Here is a piece I wrote a few years back.
I posted it but it has been a quite a while.
Hopefully it isn't too bad a violation of protocol to repost it......
I was going through a box of old knives some time back and pulled out an old Yellow Schrade Walden Trapper. It looks rough. The scales have shrunk and split and discolored disgracefully. The clip blade has been broken and ground off.
And yet, as I held the old knife, it took me back to a hot July evening thirty odd years ago.
For the first six years of my life, my childhood was idyllic. We lived on the back side of my Grandpa's ranch in Oklahoma. To get to our house, you had to go to the end of the road, cross a cattle guard, and drive down through a cow pasture.
I had a little cow pony named Crackerjacks and a dog named Sonny, and the run of the ranch. My granddad was an old time cowboy with leathery skin, calloused hands, and a tender heart for kids and colts and puppy dogs. He and I were inseparable.
One hot, sultry July evening my dad came home from work, and spoke quietly to my mother, whereupon they disappeared into their bedroom and closed the door. Some time later, they came out. She was crying, and he was looking very somber.
He took my little sister and me on his lap and told us that he would be leaving, and that he wouldn't be living with us anymore.
I bolted and ran outside, crying, trying to make sense of his words. And then I saw the rock pile.
We had picked up lots of rocks out of the corner of cow pasture we had fenced off for a yard, and piled them just outside past the gate. My mother had told me to stay away from the rock pile, because it was the kind of place Copperheads and Timber rattlers liked to hide, but today I didn't care. I was desperate to keep my dad from leaving.
Many of the rocks were big, some so big it was all I could do to carry them, but through my tears I worked frantically, piling them in front of the gate, hoping to keep him from getting out.
I had quite a wall built by the time he came out of the house carrying a suitcase.
I held my breath as I watched him walk up to the gate and stare at my handiwork. A shadow passed over his countenance as he deliberately grasped the gate and shoved it open, sending my rocks and my hopes tumbling down into shambles.
He walked over to where I was standing, and with one hand resting on my shoulder, he fumbled in his front pocket with his other hand and brought out the old Schrade. He handed it to me, and with a husky "Goodbye, Partner," he got in his pickup and drove away.
As he drove out of sight, I clutched that old knife that in happier times had cut chicken livers in pieces on fishing trips and cut switches for me use on my sometimes unruly cowpony.
I think maybe my love affair with pocketknives was born that day.
To this day I have a thing for old yellow Trappers. I found a vintage Schrade in mint condition just like it a few years ago and paid a big price for it so i would have one to carry. It was in my pocket today.
The old Trapper has seen better days, and my dad crossed the great divide a few years ago...
And now I have two boys that are the apple of my eye. Lots of things have changed over the years and a lot of water has rolled under the bridge, but the old knife still has the ability to take me back in time.
, but I'd love to see pics of your irreplaceable, old handle worn, blades ground down, patina'd pocket knives.
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