A friend of mine who I had the pleasure of working with for many years was from the Republic Of Viet Nam, and of Budist leanings. He told me life was a great wheel, and every mans life comes a full circle.
I know mine has.
My father was a modest man, as well as a very low profile type of person. His whole life, I never saw the slightest hint of a flashy or standout kind of personality. Mom said he was always a modest type, but after he came home from the war, he was even more so. He had gone off to enlist just after Pearl Harbor, and did not return home till late in 1946, exept for a short visit in 1943 on convelesent leave.
When he came home, he moved the young family to Washington D.C. as he was now employed by the "gov't" . He was the inconspicous guy in the grey suit that went off to work every morning like a zillion other guys. While I had exposure to relitives that were outdoorsmen and hunters, and watermen and trappers, my dad was sort of a dull kind of guy that i did not bond with when young. It was only the last ten or 15 years of his life that I finally learned what an amazing man he really was.
Dad never had but one gun his whole life after the war. He had given his shotgun to grandad, and kept his .22 Colt Woodsman that he had bought before the war. He would not hunt, but was not anti-hunting. When I got interested in it I would invite him to come but he would decline while wishing me luck. This was something I would not understand untill in my own military service I would go to the fracus in southeast asia, and come home changed as he was.
I never saw dad with any knife but his little two blade pocket knife. Only later when I became a knife knut, I recognized dads knife as a Case peanut. When he passed away it was with his stuff on the night table beside his bed. The handles were worn smooth with time, and the grey blades were a good bit slimmer than a new one. They had been sharpend many times. I can remember dad using that little knife for a thousand things, opening his mail every night, opening packages, triming a stick on a picnic when I was very young teaching me the fine art of roasting a hot dog. He always got the job done with that little worn peanut. I guess dad was kind of a minimalist, carrying something that was good for 90% of what you do, while learning to get by with it for the other 10% of the time.
On the other hand I went kind of knife knuts for a time. When I enlisted in the army I forgot my roots on the Choptank. In the military atmosphere I got into carrying things like the Camillus MK2, then as I got some rank and spending money, a Randall model 14. Even when not carrying the Randall, the very least I would carry was a Buck 110 from the PX, or a large Shcrade Old Timer 125OT. My stockman and other slippys got put aside in a cigar box to be forgotten for a while.
Its funny how time will turn things around. The years pass by and things change. When I had the construction accident while serving in the engineers, and was medically discharged from the army after 10 years service, my life was completely derailed. As fate would have it a tough old waterman who happened to be my grandad took a hand in getting me back on track. Its funny how sometimes a boot in the butt works better for somebody than all the nice well intentioned sympathy from councilors at the V.A. hospital.
With my re-awakening came a new appreatiation for the things from my younger days. By this time my knife collection had been alot of the big blades from Randall, Hastings, Ruanna, and Morseth, with custom folders like Barry wood, Ted Dowell funny folders and the like. I ended up boxing up the whole kit and caboodle and shipping them off to A.G.Russell to be sold off. Being that Randalls sold for less than a hundred dollars in the mid 60's I made some money off them. That helped. But I had reached a point that they were usless to me.
When I went down to the shore to regroup, grandad put me to work on the Lady Anne. While I was limping around on a cane and I expressed doubt I'd be of much use to him, he asked me in a loud tone" You have'nt forgot how to stear the damm boat, have you?" Of couse I also got put to work on the sorting table midships, using the metal template to make sure the crabs were leagal size, Helm duties, paper work. In the course of events I would use some of my military blades, only to find that they did not cut it, literally!
The daily hard work on the Lady Anne, and later in the sorting shed keeping the "peelers" under close watch for them to turn into soft shells, jump started me. Hanging out with my relitives who used simple break open shotguns and .22 rifles made me realize I did not need, or even want any of those "other" guns I had accumulated. I sold off the SKS's, the 9mm autos, and went back to the womb, so to speak. I took pleasure in the simpler things in life. I found myself carrying the old Schrade stockman again, and was surprised at how much better it cut that the high dollar Barry Wood folder, with the unusual design.
