America is a great melting pot. Folks from all over, different countries and cultures blend into a mix. But in the end, that makes us stronger in some ways. Like simple iron compared to an complex alloy. I only think of this because I was looking at an old photo album from my army days. Two of my old buds were as different as could be, but were fast friends.
Paul was a Kentucky hillbilly from back in the woods of Harlin County. He carried a stout Case stockman, and used all three blades for something. Paul was one of those one knife guys we hear about. But best of amusing use was when he'd cut a 'chaw'. Paul's family would send him a monthly shipment of that hard as rock Kentucky twist that looked like a piece of petrified rope. Paul would take out his Case and open up the sheep foot blade, and slice off a 'chaw". Then he'd stick the chaw in one side of his mouth until it got soft enough to chew on. Until then he'd look like a lop sided chipmunk. Paul got a lot of milage out of that old gray bladed Case. Being engineers, we were on one construction site after another, and there was always a use for a sharp knife. Of course, after 1600 hours, there was fishing, and that went double for weekends.
Frankie was a tough Italian kid out of New Jersey, right across from the New York city. Definitely a different culture. He didn't chaw on tobacco, but loved to smoke those little Italian cigars, Parodi's. But Frankie was a buddy, and we all formed a sort of rouges three musketeers of mischief. Frankie was a dyed in the wool city boy, and his fishing experience was little, but he was game to try anything new. Like a lot of people, Frankie was not a knife person, but knew he needed a pocket knife of some sort. His solution was a small SAK. He ended up buying a Victorinox executive, and carried that little SAK everywhere on his keys. He gut pan fish out of Sallado creek and Canyon Lake with it, cut marline for marking foundations, sharpened sticks for survey stakes, and many other things. I often watched Paul and Frankie on our fishing trips in the Texas countryside, and marveled at how well the two radically different people from two very different cultures did the same things with two very different knives. Of course back in those days, it was all traditional. The tactical knife craze was still many years in the future, so the Case and the Victorinox did for their owners. Of course being different, I had my Buck 301 stockman that both Paul and Frankie turned up their noses at. To Paul, a strict traditionalist, the new fangled stainless steel in the Buck was just not acceptable, and to Frankie, it was a too big hunk of something for weighing down the pocket with none of the versatility of his little SAK.
I think of all the differing patterns of traditonal knives, and those big wood display cases of Case knives they had in my youth at hardware stores, and I wonder at the variety of styles, handle materials, sizes. Once upon a time we had a choice of a hundred differing knives. A blade and handle material combination to suit any taste. There were jacks of many kinds. Yet they all had their fan club. But in the end, it really didn't matter at all. I keep thinking back to what that train conductor told my father in an other life so long ago. When it comes to knives, the pattern doesn't matter, nor does the size and shape of the blade. It just has to be sharp. Like Frankie's little SAK and Paul's Case stockman, they both worked for their very different owners, doing the same jobs.
Carl.
Paul was a Kentucky hillbilly from back in the woods of Harlin County. He carried a stout Case stockman, and used all three blades for something. Paul was one of those one knife guys we hear about. But best of amusing use was when he'd cut a 'chaw'. Paul's family would send him a monthly shipment of that hard as rock Kentucky twist that looked like a piece of petrified rope. Paul would take out his Case and open up the sheep foot blade, and slice off a 'chaw". Then he'd stick the chaw in one side of his mouth until it got soft enough to chew on. Until then he'd look like a lop sided chipmunk. Paul got a lot of milage out of that old gray bladed Case. Being engineers, we were on one construction site after another, and there was always a use for a sharp knife. Of course, after 1600 hours, there was fishing, and that went double for weekends.
Frankie was a tough Italian kid out of New Jersey, right across from the New York city. Definitely a different culture. He didn't chaw on tobacco, but loved to smoke those little Italian cigars, Parodi's. But Frankie was a buddy, and we all formed a sort of rouges three musketeers of mischief. Frankie was a dyed in the wool city boy, and his fishing experience was little, but he was game to try anything new. Like a lot of people, Frankie was not a knife person, but knew he needed a pocket knife of some sort. His solution was a small SAK. He ended up buying a Victorinox executive, and carried that little SAK everywhere on his keys. He gut pan fish out of Sallado creek and Canyon Lake with it, cut marline for marking foundations, sharpened sticks for survey stakes, and many other things. I often watched Paul and Frankie on our fishing trips in the Texas countryside, and marveled at how well the two radically different people from two very different cultures did the same things with two very different knives. Of course back in those days, it was all traditional. The tactical knife craze was still many years in the future, so the Case and the Victorinox did for their owners. Of course being different, I had my Buck 301 stockman that both Paul and Frankie turned up their noses at. To Paul, a strict traditionalist, the new fangled stainless steel in the Buck was just not acceptable, and to Frankie, it was a too big hunk of something for weighing down the pocket with none of the versatility of his little SAK.
I think of all the differing patterns of traditonal knives, and those big wood display cases of Case knives they had in my youth at hardware stores, and I wonder at the variety of styles, handle materials, sizes. Once upon a time we had a choice of a hundred differing knives. A blade and handle material combination to suit any taste. There were jacks of many kinds. Yet they all had their fan club. But in the end, it really didn't matter at all. I keep thinking back to what that train conductor told my father in an other life so long ago. When it comes to knives, the pattern doesn't matter, nor does the size and shape of the blade. It just has to be sharp. Like Frankie's little SAK and Paul's Case stockman, they both worked for their very different owners, doing the same jobs.
Carl.
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