WhittlinAway
Gold Member
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- Feb 11, 2016
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- 2,541
Take care, Frank. I hope the antibiotics do their trick and you’ve beat that bug soon.
-
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
- Start date
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- Dec 3, 2015
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- 2,936
Get well soon, Frank!
We're actually having a "chilly" Thanksgiving this year; the high today is around 60*F. We're doing Turkey Day on Saturday, though, so I've been lounging in my PJs all day. Only reason I knew it was chilly today was because I've been letting the dog out.
We're actually having a "chilly" Thanksgiving this year; the high today is around 60*F. We're doing Turkey Day on Saturday, though, so I've been lounging in my PJs all day. Only reason I knew it was chilly today was because I've been letting the dog out.
screened porch
Basic Member
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- Feb 19, 2012
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- 18,694
"This year" is a long time. I hope it isn't as bad as that. Prevail quickly over the bugs.
5K Qs
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- Jul 20, 2014
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That's impressive sculpting, r8shell!
Were the boys duly impressed with the Forest-Masters you spruced up?Thanks for the well-wishes, Frank, and same to you; I hope you can be thankful even with the bug situation, and that you'll feel better soon!
- GT
r8shell
Knifemaker / Craftsman / Service Provider
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- Jan 16, 2010
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- 25,504
Thanks, GT.That's impressive sculpting, r8shell!
They didn't really remember them. I guess I've always been the only knife-knut in the family.
I did get Brother #1 to start carrying a Victornox Rambler on his keychain since the last time I visited with him. 
waynorth
Knifemaker / Craftsman / Service Provider
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- Nov 19, 2005
- Messages
- 32,629
Hope you feel better soon Frank!! We need you in good shape around here!!!
Nearing the end of a lovely, sunny day up here in Vancouver!
Thinking of all my fellow Americans today!!
Had sushi for dinner!!
We celebrated Thanksgiving last month.
Nearing the end of a lovely, sunny day up here in Vancouver!
Thinking of all my fellow Americans today!!
Had sushi for dinner!!
We celebrated Thanksgiving last month.
Will Power
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- Jan 18, 2007
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- 33,363
Ha ha! Just shows the creative power of 'the spirits'
(even if liver is....well...liver
)Regards, Will
screened porch
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- 18,694
wrong thread
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- Nov 30, 2016
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- 3,089
Hope you get over that soon Frank. We need you around here.
- Joined
- Nov 30, 2016
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- 3,089
Well folks. I've been away quite a bit. Just wanted to say, I'm still alive. Still admiring my traditional knives and drop in and read the threads. But, I haven't had time to do much posting or even take new photos. Just in case anybody's wondering.
I've been working toward something that is taboo subject on the forum and spending a lot of time on other pursuits. See you all around soon.
I've been working toward something that is taboo subject on the forum and spending a lot of time on other pursuits. See you all around soon.
- Joined
- Sep 2, 2004
- Messages
- 18,280
I'll agree with this!
5K Qs
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- Jul 20, 2014
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Thanks for stopping by for a "holiday update", Alan.
Wishing you success in your other pursuits and hoping you'll eventually get back to The Porch more regularly. 
- GT
- Joined
- Mar 7, 2014
- Messages
- 937
I have long admired Carl's stories on this forum, and being a writer myself (though to a much more amateurish extent) I decided to give you all a taste of my own attempts at writing.
The murky brown waters of the Kalgan river gave off an iridescent shimmer in the golden light of the Australian sun. The twisted coils of the long brown waters wound their way through a landscape of ancient rocks and mighty trees, the girth of which three men could not replicate with their arms. It was an ancient noble land which held that timeless quality which so many describe but so few capture, and more to the point it was his home. He had been coming to this river since he was 13 when his parents made the decision to move out of the city and down to the country, and though life had drawn him back to the dusty urban city scape he made regular pilgrimages back to the river to decompress.
He walked briskly along the trail, the dry dead peppermint leaves crunching underfoot as he made his way through the green tunnel of underbrush. He was heading along the well known trail to find a little cutting in the bank where the path descended down right into the water. It had originally been a ramp to allow access to the river for loading and off loading goods but it was long out of use now and provided him instead with a comfortable place to sit with the water lapping up next to him.
The trail had seemed so long in his childhood but now as a man in his prime it took him little time to reach this spot. A long sigh escaped him as he sighted the first love of his youth and he descended to the water’s edge where a majestic peppermint grew, lapping up the nutrient rich waters of the river with its long deep roots. He sat himself down before this tree with face to the water and his back against its gnarly trunk. It had been a long time coming this trip. Life had been speeding up all around him for quite a while but it was time to recall the old ways of life which he had learned from his father and all of the other men who had been around him during those earlier years.
