My Great Granddad "sold" me my first knife when I was six. Just a little Shrade three bladed pocket knife, but he made a point of selling it to me for a penny. I didn't have one, so I had to comb out one of his horses for "two bits" as he called .25 cents. This was something I loved to do anyway, so not a bad deal. I got to play with the horse, a shiny SHARP new pocket knife, and 24 cents! Back in those days, that meant a nickle Coke and 19 pieces of candy! Riches to shame Croseus!
I didn't understand why "Grandpa" made me pay for the knife for many years, but I think I do now. By selling it to me, he was relinquishing responsibility and placing it squarely where it belonged. On MY shoulders. If I cut myself (I did almost immediatly) then it was MY knife, MY fault. I'd bought the thing, right?
My Great Granddad lived long enough to teach me how to hunt, shoot, and fish. He also lived long enough to see my son, his Great-Great Grandson on his second birthday. My boy's 18 now, and getting ready to go out and see what's out there. I wish that I could give him that old Shrade, but ah, the follies of youth. It's long gone and I would trade every knife I own, if I could have that one special knife back today.
Thanks Grandpa! I think of you always.