In response to ElCuchillo.
Mr. Van was indeed a pocket knife fanatic, and as our ElCuchillo suggested he was what could be called a virtuoso with them. It was his chosen tool for most cutting jobs, and he took great pains to teach us some of the same outlook and skills.
The knives Mr. Van used ran the spectrum from the great to modest. Of course there was his famed Remington scout knife. I don't think I need to go into the history of the real Remington cutlery, enough said that in their day they were some of the nicest knives out there. It was a great pity they did not survive the depresion. Mr. Van bought his in the late 1920's as a young scout in Frederick. At that time Frederick was a sleepy farming community in the rolling Maryland countryside, where Mr. Van's father was a dairy farmer with some corn and soy bean fields. Growing up on a working farm was a background that gave one a good appretiation of good pocket knives. Afternoons and weekends of hunting and fishing made that a part of his upbringing.
Being a Marine I can guess gave him futher need to keep things small, light, and mobile. At the time he was our scoutmaster he had a lifetime of that background to draw on. We all felt very blessed to have him, and listened to his words of wisdom like they were gems to be horded. And horde them in our memories we did.
Aside from his scout knife that we all coveted, he had a Camillus stockman that was very similar to my Uncle Mike's, that was issued. It was a 3 7/8 serpintine stockman with rounded bolsters, brown jigged plastic imitation bone scales. On the master blade in faded letters was the U.S. Governmet etched on the steel. He had carried that knife many a year as the patina on the carbon blades was a rich dark grey.
The master clip and sheeps foot was razor sharp. I have such a clear memory of watching him carve a small two or three inch high wooden dog for his grandchild like it was just last week. The wood chips would curl up and off in a clean cut. The spey blade was dull as a butter knife, and he used this blade for a scraper to get mud off his boots, putty knife, and general dirty use. I ended up doing the same for my stockman knives as well, with the idea if it was good enough for our leader, then that was all the reason I needed. He got alot of miles out of that stockman is different ways. When one scout, Johnny Stunz fell out of a tree and broke his left forarm, Mr. Van had the arm splinted and secured in less time than a modern EMT could get his box open and fancy gear our. He used the notching method to break off some green sapling limbs the length of Johnnys arm from elbow to finger tips, and with a couple of bandanas and a neckkerchef had him in a sling and ready to go on before you could smoke a cigerette.
Another knife of his was a U.S.M.C issue scout knife of all stainless steel construction. I can only guess it was WW2 issue, as it was well used and he was harder on that scout knife than his Remington. When there was work around water it was his preffered knife. He would have us by the creek learning to make bush bob's for catching fish, as well as making fish traps in the stream itself. Many sticks were cut for the fish traps using the notch and break, sharpened and driven into the stream bed at a narrow point. Three pronged fish spears would be made, as well as a standard spear with a barb notch cut into it. Other scouts would then be asigned to take off their shoes and wade into the stream up from the traps and beat the water with sticks while wading down to the traps, chasing the fish into them. Scouts with the fish spears would be waiting by the traps to spear the fish inside. We would eat well that night on campfire roasted fish. When helping us gut and clean all the fish, he waded right in with that issue scout knife and rinsed it off in the creek afterward.
But for all his whittling on the napkin rings, faces, little dogs, horses, bears, he like a small two bladed serpintine jack. The blades on these knives would be honed to a sharper edge than his other knives on a hard arkasas stone that was jet black. Especially the small blade, that I have no doubt could do emergency surgery if needed. The first time he and his wife came to dinner at our home, he gave my mother a set of four napkin rings he had carved out of maple and stained and varnished. Mom was very impressed!
He had many of these small two bladed jacks, and the brand names were many. Imperial, Schrade, Case, Ka-bar, Ulster, Robeson, Remington, Western. One of the weirdest memories of that time was Mr. Van and my dad, sitting on the back porch, smoking their pipes and examining each others pocket knives. Mr. Van was lightly testing the edge on dads peanut with a thumb, and dad had Mr. Vans knife in his hand doing the same. I would never have predicted in my wildest peperoni pizza induced dream that a solid friendship was to develope between these two radicly different men. The tall 6' 2" strapping silver haired ex-marine, and my dad, a slight built 5' 8" grey suited guy with a mysterious job in the government he would never talk about. If I had to make an alology for the reader to better understand the scene, rather than try to desribe them, it would be better to picture a type of person. Imagine a Sam Elliot type with a Humphrey Bogart type. They were Mutt and Jeff. Yet friendship did florish.
