I've been having some thoughts going through my mind, always a dangerous proposition. It's the beginning of a new year, and I've been reflecting on how things have changed a bit over the past year. Us old farts do that now and then. It has occurred to me that at the end of last winter, there I was in late March on crutches, recovering from surgery on my right foot to fix some old army damage. It was also when I recieved my damascus peanut from Jamie. In just a few months, I'll have been carrying that little peanut for a year. This is the longest I've carried one knife steady since I retired my Buck Stockman in the mid 90's. Aside from my little sak classic on my keyring of course.
In the past several months, the little damascus peanut handled all the cutting chores I sent it's way, was used in public places, and acted as an envoy to the non knife toting public. It has been admired by a matronly silver haired lady librarian, inquired about by Tiffany's Of Washington, has delt with fishing duties, moving a relative and all the tape and cardboard boxes, whittled hot dogs sticks with the grandkids, worked in the garden out back, and a lot more. It's become a fixture in my pockets. I used to feel for the knife in my pocket, but now I'm comfortable in the knowledge that it's there under the bandana, not making itself known until needed.
Sometimes, when I'm just standing around, like when waiting for the better half in a store, I reach into my pocket and my thumb feels the jigged bone handle like a worry stone. My fingers will feel over the sharp still crisp jigging, exploring all the little dips and ridges. It's been a very long time since my fingers knew a pocket knife so well. Since last March, it's become a friend. A special status for a pocket knife. My hands have come to know the shape and feel of it.
Strange how a little bit of steel and bone can become something special to a person.
Carl.
In the past several months, the little damascus peanut handled all the cutting chores I sent it's way, was used in public places, and acted as an envoy to the non knife toting public. It has been admired by a matronly silver haired lady librarian, inquired about by Tiffany's Of Washington, has delt with fishing duties, moving a relative and all the tape and cardboard boxes, whittled hot dogs sticks with the grandkids, worked in the garden out back, and a lot more. It's become a fixture in my pockets. I used to feel for the knife in my pocket, but now I'm comfortable in the knowledge that it's there under the bandana, not making itself known until needed.
Sometimes, when I'm just standing around, like when waiting for the better half in a store, I reach into my pocket and my thumb feels the jigged bone handle like a worry stone. My fingers will feel over the sharp still crisp jigging, exploring all the little dips and ridges. It's been a very long time since my fingers knew a pocket knife so well. Since last March, it's become a friend. A special status for a pocket knife. My hands have come to know the shape and feel of it.
Strange how a little bit of steel and bone can become something special to a person.
Carl.
.
