Okay, blind old fart jokes aside, I'm going back to yella knives after almost loosing my chestnut bone peanut.
The better half made the decision that fresh pine bark mulch was needed to spruce up the landscaping. Okay, off to Home Depot with the Tacoma and haul back some 50 pound bags of mulch. Not too hard, and it keeps the ol lady happy. I get a few open and the job is going smoothly. Zip open bag with peanut, lay 'nut down and dump bag, repeat.
The third bag I go to pick up my peanut where I set it down, and I can't see it. I'm looking, and I just don't see it anywhere. The first faint pangs of panic start to set in, and Karen see's me bent over squinting at the ground and asks me what the trouble is. I tell her I've lost my nut, and she comes and squints at the ground. So now we're both standing there looking down where I swear I laid my peanut for a moment.
Then almost at the same time, we both see it. There it is, just sitting there, right on top of a piece of bark where I put it down instead of putting it in my pocket because I was just going to open another bag of mulch in a moment. The chestnut bone was almost the same color as the bark mulch, and the gray patina covered blade wasn't giving any reflection on a dull overcast day. Almost perfectly camoflage. A good lesson as to why a lot of sportsmen over the years have used yellow handle knives. Even my old bone stag would have been easier to spot than the chestnut bone.
So I get the job done and go over to my grandson's house. He's home, and I ask him to lend me my old yellow 'nut. Now Ryan has become the family records and artifacts keeper, and he's taken all my old pocket knives and put them in some display cases he got from Michaels, a local crafts big box store. In each case is some of my knives from parts of my life with some photos of me in that era. He takes down the case with my peanuts, opens it and holds out his hand. I look at him, and ask "What?"
"You know the rule, grandpa, one out, one in." He hold s his hand out.
"Come on Ry, being kind of tough with your old grandpa, ain't ya?"
The kid grins and holds his hand out, and I hand over my chestnut bone peanut. Ryan takes it and examines it close, making a face as if something does not agree with him.
"What the heck have you been doing with it, grandpa?"
"Just some landscaping. Some mulch bags. Stuff. " I tell him.
He blows in the open knife and some pine bark mulch dust blows out, and he looks at me.
"Okay, it's wee bit dusty. It's wipe right out with a match." I admit.
He finally hands me my old yellow peanut, and I don't push my luck and drop it in my pocket before he changes his mind. Ever since Ryan became the keeper of the family cutlery, he's become a tough nut. Okay, maybe I don't really mind, but he makes me feel like a gotta jump through hoops to 'borrow' one of my old knives for a bit. As I leave, he's already got a piece of clean rag and polishing the chestnut peanut.
At least my old knives are in good hands, I guess.
The better half made the decision that fresh pine bark mulch was needed to spruce up the landscaping. Okay, off to Home Depot with the Tacoma and haul back some 50 pound bags of mulch. Not too hard, and it keeps the ol lady happy. I get a few open and the job is going smoothly. Zip open bag with peanut, lay 'nut down and dump bag, repeat.
The third bag I go to pick up my peanut where I set it down, and I can't see it. I'm looking, and I just don't see it anywhere. The first faint pangs of panic start to set in, and Karen see's me bent over squinting at the ground and asks me what the trouble is. I tell her I've lost my nut, and she comes and squints at the ground. So now we're both standing there looking down where I swear I laid my peanut for a moment.
Then almost at the same time, we both see it. There it is, just sitting there, right on top of a piece of bark where I put it down instead of putting it in my pocket because I was just going to open another bag of mulch in a moment. The chestnut bone was almost the same color as the bark mulch, and the gray patina covered blade wasn't giving any reflection on a dull overcast day. Almost perfectly camoflage. A good lesson as to why a lot of sportsmen over the years have used yellow handle knives. Even my old bone stag would have been easier to spot than the chestnut bone.
So I get the job done and go over to my grandson's house. He's home, and I ask him to lend me my old yellow 'nut. Now Ryan has become the family records and artifacts keeper, and he's taken all my old pocket knives and put them in some display cases he got from Michaels, a local crafts big box store. In each case is some of my knives from parts of my life with some photos of me in that era. He takes down the case with my peanuts, opens it and holds out his hand. I look at him, and ask "What?"
"You know the rule, grandpa, one out, one in." He hold s his hand out.
"Come on Ry, being kind of tough with your old grandpa, ain't ya?"
The kid grins and holds his hand out, and I hand over my chestnut bone peanut. Ryan takes it and examines it close, making a face as if something does not agree with him.
"What the heck have you been doing with it, grandpa?"
"Just some landscaping. Some mulch bags. Stuff. " I tell him.
He blows in the open knife and some pine bark mulch dust blows out, and he looks at me.
"Okay, it's wee bit dusty. It's wipe right out with a match." I admit.
He finally hands me my old yellow peanut, and I don't push my luck and drop it in my pocket before he changes his mind. Ever since Ryan became the keeper of the family cutlery, he's become a tough nut. Okay, maybe I don't really mind, but he makes me feel like a gotta jump through hoops to 'borrow' one of my old knives for a bit. As I leave, he's already got a piece of clean rag and polishing the chestnut peanut.
At least my old knives are in good hands, I guess.