In time the Van's were to become best friends with my folks, and it shocked me when mom would mention to dad at the dinner table, that they were going over to Rob and Ellen's next evening for bridge. When the scout troop and the church put together a real rifle team to compete in small bore competition it was Mr. Van that was our coach, with dad helping out on rare times when he was not off on a trip. Its strange how life can be like a wild vine that twists and interwinds with other vines, becoming an inseperable mass, unable to tell where one leaves off and another starts. Lives interwind into strange unpredictable directions. With the passing of a couple of years, Mr. Van became like a new uncle to me, and only then I sensed a sadness in him.
He and Ellen had two grown children, a son and a daughter. The son had not shared much of his fathers enthusiasim for the military or the shooting sports. He had become a well to do buisnessman up in New York, and did not see his father much. The daughter had married a local man, and was close to her family, but was then the for-runner of what was to be called a liberal. So Mr. Van turned to his scouts to give his knowledge to, and to mentor. He tought us about knives and guns, and surviving with the wilds. He tought us respect for many things, and was responsible for the transition of a bunch of 12 year olds from boyhood to manhood. He tought us much in the years he had with us, and most of it stayed with me.
Years later, when interest in scouts had been replaced by interest in girls, and my enlistment into the military was on the horizon, he would go with me to the shooting range for some practice. Always the coach, he would stand just in back of me, and I could hear him say quietly "elbow up a bit" or some other bit of advise. If I sat down and made out a list of the most unforgetable
people I have ever known, he would be the first name I would put down. He was my scoutmaster, my coach, my teacher.
Sometimes I feel he's still standing there, just in back of me, when I take that old Martini out to the range.
Mr. Van was indeed a pocket knife fanatic, and as our ElCuchillo suggested he was what could be called a virtuoso with them. It was his chosen tool for most cutting jobs, and he took great pains to teach us some of the same outlook and skills.
The knives Mr. Van used ran the spectrum from the great to modest. Of course there was his famed Remington scout knife. I don't think I need to go into the history of the real Remington cutlery, enough said that in their day they were some of the nicest knives out there. It was a great pity they did not survive the depresion. Mr. Van bought his in the late 1920's as a young scout in Frederick. At that time Frederick was a sleepy farming community in the rolling Maryland countryside, where Mr. Van's father was a dairy farmer with some corn and soy bean fields. Growing up on a working farm was a background that gave one a good appretiation of good pocket knives. Afternoons and weekends of hunting and fishing made that a part of his upbringing.
Being a Marine I can guess gave him futher need to keep things small, light, and mobile. At the time he was our scoutmaster he had a lifetime of that background to draw on. We all felt very blessed to have him, and listened to his words of wisdom like they were gems to be horded. And horde them in our memories we did.
Aside from his scout knife that we all coveted, he had a Camillus stockman that was very similar to my Uncle Mike's, that was issued. It was a 3 7/8 serpintine stockman with rounded bolsters, brown jigged plastic imitation bone scales. On the master blade in faded letters was the U.S. Governmet etched on the steel. He had carried that knife many a year as the patina on the carbon blades was a rich dark grey.
The master clip and sheeps foot was razor sharp. I have such a clear memory of watching him carve a small two or three inch high wooden dog for his grandchild like it was just last week. The wood chips would curl up and off in a clean cut. The spey blade was dull as a butter knife, and he used this blade for a scraper to get mud off his boots, putty knife, and general dirty use. I ended up doing the same for my stockman knives as well, with the idea if it was good enough for our leader, then that was all the reason I needed. He got alot of miles out of that stockman is different ways. When one scout, Johnny Stunz fell out of a tree and broke his left forarm, Mr. Van had the arm splinted and secured in less time than a modern EMT could get his box open and fancy gear our. He used the notching method to break off some green sapling limbs the length of Johnnys arm from elbow to finger tips, and with a couple of bandanas and a neckkerchef had him in a sling and ready to go on before you could smoke a cigerette.