His folks had been from the city mainly, although his mother had been born in the country initially, and the time he had spent down there was something which he remembered with a great fondness. Those first few years as they had moved onto the property had been a crash course in manual arts and agriculture which had shaped his ideas about the world and life in general, as well as introducing him to the importance of a well made and kept tool; like the one he had riding in his pocket currently.
He leaned back further into the trunk of the tree to get his hand into his right pocket. He traced his fingers through the folds of the handkerchief which resided in there, skimming past the length of jute twin which his grandfather had taught him to carry always, before finally latching onto the jigged bone of his pocket knife. He extracted the tool from his pocket with glee and carefully opened the single wharncliffe blade.
The knife itself was not something which had an extensive lineage with him, much as he wished he could claim that. No, it was something which he had purchased on a whim one day when it popped up. He’d been into knives for years before this and had closely followed the traditional knives which he’d seen on blade forums but this was one of the first instances where he had spent real money on something that wasn’t tactical and black. And to his great surprise it had grown on him more and more and more, to the point where he felt positively naked without its firm and reassuring presence in his pocket. It was a medium size swayback pattern manufactured by GEC, a Viper in hemlock bone, and it was the object of his greatest love and affection.
He searched the ground next to him for a likely specimen and seized upon a dead peppermint branch. He held it firmly in his left hand and set about peeling off thin translucent shavings of bark and timber to skin the stick down to its bare bones. It was a mesmerising task for him, one had had long since discovered had the ability to hold him entranced for hours. The gleaming edge cleanly split the wood fibres in twain as he whistled a casual tune over the waters.
He was still in the process of debarking the stick when the casual warble of a magpie broke his revery and he glanced up into the world so long forgot. Above the tree line on the far side of the river he could see the tips of the rolling green hills which circumvallated the valley through which the river flowed through. They had long since been cleared for agricultural purposes and boasted some of the finest views in this part of the world. He idly wondered whether the occupants of the houses upon those hills knew or ever walked along the trail which he had. He supposed not, for not everyone was as enthralled by the soft slow waters of the river as he was. For those who had lived in this area for all their lives tended to take it for granted, but for him, a refugee from the dusty city hellscape, every second was a glorious peek at Xanadu.
These pilgrimages were, in a way, his method of connecting with a previous life, or rather way of life. One where men carried pocket knives, went fishing ad worked the land. A way of life where people fixed things which were broken and made things they couldn’t afford. In a way it was a way of life which had died out a long time ago, and his memories and experiences of it had been made possible only through meeting those people who themselves remembered it. Men of his father’s and grandfather’s generation, like the farmers and the tradesmen who had assisted them when they first moved down to the country; old men with grey hair whose wisdom was built on experience.
He paused to light a cigarette, resting the knife upon his jeans-clad knee. It was a filthy habit, or so his girlfriend said, but nevertheless it was one which he thought would stick with him for as long as the knife would. He inhaled deeply and stared out across the waters again. Perhaps there was hope though. Hope that this way of life would live on. He had already been teaching his nephews how to whittle, in the safety of his wood shop at home. They were intrigued with the translucent shavings the razor sharp blades could create and were already pleading with their mother for their own pocket knives. Perhaps this Christmas would be the time for that wish to come true. He’d have to have a word with his sister about that. He inhaled again and tapped the ash delicately with his fore finger. Yes. Perhaps there was hope for this next generation.
The murky brown waters of the Kalgan river gave off an iridescent shimmer in the golden light of the Australian sun. The twisted coils of the long brown waters wound their way through a landscape of ancient rocks and mighty trees, the girth of which three men could not replicate with their arms. It was an ancient noble land which held that timeless quality which so many describe but so few capture, and more to the point it was his home. He had been coming to this river since he was 13 when his parents made the decision to move out of the city and down to the country, and though life had drawn him back to the dusty urban city scape he made regular pilgrimages back to the river to decompress.
He walked briskly along the trail, the dry dead peppermint leaves crunching underfoot as he made his way through the green tunnel of underbrush. He was heading along the well known trail to find a little cutting in the bank where the path descended down right into the water. It had originally been a ramp to allow access to the river for loading and off loading goods but it was long out of use now and provided him instead with a comfortable place to sit with the water lapping up next to him.
The trail had seemed so long in his childhood but now as a man in his prime it took him little time to reach this spot. A long sigh escaped him as he sighted the first love of his youth and he descended to the water’s edge where a majestic peppermint grew, lapping up the nutrient rich waters of the river with its long deep roots. He sat himself down before this tree with face to the water and his back against its gnarly trunk. It had been a long time coming this trip. Life had been speeding up all around him for quite a while but it was time to recall the old ways of life which he had learned from his father and all of the other men who had been around him during those earlier years.
His folks had been from the city mainly, although his mother had been born in the country initially, and the time he had spent down there was something which he remembered with a great fondness. Those first few years as they had moved onto the property had been a crash course in manual arts and agriculture which had shaped his ideas about the world and life in general, as well as introducing him to the importance of a well made and kept tool; like the one he had riding in his pocket currently.
He leaned back further into the trunk of the tree to get his hand into his right pocket. He traced his fingers through the folds of the handkerchief which resided in there, skimming past the length of jute twin which his grandfather had taught him to carry always, before finally latching onto the jigged bone of his pocket knife. He extracted the tool from his pocket with glee and carefully opened the single wharncliffe blade.
The knife itself was not something which had an extensive lineage with him, much as he wished he could claim that. No, it was something which he had purchased on a whim one day when it popped up. He’d been into knives for years before this and had closely followed the traditional knives which he’d seen on blade forums but this was one of the first instances where he had spent real money on something that wasn’t tactical and black. And to his great surprise it had grown on him more and more and more, to the point where he felt positively naked without its firm and reassuring presence in his pocket. It was a medium size swayback pattern manufactured by GEC, a Viper in hemlock bone, and it was the object of his greatest love and affection.
He searched the ground next to him for a likely specimen and seized upon a dead peppermint branch. He held it firmly in his left hand and set about peeling off thin translucent shavings of bark and timber to skin the stick down to its bare bones. It was a mesmerising task for him, one had had long since discovered had the ability to hold him entranced for hours. The gleaming edge cleanly split the wood fibres in twain as he whistled a casual tune over the waters.
He was still in the process of debarking the stick when the casual warble of a magpie broke his revery and he glanced up into the world so long forgot. Above the tree line on the far side of the river he could see the tips of the rolling green hills which circumvallated the valley through which the river flowed through. They had long since been cleared for agricultural purposes and boasted some of the finest views in this part of the world. He idly wondered whether the occupants of the houses upon those hills knew or ever walked along the trail which he had. He supposed not, for not everyone was as enthralled by the soft slow waters of the river as he was. For those who had lived in this area for all their lives tended to take it for granted, but for him, a refugee from the dusty city hellscape, every second was a glorious peek at Xanadu.
These pilgrimages were, in a way, his method of connecting with a previous life, or rather way of life. One where men carried pocket knives, went fishing ad worked the land. A way of life where people fixed things which were broken and made things they couldn’t afford. In a way it was a way of life which had died out a long time ago, and his memories and experiences of it had been made possible only through meeting those people who themselves remembered it. Men of his father’s and grandfather’s generation, like the farmers and the tradesmen who had assisted them when they first moved down to the country; old men with grey hair whose wisdom was built on experience.
He paused to light a cigarette, resting the knife upon his jeans-clad knee. It was a filthy habit, or so his girlfriend said, but nevertheless it was one which he thought would stick with him for as long as the knife would. He inhaled deeply and stared out across the waters again. Perhaps there was hope though. Hope that this way of life would live on. He had already been teaching his nephews how to whittle, in the safety of his wood shop at home. They were intrigued with the translucent shavings the razor sharp blades could create and were already pleading with their mother for their own pocket knives. Perhaps this Christmas would be the time for that wish to come true. He’d have to have a word with his sister about that. He inhaled again and tapped the ash delicately with his fore finger. Yes. Perhaps there was hope for this next generation.
- Joined
- Feb 3, 2011
- Messages
- 1,941
I enjoyed the read, thank you.
I’ve enjoyed many an hour with cigerette, pocket knife and beautiful view.
I’ve enjoyed many an hour with cigerette, pocket knife and beautiful view.
paulhilborn
Gold Member
- Joined
- Mar 22, 2006
- Messages
- 14,445
An enjoyable read and well written. A nice respite before the hustle and bustle of the day.
Rookie82
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- Nov 25, 2014
- Messages
- 2,405
Here in PA we're all getting ready for rifle deer season tomorrow. My dad and I are going out at the crack of dawn to see what we can find, and we'll have a hot pot of chili in the crock pot at camp for when we get back. Good luck to any other fellow hunters out there.