My family in America dates back to 1630, when some English ancestor landed in Rhode Island.
My ancestors moved west after the Revolution, stopping in Kentucky, Illinois and Missouri,
before settling in Nebraska. However, being a tree-loving people, they left Neb (no trees)
and finally settled (for sure) back in Missouri.
My grandad had a few hundred acres of central MO farmland and reared 8 kids on it. Never having
much money, they were a very frugal and a 'fix it rather than toss it" family. All the family
income was kept in a glass pickle jar on a shelf in the kitchen and every member of the family
knew that if he or she actually needed to buy something, they could take the money for it
from the jar. Usually the person in need would tell the others what the money was for, and it
was a point of honor to not take money for something you simply wanted, it had to be for
something you actually needed.
During the Depression, my grandad actually 'lost the farm'. The bank forclosed and gave them
notice to vacate. One of their neighbors, who had some inheritance money, bought my family's
farm from the bank, and sold it back to the family, interest-free, with low payments they could
handle. This kind of generosity may be rare today...I hope not. But, back to knives...
My dad was the mechanically inclined 'fixer' in the bunch of 6 boys and two girls. All of
the guys always bought the same brand of $1.00 pocket watch and when these broke, they'd
throw them in the cigar box. When the box had a few broken watches in it, my dad would
take them apart and make one working one from the parts of the broken ones. It was the same
with pocketknives. Most of the guys bought Case knives and were pretty rough on them.
They sharpened them on Missouri sandstone, which is pretty agressive, so in time the most-used
blade would resemble, more than anything else, a sharpened ice pick. Sometimes the pivot pin
head would strip off, leaving the blade wobbling like a wagon wheel. It was then time to
give the knife to Jimmy for repair. Dad would forage in the 'broken knife box' for useable
blades, and armed with a few brass nails, a punch or two and a tack hammer, would replace blades
and pivot pins. When the scales would break, Jimmy could replace them with scales of hand
whittled Missouri walnut.
Sometimes, when a hand wanted to dip into the money jar, there would be a quibble about whether
the item to be bought was really needed...or simply wanted. But, when the broken knife box was
empty, so my dad, Jimmy, couldn't replace a broken blade, there was never a quibble that money
should come out of the box for a new Case. A new bonnet or a new pair of socks might not be
'needed', but there was never a question that a man needed a workable knife.
My dad continued his knife and watch repair, as a hobby, up until his death in 1997. He was
the youngest in the family, and all of that generation is now gone. I still have a couple of
his re-handled and re-bladed knives, which I cherish. But most of all I remember the stories
he told of those times in Missouri in the 30's. This is one of them.