UDDwaine's post kinda got to me this morning. As my family is preparing to travel to my mother's house for Thanksgiving, it made me get introspective about my father and knives.
He was a cotton mill hand all his life, got only to eighth grade before he had to start working in the midst of the Great Depression. Yet he was well-read and self educated.
A man of great character and faith, a WWII veteran, he and mom would go without for their kids. We were just above dirt poor, but our house was full of books. They placed a great value on education, and my sister and I had a great deal of explaining to do if we ever brought home a B on a report card. They raised two high school valedictorians. He is also the one who, when I got discouraged with working my way through college and threatened to quit and got to work full-time, confronted me with a coke bottle in his hand and threatened to de-brain me if I ever said such a thing again. (He had a straightforward way of explaining things.
) Thanks, dad.
He turned me loose with my first knife at my fourth birthday. A cheap Japanese fixed blade with a compass in the handle, I still have it. I wish that I still had one of those large wooden Bowies he used to whittle for me. He also made steel spear-heads for me at the mill, which I would mount on a suitable homemade shaft. I was expected to be careful with them, and knew that if I got into trrouble with them there would be dire consequences.
I never did. Because his childhood had been cut short, he was determined that I would have a good one, and I roamed the woods at will, 12 gauge single-shot at hand. (An eight year old loose with a shotgun today would cause quite a stir, but then and there, no one gave it a second look.)
Poor, hell. I was rich.
He;s been gone seven years now. To this day, the strongest criterion I have for my behavior is whether the old man would be disappointed in me.
He was a cotton mill hand all his life, got only to eighth grade before he had to start working in the midst of the Great Depression. Yet he was well-read and self educated.
A man of great character and faith, a WWII veteran, he and mom would go without for their kids. We were just above dirt poor, but our house was full of books. They placed a great value on education, and my sister and I had a great deal of explaining to do if we ever brought home a B on a report card. They raised two high school valedictorians. He is also the one who, when I got discouraged with working my way through college and threatened to quit and got to work full-time, confronted me with a coke bottle in his hand and threatened to de-brain me if I ever said such a thing again. (He had a straightforward way of explaining things.
) Thanks, dad.He turned me loose with my first knife at my fourth birthday. A cheap Japanese fixed blade with a compass in the handle, I still have it. I wish that I still had one of those large wooden Bowies he used to whittle for me. He also made steel spear-heads for me at the mill, which I would mount on a suitable homemade shaft. I was expected to be careful with them, and knew that if I got into trrouble with them there would be dire consequences.
I never did. Because his childhood had been cut short, he was determined that I would have a good one, and I roamed the woods at will, 12 gauge single-shot at hand. (An eight year old loose with a shotgun today would cause quite a stir, but then and there, no one gave it a second look.)
Poor, hell. I was rich.
He;s been gone seven years now. To this day, the strongest criterion I have for my behavior is whether the old man would be disappointed in me.
}, and without their "support" I probably would have quit and done something else...
.mine left home when i was 4-5 and have only seen him periodically through the years.he never cared much for his 6 kids and 11 grandkids.you hogs out there cherish your dads and i love the good stories
:thumbup:
