One of the last jobs I had before becoming a gentleman of leisure, was at a little hole in the wall machine shop in Frederick Maryland. It was a giant step down, dirty, old machines, little tooling, and just above a pre industrial blacksmith shop. Not to mention half the pay I had been getting. There was one bright spot though, the people I worked with. No matter how bad a place can be, if you have good people to work with, it makes things a lot better. People like my old Vietnamese friend Tam, Darrel who I've wrote about here with his Old Timer Might Mite. Then there was Ed.
Ed was a big old St. Bernard of a guy from Hagarstown, who had a bushy full beard, and if he powdered his beard white could do a fair imitation of Santa Claus. In nice weather he'd commute in on his Harley FLH, and he, Darrel, myself, and a few others, would park our bikes in one area and talk motorcycles for a bit every morning. Ed always was a happy smiling guy, and never seemed to be down about anything. So it was a little out of charter to see him kind of down one morning. Asking him what was wrong, we found out about the disaster.
Ed lived in a mobile home, and the night before, it had caught fire from an electrical problem they think, and he'd lost almost everything he owned. It went up in minutes, and he'd had only time to throw a few things out the door, and get out himself before it was consumed. He had the clothes on his back, the keys to his truck and motorcycle since they had been on a carabiner clipped to his jeans. And his knife. He took out his pocket knife, and held it up, and said that it was the thing he'd really been glad had been in his pants.
What he held up was a small two bladed Schrade Old Timer. THe blades were the standard dark gray, and the saw cut marks in the brown delrin were almost gone. It had that attractive, well used look that makes old knives interesting. You could tell that this little knife had been carried there and back, but had been treated well. That knife, and his Remington 870 shotgun were just two of the items he'd thrown out the back door of the trailer before it was too late.
Friend and co-worker Darrel, who had been a friend of Ed's for many years before this job, laid a hand on Ed's shoulder and reached in his pocket with his other hand. He held out his little mighty mite in the palm of his work hardened hand.
"Well old friend, it's a good thing you got that, because it's all you really need most of the time. And you have your shotgun. You're all good to go!" he told Ed.
Ed agree with him.
"Yeah, I now that." Ed said, "The rest of that stuff is just stuff. Clothes, some tools, canned goods in the kitchen. But this little knife has been in my pocket almost my whole adult life since I was in the army. It's the oldest thing I own except for that shotgun, and it even went to Vietnam with me. Rode the whole trip in my top left shirt pocket, and I don't know how many stickers it got out, cleaning patches it cut, and all kinds of stuff since then. I can get another one, but the memories are in this one."
All the memories.
Out of a blazing trailer with almost his whole life gone to ashes, Ed not only didn't really care about all that stuff, but was really happy his little Schrade Old Timer middleman jack had survived, as did his old Remy 870. Ed loved to hunt and fish, but like most people, he wasn't a gun or knife knut. He had 'A' gun, and he had 'A' knife, and that was good enough for Ed. With his 870 in hand and his Old Timer in his pocket, he was set for rabbit or bird hunting. Like a lot of men, since Ed had a pocket knife, he didn't feel the need for another one. Even with some blades a little thinner than when new, it still worked, and all the memories were in it. It wasn't just an old knife, it was his old friend. And it, like he, had survived.
In time, the insurance company wrote Ed a nice check, and Ed went out and bought some new clothes, some new tools, and he was happy.
After all, he still had his two old hunting partners and friends.
Ed was a big old St. Bernard of a guy from Hagarstown, who had a bushy full beard, and if he powdered his beard white could do a fair imitation of Santa Claus. In nice weather he'd commute in on his Harley FLH, and he, Darrel, myself, and a few others, would park our bikes in one area and talk motorcycles for a bit every morning. Ed always was a happy smiling guy, and never seemed to be down about anything. So it was a little out of charter to see him kind of down one morning. Asking him what was wrong, we found out about the disaster.
Ed lived in a mobile home, and the night before, it had caught fire from an electrical problem they think, and he'd lost almost everything he owned. It went up in minutes, and he'd had only time to throw a few things out the door, and get out himself before it was consumed. He had the clothes on his back, the keys to his truck and motorcycle since they had been on a carabiner clipped to his jeans. And his knife. He took out his pocket knife, and held it up, and said that it was the thing he'd really been glad had been in his pants.
What he held up was a small two bladed Schrade Old Timer. THe blades were the standard dark gray, and the saw cut marks in the brown delrin were almost gone. It had that attractive, well used look that makes old knives interesting. You could tell that this little knife had been carried there and back, but had been treated well. That knife, and his Remington 870 shotgun were just two of the items he'd thrown out the back door of the trailer before it was too late.
Friend and co-worker Darrel, who had been a friend of Ed's for many years before this job, laid a hand on Ed's shoulder and reached in his pocket with his other hand. He held out his little mighty mite in the palm of his work hardened hand.
"Well old friend, it's a good thing you got that, because it's all you really need most of the time. And you have your shotgun. You're all good to go!" he told Ed.
Ed agree with him.
"Yeah, I now that." Ed said, "The rest of that stuff is just stuff. Clothes, some tools, canned goods in the kitchen. But this little knife has been in my pocket almost my whole adult life since I was in the army. It's the oldest thing I own except for that shotgun, and it even went to Vietnam with me. Rode the whole trip in my top left shirt pocket, and I don't know how many stickers it got out, cleaning patches it cut, and all kinds of stuff since then. I can get another one, but the memories are in this one."
All the memories.
Out of a blazing trailer with almost his whole life gone to ashes, Ed not only didn't really care about all that stuff, but was really happy his little Schrade Old Timer middleman jack had survived, as did his old Remy 870. Ed loved to hunt and fish, but like most people, he wasn't a gun or knife knut. He had 'A' gun, and he had 'A' knife, and that was good enough for Ed. With his 870 in hand and his Old Timer in his pocket, he was set for rabbit or bird hunting. Like a lot of men, since Ed had a pocket knife, he didn't feel the need for another one. Even with some blades a little thinner than when new, it still worked, and all the memories were in it. It wasn't just an old knife, it was his old friend. And it, like he, had survived.
In time, the insurance company wrote Ed a nice check, and Ed went out and bought some new clothes, some new tools, and he was happy.
After all, he still had his two old hunting partners and friends.