Durring this period of rebirth, my dad drove down to visit, and a plinking session took place behind the barn. Dad had his old Woodsman, and its like I saw for the first time just how good he really was. At one point we were shooting at an empty 50 round .22 box. It was a yellow Winchester box, and we were taking turns having a shot at it to see who would be the last one to be able to hit it. Grandad was good, damm good. He would hit it after I could'nt, using his old Smith and Wesson kit gun. But dad ran him out to where grandad could'nt connect, and then he did it.
Dad very deliberatly put a fresh 10 round magazine into the woodsman and took carefull aim, and started shooting. At that point grandad had pushed it out to about 40 yards. Taking his time, dad bounced it with every shot connecting, out past the back of the barn. He stood like a bronze statue, not moving a muscle, and put me, grandad, uncle Mike, and my cousin Barry to shame. At his 10th shot, there was just a corner of the top showing in the tall grass he'd bounced it into. He took his time, and we were holding our breath till the woodsman cracked one final time, and the box bounced out of sight in the grass. Grandad paced it out and it was a 62 yard shot on a partially visible target less than an inch square. Grandad cussed quietly in admiration while dad just loaded his Kaywoodie pipe, saying nothing.
Everyone walked off to the back porch for refreshment and I stood there with dad for a moment, just the two of us. I looked at dad like I had never seen him before. I knew then that here was an example of someone to have as an example. I made up my mind to be like him.
Now many years later, dad is gone, and I find myself carrying a case peanut and shooting the same old Ruger standard model I bought for 39.95 almost 40 years ago. The little peanut cuts just about anything I need to cut, if I study the situation for a moment like dad would do. He had a thoughtfull way of doing things. Almost all the guns I have owned have went down the road, but I kept my old favorite .22's from long years ago. Once in a while I take a very special old woodsman out to the range, but I'm not as good as its former owner. I doubt I'll ever be.
I know mine has.
My father was a modest man, as well as a very low profile type of person. His whole life, I never saw the slightest hint of a flashy or standout kind of personality. Mom said he was always a modest type, but after he came home from the war, he was even more so. He had gone off to enlist just after Pearl Harbor, and did not return home till late in 1946, exept for a short visit in 1943 on convelesent leave.
When he came home, he moved the young family to Washington D.C. as he was now employed by the "gov't" . He was the inconspicous guy in the grey suit that went off to work every morning like a zillion other guys. While I had exposure to relitives that were outdoorsmen and hunters, and watermen and trappers, my dad was sort of a dull kind of guy that i did not bond with when young. It was only the last ten or 15 years of his life that I finally learned what an amazing man he really was.
Dad never had but one gun his whole life after the war. He had given his shotgun to grandad, and kept his .22 Colt Woodsman that he had bought before the war. He would not hunt, but was not anti-hunting. When I got interested in it I would invite him to come but he would decline while wishing me luck. This was something I would not understand untill in my own military service I would go to the fracus in southeast asia, and come home changed as he was.
I never saw dad with any knife but his little two blade pocket knife. Only later when I became a knife knut, I recognized dads knife as a Case peanut. When he passed away it was with his stuff on the night table beside his bed. The handles were worn smooth with time, and the grey blades were a good bit slimmer than a new one. They had been sharpend many times. I can remember dad using that little knife for a thousand things, opening his mail every night, opening packages, triming a stick on a picnic when I was very young teaching me the fine art of roasting a hot dog. He always got the job done with that little worn peanut. I guess dad was kind of a minimalist, carrying something that was good for 90% of what you do, while learning to get by with it for the other 10% of the time.
