We got back last night from a cousins reunion on my Karen's fathers side of her family, the family of my father in law Billy Thomas. I believe I once wrote about Billy here, and his boy scout knife that he carried for so many years. His younger brothers, like him, were all navel aviators and they all sprang from Brantley county Georgia, just outside Brunswick. Must have been something in the air there. Karen's Uncle Glen, Uncle Ralph are the two younger brothers of Billy, and they were too young to go off in WW2 like Billy did, so they made up for it in Korea and elswhere.
It always seems to me that the deep south is the last bastion of aristocracy and manners. Uncle Glen and Ralph are in that catagory, and no matter if they have never laid eyes on you, you get a welcome into the family that makes you feel like a real part of it. Southern hospitality that includes a low country boil on one night, and a banquet the next day at the reunion with tables sagging under the weight of fried chicken, BBQ beef, spiced shrimp, and all the trimmings that go with it like home made cole slaw, biskets, apple pie, home baked brownies. And a barrel of iced sweet tea. Apparently in the deep south, ice tea is always sweet.
It was a heck of a re-union banquet, held at the Lura S.Walker state park just shy of the town of Waycross, the home stomping grounds of the Thomas clan. I thank the red gods of fate that it was held in an air conditioned shelter. I don't mind a little heat, but the south Georgia low country does heat and humidity very well. Over the few days prior to the banquet I'd spent some time with the Thomas family, so we were comfortable in conversation. I had not seen them for several years, but it was as if it had been only yesterday they last spoke to me. But it was just after the eating was done, and many of the menfolk retired to an outdoor shelter in the shade for a cigar, cigerette, or a pipe that things got interesting.
It was time for toothpick whittling.
With good BBQ and fried chicken, there was a need for post gorging maintanence, and at first I was a little hesitant to be the first one. Uncle Glen and his son, cousin Dwayne, took up the task and pulled out a pocket knife apiece. Uncle Glen had a small 3 inch Boker pen knife, with a clip blade at one end and a small spear at the other, with beautifull rosewood scales. Carbon blades that were of a very dark grey, shaved paper thin ribbons of wood from the stick, as Uncle Glen carefully fashoned his toothpick. Cousin Dwayne was more modern, being about late 50ish, with a little Buck companion. To my observation, it seemed about as sharp as his dad's knife. I joined them with my travel knife, a Victorinox bantam, and we made ourselves some nice thin toothpicks. Uncle Glen looked at his brother, Uncle Ralph, who was enjoying a slow corncob pipe, and asked him if he forgot his knife. Uncle Ralph assured him he had not, and fished around in his pants pockets and came up with a beautifull little pearl handle pen knife. Even from a few yards away, it looked special, and I made an inquiry. The knife was passed over carefully for my inspection, and I saw an original Hen and Rooster from the Bertram cousins days. The pearl was a deep irridecent that had gorgious hues in it, and it was as sharp as his familys knives. Old world Solingen craftsmenship at its best!
Uncle Ralph spoke with that slow drawl, "Now that ain't my everyday knife, so don't go to thinking that. I have a stag one I carry as my regular pen knife, and it's a bit more wore than that one."
(The next day Uncle Ralph showed me his every day knife. It was the twin of the two blade penknife he had at the re-union, only with beautifull old mellow yellow stag. Uncle Ralph seemed mighty partial to old Hen and Roosters.)
Soon, there was a dozen men of mature years sitting in the shade of the picnic shelter, talking about pocket knives, and more came out of pockets. Many were well worn old knives, with decades of use on them, and I thought; "Only in south Georgia can one slip back in time, and sit in the shade talkin knives and passing them around to be admired". I found myself wondering if there was any gathering in front of the Brantley county courthouse.
The funny thing was, with only two exeptions, all were of the small two blade pen knife types. That phenominon again. Handles ranged from old wood smoothed by many years of handling, to a few stag, some jigged bone Case's, and two black plastic Buck companions. One Thomas cousin, a retired county judge, had a small Old Timer three blade stockman that looked to be no more than 3 inches if that. The saw cut delrin was smoothed by years of handling so you could hardly see the saw marks. The blades of all the knives were very dark patined from the the years, with the exeption of the Buck companions.
Conversation went from the knives, to fishing, to good gun dogs for bird hunting. All too soon we were called back by the women folks, and it was the end of a very unique experiance. For just a little bit there, time had slipped, and I had found myself in a gentile version of the liers circle I had known in my youth. Most of these men were in their upper 70's, with a few up in thier 80's. But they had a common ground with the men I knew in my childhood.
I found myself wondering what it would be like living in the Georgia piney woods.
