A lot of you won't be able to relate to this, but back in '62 or '63, when I bought my first knife, there was no age-limit to buying one. My Granny and I used to walk the 3 or 4 blocks up to the corner, family-owned market together and they had a small toy rack with whistles, frisbees, water pistols etc., and a (GASP!!) knife. I kept asking Granny to buy it for me but she wouldn't. Finally one day when I was seven or eight, Mom and Granny gave me a short grocery list and told me I could go up to the store by myself for the first time. Mom said I could take whatever allowance money I had saved up and get something for myself if I wanted. Cool! I'm finally getting me a knife!
Got home, showed Mom what I got, she freaked, I cried when she threatened to take it away, and she finally gave in and said I could keep it, with the caveat that if I cut myself with it, it was GONE! Later that afternoon, it was indeed GONE, but the lessons weren't. I learned that, first, I really liked knives for some unknown reason, second, they demanded respect and, third, Mom MEANT what she said!
I don't even remember if I ever got that particular knife back, but I've had literally hundreds of them since then. I spent several years in my youthful adulthood hunting and using them the way they're supposed to be used; HARD. I spent another several years in construction where I used one every single day. Regardless of my need for them though, I have always bought and traded for many more than I'd ever have use for, and the thrill of the new acquisition is just as intense today as it was 40-some-odd years ago when I got that first little finger-slicer.
I don't know if knife-collecting meets the clinical definition of an "addiction," but it sho' 'nuff is an irresistable urge in my case. Don't most of y'all feel that way?
Blues