On the other hand I went kind of knife knuts for a time. When I enlisted in the army I forgot my roots on the Choptank. In the military atmosphere I got into carrying things like the Camillus MK2, then as I got some rank and spending money, a Randall model 14. Even when not carrying the Randall, the very least I would carry was a Buck 110 from the PX, or a large Shcrade Old Timer 125OT. My stockman and other slippys got put aside in a cigar box to be forgotten for a while.
Its funny how time will turn things around. The years pass by and things change. When I had the construction accident while serving in the engineers, and was medically discharged from the army after 10 years service, my life was completely derailed. As fate would have it a tough old waterman who happened to be my grandad took a hand in getting me back on track. Its funny how sometimes a boot in the butt works better for somebody than all the nice well intentioned sympathy from councilors at the V.A. hospital.
With my re-awakening came a new appreatiation for the things from my younger days. By this time my knife collection had been alot of the big blades from Randall, Hastings, Ruanna, and Morseth, with custom folders like Barry wood, Ted Dowell funny folders and the like. I ended up boxing up the whole kit and caboodle and shipping them off to A.G.Russell to be sold off. Being that Randalls sold for less than a hundred dollars in the mid 60's I made some money off them. That helped. But I had reached a point that they were usless to me.
When I went down to the shore to regroup, grandad put me to work on the Lady Anne. While I was limping around on a cane and I expressed doubt I'd be of much use to him, he asked me in a loud tone" You have'nt forgot how to stear the damm boat, have you?" Of couse I also got put to work on the sorting table midships, using the metal template to make sure the crabs were leagal size, Helm duties, paper work. In the course of events I would use some of my military blades, only to find that they did not cut it, literally!
The daily hard work on the Lady Anne, and later in the sorting shed keeping the "peelers" under close watch for them to turn into soft shells, jump started me. Hanging out with my relitives who used simple break open shotguns and .22 rifles made me realize I did not need, or even want any of those "other" guns I had accumulated. I sold off the SKS's, the 9mm autos, and went back to the womb, so to speak. I took pleasure in the simpler things in life. I found myself carrying the old Schrade stockman again, and was surprised at how much better it cut that the high dollar Barry Wood folder, with the unusual design.
Durring this period of rebirth, my dad drove down to visit, and a plinking session took place behind the barn. Dad had his old Woodsman, and its like I saw for the first time just how good he really was. At one point we were shooting at an empty 50 round .22 box. It was a yellow Winchester box, and we were taking turns having a shot at it to see who would be the last one to be able to hit it. Grandad was good, damm good. He would hit it after I could'nt, using his old Smith and Wesson kit gun. But dad ran him out to where grandad could'nt connect, and then he did it.
Dad very deliberatly put a fresh 10 round magazine into the woodsman and took carefull aim, and started shooting. At that point grandad had pushed it out to about 40 yards. Taking his time, dad bounced it with every shot connecting, out past the back of the barn. He stood like a bronze statue, not moving a muscle, and put me, grandad, uncle Mike, and my cousin Barry to shame. At his 10th shot, there was just a corner of the top showing in the tall grass he'd bounced it into. He took his time, and we were holding our breath till the woodsman cracked one final time, and the box bounced out of sight in the grass. Grandad paced it out and it was a 62 yard shot on a partially visible target less than an inch square. Grandad cussed quietly in admiration while dad just loaded his Kaywoodie pipe, saying nothing.
Everyone walked off to the back porch for refreshment and I stood there with dad for a moment, just the two of us. I looked at dad like I had never seen him before. I knew then that here was an example of someone to have as an example. I made up my mind to be like him.
Now many years later, dad is gone, and I find myself carrying a case peanut and shooting the same old Ruger standard model I bought for 39.95 almost 40 years ago. The little peanut cuts just about anything I need to cut, if I study the situation for a moment like dad would do. He had a thoughtfull way of doing things. Almost all the guns I have owned have went down the road, but I kept my old favorite .22's from long years ago. Once in a while I take a very special old woodsman out to the range, but I'm not as good as its former owner. I doubt I'll ever be.
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