I didn't use to like peanuts.
There, I said it. I've decieded to let it all come out in the open how I used to be a closet peanut critic. Too small, I said to myself. Why carry a toothpick of a knife, I asked myself. I watched my dad get by with one, so I knew it could be done, but in my young mind, it wasn't a "real" knife. Not like a scout knife, or a stockman, or even a hard working barlow.
I grew up in an age when all men, if they had thier pants on, had a pocket knife on them. It was expected. I remember when I was a little kid, I heard one old timer (the men on the front porch, not the knife) say he could tell the kind of person a man is by his pocket knife. If it's dull, he's lazy. If it's chipped or the point is broken, he's careless. If it's nice and sharp, then he's worth his salt. if he doesn't have one, then he's a no-account ignorant bum. They had a worse opinion of a man with no knife in his pocket than an idiot who broke the point off his blade!
All the men in my life had pocket knives. Grandad and his stockman, uncles with two blade jacks of all types. My Uncle Charlie was a ground pounding GI who walked all the way from Omaha beach to Germany, carried a TL-29 his whole life. I once asked him what he carried in the war, and he swore all he had was his Camillus TL-29 for a knife. He told me he didn't need a sheath knife, and if he did need something big, then he had his Garrand bayonet. My Uncle Sonny, my mom's baby brother, enlisted in the army air corp soon after Pearl Harbor and spent the war in B-17's. He carried a regular issue scout knife. He went on to stay in the air force, as it came to be called just after the war, and retired in 1972. He was a die hard scout knife and sak enthusiast. Like Mr. Van. No matter what other pocket knife Mr. Van had on him, he was never, and I do mean NEVER, without his beautiful old Remington scout knife.
Then there was my dad.
Against this backdrop of some more flamboyant and bigger than life family members, the man in the grey suit seemed so mild. So unassuming. So the knife seemed so as well. At least at first. For years I watched dad get by with that little knife, and in truth, it did seem to do the job. But it seemed soooo small. But as I got older, and a little more on the ball, I figured out that sometimes things are more than they seem. And that sometimes people can be more than they seem to be. Life with dad was a good lesson in things like that.
I strayed from the path for a while. I thought at one point bigger is better. New gimicks were good. If they came out with a new style folder I'd give it a try. My old scout knife and stockman got put away in a drawer, and I carried the latest thing in cutlery. I forgot my roots. Being single and in the army, I had large disposable income, and I indulged myself. A Randall 14 became part of my field gear. And I guess for that stage of my life, it was okay. But things change.
Getting injured and put out of the army on a medical discharge, and sent to Walter Reed for Physical re-hab, it was time to do some re-adjusting. Settling down with a new family and a regular job was a new thing. I started getting back to my roots. Dad coming down with terminal cancer was a big bump in the road.
It was sometime after his wake, when I was standing in front of the dresser one morning, and his peanut was sitting there. Maybe it was nostalgia, maybe something else, but I picked it up and dropped it in my pocket. I'd been back to carrying my old Buck 301 stockman again, and the peanut felt sooo small in my pocket. I think I figured to just carry it and use my stockman for any "real" cutting I had to do. But like I said, things change.
Later that day in the shop I had to open a box of parts that were to modified on the mill. I reached in my pocket for my stockman, and for some odd reason my hand felt the peanut first. I took out the peanut, and it glided through the cardboard flap like butter. Now my stockman was sharp, but it seemed like that thin carbon steel blade whispered through the box top in a way that seemed a little like magic. I ended up using it more and more, opening mail, cutting twine, opening boxes from UPS and Fed-Ex, bags of dog food. I found myself with my hand in my pocket stroking it like a worry stone, thinking of dad.
At this point in time, it was a badly worn little knife. Dad had use it for 43 years non-stop. The main blade was maybe 40% worn down, a little wobbley and looking skinny, and the off side handle scale had a large crack in it that dad had worked some epoxy into with a pin. I called Case and spoke to a nice lady in customer service, and it was my first brush with Case people, and a lady named Shirley. Great people.
I sent them the knife, and they replaced the worn down main blade (the small blade was not in bad shape) and replaced the cracked open bone scale. I don't know how they did it, but they matched the 43 year old brown bone perfectly. But the funny thing that took place was when the knife was at Case. I missed it.
I had other knives. I had my old trusty Buck stockman, my sak tinker, both of which I'd had for 20 years of good faithful service. I'd already at this time sent most of my custom and high end knives down to A.G. Russell where a nice lady named Glenda helped me sell them off. So I was already cuttiing back on my knife thing. But I missed the little peanut, and couldn't tell you why. I started watching the mailbox like a hawk. Days went by. Finally it was back. It was weird, I cut open the box with my stockman, and fondled the reconditioned peanut. My precious!
What had started out as just a link to my dad, ended up a valued knife to me. Over the next few years I ended up getting a yellow CV peanut, then a later still a bone stag peanut. They took over some of my other knves duty. The old Buck stockman was retrired to the sock drawer. The peanut became my edc pocket knife. I started to become a minimalist like my dad was. My guns started being sold off one by one, and I was using the old .22 more and more. I started to look at everything, and figuring how much do I really need to do this.
Now I admit to being a huge fan of the mighty mite peanut. I guess if I had to pick the top three favorite knives of my life, it would be the scout, stockman, and peanut.