Another knife of his was a U.S.M.C issue scout knife of all stainless steel construction. I can only guess it was WW2 issue, as it was well used and he was harder on that scout knife than his Remington. When there was work around water it was his preffered knife. He would have us by the creek learning to make bush bob's for catching fish, as well as making fish traps in the stream itself. Many sticks were cut for the fish traps using the notch and break, sharpened and driven into the stream bed at a narrow point. Three pronged fish spears would be made, as well as a standard spear with a barb notch cut into it. Other scouts would then be asigned to take off their shoes and wade into the stream up from the traps and beat the water with sticks while wading down to the traps, chasing the fish into them. Scouts with the fish spears would be waiting by the traps to spear the fish inside. We would eat well that night on campfire roasted fish. When helping us gut and clean all the fish, he waded right in with that issue scout knife and rinsed it off in the creek afterward.
But for all his whittling on the napkin rings, faces, little dogs, horses, bears, he like a small two bladed serpintine jack. The blades on these knives would be honed to a sharper edge than his other knives on a hard arkasas stone that was jet black. Especially the small blade, that I have no doubt could do emergency surgery if needed. The first time he and his wife came to dinner at our home, he gave my mother a set of four napkin rings he had carved out of maple and stained and varnished. Mom was very impressed!
He had many of these small two bladed jacks, and the brand names were many. Imperial, Schrade, Case, Ka-bar, Ulster, Robeson, Remington, Western. One of the weirdest memories of that time was Mr. Van and my dad, sitting on the back porch, smoking their pipes and examining each others pocket knives. Mr. Van was lightly testing the edge on dads peanut with a thumb, and dad had Mr. Vans knife in his hand doing the same. I would never have predicted in my wildest peperoni pizza induced dream that a solid friendship was to develope between these two radicly different men. The tall 6' 2" strapping silver haired ex-marine, and my dad, a slight built 5' 8" grey suited guy with a mysterious job in the government he would never talk about. If I had to make an alology for the reader to better understand the scene, rather than try to desribe them, it would be better to picture a type of person. Imagine a Sam Elliot type with a Humphrey Bogart type. They were Mutt and Jeff. Yet friendship did florish.
In time the Van's were to become best friends with my folks, and it shocked me when mom would mention to dad at the dinner table, that they were going over to Rob and Ellen's next evening for bridge. When the scout troop and the church put together a real rifle team to compete in small bore competition it was Mr. Van that was our coach, with dad helping out on rare times when he was not off on a trip. Its strange how life can be like a wild vine that twists and interwinds with other vines, becoming an inseperable mass, unable to tell where one leaves off and another starts. Lives interwind into strange unpredictable directions. With the passing of a couple of years, Mr. Van became like a new uncle to me, and only then I sensed a sadness in him.
He and Ellen had two grown children, a son and a daughter. The son had not shared much of his fathers enthusiasim for the military or the shooting sports. He had become a well to do buisnessman up in New York, and did not see his father much. The daughter had married a local man, and was close to her family, but was then the for-runner of what was to be called a liberal. So Mr. Van turned to his scouts to give his knowledge to, and to mentor. He tought us about knives and guns, and surviving with the wilds. He tought us respect for many things, and was responsible for the transition of a bunch of 12 year olds from boyhood to manhood. He tought us much in the years he had with us, and most of it stayed with me.
Years later, when interest in scouts had been replaced by interest in girls, and my enlistment into the military was on the horizon, he would go with me to the shooting range for some practice. Always the coach, he would stand just in back of me, and I could hear him say quietly "elbow up a bit" or some other bit of advise. If I sat down and made out a list of the most unforgetable
people I have ever known, he would be the first name I would put down. He was my scoutmaster, my coach, my teacher.
Sometimes I feel he's still standing there, just in back of me, when I take that old Martini out to the range.