We had a big ride the next day and it was time to leave. Back at the house, I played some Johnny Cash songs on Dave's guitar (and a few Green Day songs for the boys). Then we all turned in.
The next morning my friend Mark rolled in...the boys were up early, ready to see us off. Both of them had a small handful of knives and wanted to know how to sharpen them. I told them enough to get them started and promised I would show them more next time...about knives and fishing...a promise I still need to make good on. We shook hands and then we started the bikes and went on one of the greatest trips of my life.
My point in sharing this memory is not to try to make myself seem like some wonder mentor. Not at all. I am just a spastic 33 year old who was once a spastic six year old asking questions and not waiting for the answers. Once a confused 13 year old who didn't understand girls or school or much of anything.
I remember a time when children made me uncomfortable. When their questions annoyed me. I am not proud of that or of who I was then. And the fact that I overcame it is not something I did consciously...the credit belongs to the autistic kids I worked with who helped me understand that everyone has something beautiful and unique about them. The credit goes to the kids I worked with who fought to make a decent life with the shitty cards they were dealt...born in jail, addicted to crack, living with relatives who didn't want to be bothered because their parents would never see the outside again.
I thought of this tonight because I am amazed to be a father. Amazed at the opportunities I have had to be a part of so many people's lives. Grateful that I was schooled by my students that every question is important. And that sometimes the answer isn't the point. Sometimes it is the words...they need to be spoken...they need to be heard. Every human connection is precious.
This story started with knives, but it is not about knives. It is about the simple bliss that we are sometimes afforded in a life that is often hard. I learn here on the forum...my often simpleminded questions and dumb jokes are tolerated...and I relish the opportunity to entertain the questions and assertions of life from those around me. Being a fairly young teacher, I was laid off at the end of last semester. Like many good teachers were. And I miss it terribly. There is nothing as satisfying as giving someone...especially a child...that something they are missing, whatever it is. A fact. A moment of your time. A philosophy. A new way to think. An old way to think.
I was lucky, as I said. I had this thrust upon me. But it is something we can all do. Open our ears and our hearts. Tell stories. Whether they are about knives or fishing or the first girl that broke your heart so bad you thought you would never breathe again.
Forgive my rambling. These moments span time and they fan out like refracted shadows. If you can grab one and share it, I think you should. When I think back about that weekend I think of the camaraderie with my riding brothers, whom I love. I remember the ride through the woods that left us laughing, gasping for air and feeling like the richest men in the world. But I also remember two kids that wanted to talk about knives and fishing and girls and what it is like to play in a band (not all that fun a lot of the time). I am glad that I am not the knucklehead that I once was. I am by no means perfect, but I have at least learned that children can teach us just as much as we teach them.
, Cars do the same thing for me. I relate time to the particular car I owned at the time. I was really into muscle cars and race cars. I can perrty much do it from the time I was 15 until 1990. After that, the significance started to fade
Well last July he mentioned smoking and I told him how bad it was ect while I was sitting there smoking myself. 
I started thinking and came to why should he do as I say if I can't do the same, so I decided to quit. Well its been a terrible hard road aned I still struggle everyday but its a lot easier then it was back in July. He looks up to me and I want to be a great role model so I had to change some things about myself. I'm sure glad I did. 