There, I said it. I've decieded to let it all come out in the open how I used to be a closet peanut critic. Too small, I said to myself. Why carry a toothpick of a knife, I asked myself. I watched my dad get by with one, so I knew it could be done, but in my young mind, it wasn't a "real" knife. Not like a scout knife, or a stockman, or even a hard working barlow.
I grew up in an age when all men, if they had thier pants on, had a pocket knife on them. It was expected. I remember when I was a little kid, I heard one old timer (the men on the front porch, not the knife) say he could tell the kind of person a man is by his pocket knife. If it's dull, he's lazy. If it's chipped or the point is broken, he's careless. If it's nice and sharp, then he's worth his salt. if he doesn't have one, then he's a no-account ignorant bum. They had a worse opinion of a man with no knife in his pocket than an idiot who broke the point off his blade!
All the men in my life had pocket knives. Grandad and his stockman, uncles with two blade jacks of all types. My Uncle Charlie was a ground pounding GI who walked all the way from Omaha beach to Germany, carried a TL-29 his whole life. I once asked him what he carried in the war, and he swore all he had was his Camillus TL-29 for a knife. He told me he didn't need a sheath knife, and if he did need something big, then he had his Garrand bayonet. My Uncle Sonny, my mom's baby brother, enlisted in the army air corp soon after Pearl Harbor and spent the war in B-17's. He carried a regular issue scout knife. He went on to stay in the air force, as it came to be called just after the war, and retired in 1972. He was a die hard scout knife and sak enthusiast. Like Mr. Van. No matter what other pocket knife Mr. Van had on him, he was never, and I do mean NEVER, without his beautiful old Remington scout knife.
Then there was my dad.
Against this backdrop of some more flamboyant and bigger than life family members, the man in the grey suit seemed so mild. So unassuming. So the knife seemed so as well. At least at first. For years I watched dad get by with that little knife, and in truth, it did seem to do the job. But it seemed soooo small. But as I got older, and a little more on the ball, I figured out that sometimes things are more than they seem. And that sometimes people can be more than they seem to be. Life with dad was a good lesson in things like that.
I strayed from the path for a while. I thought at one point bigger is better. New gimicks were good. If they came out with a new style folder I'd give it a try. My old scout knife and stockman got put away in a drawer, and I carried the latest thing in cutlery. I forgot my roots. Being single and in the army, I had large disposable income, and I indulged myself. A Randall 14 became part of my field gear. And I guess for that stage of my life, it was okay. But things change.
Getting injured and put out of the army on a medical discharge, and sent to Walter Reed for Physical re-hab, it was time to do some re-adjusting. Settling down with a new family and a regular job was a new thing. I started getting back to my roots. Dad coming down with terminal cancer was a big bump in the road.
It was sometime after his wake, when I was standing in front of the dresser one morning, and his peanut was sitting there. Maybe it was nostalgia, maybe something else, but I picked it up and dropped it in my pocket. I'd been back to carrying my old Buck 301 stockman again, and the peanut felt sooo small in my pocket. I think I figured to just carry it and use my stockman for any "real" cutting I had to do. But like I said, things change.
Later that day in the shop I had to open a box of parts that were to modified on the mill. I reached in my pocket for my stockman, and for some odd reason my hand felt the peanut first. I took out the peanut, and it glided through the cardboard flap like butter. Now my stockman was sharp, but it seemed like that thin carbon steel blade whispered through the box top in a way that seemed a little like magic. I ended up using it more and more, opening mail, cutting twine, opening boxes from UPS and Fed-Ex, bags of dog food. I found myself with my hand in my pocket stroking it like a worry stone, thinking of dad.
At this point in time, it was a badly worn little knife. Dad had use it for 43 years non-stop. The main blade was maybe 40% worn down, a little wobbley and looking skinny, and the off side handle scale had a large crack in it that dad had worked some epoxy into with a pin. I called Case and spoke to a nice lady in customer service, and it was my first brush with Case people, and a lady named Shirley. Great people.
I sent them the knife, and they replaced the worn down main blade (the small blade was not in bad shape) and replaced the cracked open bone scale. I don't know how they did it, but they matched the 43 year old brown bone perfectly. But the funny thing that took place was when the knife was at Case. I missed it.
I had other knives. I had my old trusty Buck stockman, my sak tinker, both of which I'd had for 20 years of good faithful service. I'd already at this time sent most of my custom and high end knives down to A.G. Russell where a nice lady named Glenda helped me sell them off. So I was already cuttiing back on my knife thing. But I missed the little peanut, and couldn't tell you why. I started watching the mailbox like a hawk. Days went by. Finally it was back. It was weird, I cut open the box with my stockman, and fondled the reconditioned peanut. My precious!
What had started out as just a link to my dad, ended up a valued knife to me. Over the next few years I ended up getting a yellow CV peanut, then a later still a bone stag peanut. They took over some of my other knves duty. The old Buck stockman was retrired to the sock drawer. The peanut became my edc pocket knife. I started to become a minimalist like my dad was. My guns started being sold off one by one, and I was using the old .22 more and more. I started to look at everything, and figuring how much do I really need to do this.
Now I admit to being a huge fan of the mighty mite peanut. I guess if I had to pick the top three favorite knives of my life, it would be the scout, stockman, and peanut.
