My grandfather on my Mom's side was, among other things, very talented when working with wood. He was good with his hands period. His hands which were, of course, leather tough and almost black with worn in dirt and oil. He made furniture and other traditional things, but he liked to make things just for fun, too. Puzzles, strange boxes with hidden compartments inside their hidden compartments. I have a few of his knives. He gave me many knives when I was young. I owe my infatuation with knives to him. Sometimes I consider it a blessing. Sometimes a curse. Most of the times, a blessing. He taught me how to sharpen a blade and how to respect one.
One year, my parents had to leave for the whole summer. My sister and I stayed with Grandma (the sweetest woman I have ever known
and the best cook
she is the only person I have ever known who would listen to the same story 40 times rather than embarrass the teller by asserting its prior telling). My Grandpa was very charismatic and loved by everyone he knew. If he had one failing it was that he was awful hard on his family
the ones closest to him. I remember bitter fights. I avoided most of them.
At any rate, this summer, when I wasnt whitewashing fence posts or fishing in his pond, he taught me how to throw a knife. We used an old steak knife. The kind you can buy for a quarter at salvation army. I got pretty good. And then one day I threw the old knife and the blade broke clear in two. I was terrified. And with good reason. He was furious. He told me it had been a family heirloom. He made me cut the kernels off a pickup trucks worth of corn with the nub of the blade. I refused to quit. My hands looked like they had been through a thresher when I was done. My mom was furious when she found out.
Considering the knife bond we had, I dont ever remember the knife Grandpa always used like you read about so much on here. I remember him using knives. But nothing specific. Which makes this story all the more strange. I have thought about it often over the years. Why would you teach an 11 year old to throw a heirloom knife. Why did he get so mad? He was prone to irrational anger, but this one never did make sense.
I still dont get it, but the closest I can come to some kind of closure is that he was a man who respected all tools. Maybe the heirloom thing was crap. I dont know. But I do know that it hurt him to see the knife broken. He was not gentle with his tools, but he took good care of them.
I was reminded of this today because my daughter dropped one of my nicer knives. I saw the scared look in her eyes. Of course, I said it was an accident and not to worry. As long as it wasnt on purpose. No harm, no foul.
Times have changed. My hands have decent callouses, but not like my Grandpas. I would never shame someone for breaking my knife by accident. But there was something there and it wasnt just pettiness or meanness. I will spend the rest of my life wondering about it. I miss my Grandpa. His tough hands could be awful gentle sometimes. And as much as I resent the broken knife incident, if he had let it go it would be lost in the cobwebs of memory.