mikeymoto
Lifetime Platinum Membership
- Joined
- Dec 20, 2004
- Messages
- 3,312
Some of you have memories like mine, memories about "things", each distinct and full of the flavor of our own experience.
For example I remember the first time my mom bought me a watch when I was probably six or seven years old. The intervening decades obscure what kind of watch it was, or how it looked. All I remember is it was digital and I was so excited that I could tell the time wherever, and whenever I was! I followed my mom around, incessantly reminding her of the precise time. I'm sure she quickly regretted her generosity. It was not long after that wonderful gift that I started to realize other people like me wore watches too, but theirs were different. Some kids at school had calculator watches, and some had watches you could play games on. This was the birth of differentiation for me. I have several fond knife memories from my tender youth, but this story is not about those. This story is about the first knife I bought for myself, and learning the innocent lessons that we all must learn.
In my teen-aged years I lived near the big city, but separated in day-to-day life by a literal gulf (actually, a sound). As my years gradually earned me freedom I'd occasionally take a ferry boat over to the city and explore what it had to offer. At the time, for this geeky kid, that meant visiting comic book stores and exploring the local public market. On the way there from the ferry terminal, however, there was much to see in the form of outdoor stores, sex shops and a variety of pawn shops. I was too fresh-faced to know it at the time, but this neighborhood had a reputation. Nevertheless I took every opportunity afforded me to head to the city and explore.
I got my first paying job in my early teen-aged years, so I had a little spending money, but not a lot! Probably just a year or two after that I bought my first knife. This is the one that got away, my first sharp-edged love.
On one of my trips to the city I was strolling through the pawn shops, the thrill of different walks of life distracting all my senses. I always loved looking at the guns in the cases, because sadly this is the closest I'd get to a firearm for several years yet. I imagined what it would be like to hold one, to shoot it and feel its power. It felt illicit, almost like what I felt when I worked up the courage to explore the other kinds of adult-oriented shops, but different. Anyways. I spied some knives in a nearby case. I saw something I'd never seen before. I asked to inspect it and the man behind the counter pulled the Spyderco Delica (C11SBK) from the case for me. This was the first generation Delica brand new on the scene, with an FRN clip molded as one piece to the FRN body. It was black, very pointy and extremely sharp. It was a lock-back, a mechanism I was already accustomed to. It felt good in hand. Light. Easy to open with the super cool thumb hole, and I got all kinds of notions about the ease with which I could tear through things. I spent a solid chunk of change on that knife, probably around 40 bucks! I felt like I can do this for myself, I can be prepared for any cutting need, and had the first inkling of supporting my own needs.
I didn't know what a pocket clip was. Back then they were either not a thing, or I was more than likely just completely oblivious to it as I was in so many things. Without instruction, and certainly not reading any instructions provided with the knife, I decided the clip was for attaching the knife onto my belt. So I slid the clip onto my belt, knife body outwards. Hmm, I thought, that's a handy place to keep a knife where I can grab it when needed. I went about my business, exploring the freedom and spectacle of the city. After the ferry crossing back to the island, I went to check out my special new mark of adulthood, only to find the knife wasn't there. Is it on the other side? Did I put it in my pocket? No. The knife was gone. Just gone.
I don't know when I learned that clips work a lot better when you put the knife in your pocket and clip it to the top, but the weight of my experience made painfully clear the value of such a practice. In hindsight it was just such an innocent and juvenile thing to do. I didn't think about losing it, securing it better on my person, or even obscuring it from view. That Delica was my first Rosebud. I think I'll always have a Gen 1 Delica in my knife collection, but it will never be that one. Occasionally I consider, would I have the collection I have now if I hadn't lost that Delica? Am I fruitlessly trying to replace it with every new addition, or am I just an enthusiast with a collector's bent enjoying a hobby?
Melodrama aside, a few decades later I appreciate how collecting knives and admiring their features, usefulness and artful expression have helped me learn about myself and share in a community with like-minded people. My second knife was a lot cheaper because I expected to lose it, and with that knife I learned to differentiate price and value, but that's a story for another day.
For example I remember the first time my mom bought me a watch when I was probably six or seven years old. The intervening decades obscure what kind of watch it was, or how it looked. All I remember is it was digital and I was so excited that I could tell the time wherever, and whenever I was! I followed my mom around, incessantly reminding her of the precise time. I'm sure she quickly regretted her generosity. It was not long after that wonderful gift that I started to realize other people like me wore watches too, but theirs were different. Some kids at school had calculator watches, and some had watches you could play games on. This was the birth of differentiation for me. I have several fond knife memories from my tender youth, but this story is not about those. This story is about the first knife I bought for myself, and learning the innocent lessons that we all must learn.
In my teen-aged years I lived near the big city, but separated in day-to-day life by a literal gulf (actually, a sound). As my years gradually earned me freedom I'd occasionally take a ferry boat over to the city and explore what it had to offer. At the time, for this geeky kid, that meant visiting comic book stores and exploring the local public market. On the way there from the ferry terminal, however, there was much to see in the form of outdoor stores, sex shops and a variety of pawn shops. I was too fresh-faced to know it at the time, but this neighborhood had a reputation. Nevertheless I took every opportunity afforded me to head to the city and explore.
I got my first paying job in my early teen-aged years, so I had a little spending money, but not a lot! Probably just a year or two after that I bought my first knife. This is the one that got away, my first sharp-edged love.
On one of my trips to the city I was strolling through the pawn shops, the thrill of different walks of life distracting all my senses. I always loved looking at the guns in the cases, because sadly this is the closest I'd get to a firearm for several years yet. I imagined what it would be like to hold one, to shoot it and feel its power. It felt illicit, almost like what I felt when I worked up the courage to explore the other kinds of adult-oriented shops, but different. Anyways. I spied some knives in a nearby case. I saw something I'd never seen before. I asked to inspect it and the man behind the counter pulled the Spyderco Delica (C11SBK) from the case for me. This was the first generation Delica brand new on the scene, with an FRN clip molded as one piece to the FRN body. It was black, very pointy and extremely sharp. It was a lock-back, a mechanism I was already accustomed to. It felt good in hand. Light. Easy to open with the super cool thumb hole, and I got all kinds of notions about the ease with which I could tear through things. I spent a solid chunk of change on that knife, probably around 40 bucks! I felt like I can do this for myself, I can be prepared for any cutting need, and had the first inkling of supporting my own needs.
I didn't know what a pocket clip was. Back then they were either not a thing, or I was more than likely just completely oblivious to it as I was in so many things. Without instruction, and certainly not reading any instructions provided with the knife, I decided the clip was for attaching the knife onto my belt. So I slid the clip onto my belt, knife body outwards. Hmm, I thought, that's a handy place to keep a knife where I can grab it when needed. I went about my business, exploring the freedom and spectacle of the city. After the ferry crossing back to the island, I went to check out my special new mark of adulthood, only to find the knife wasn't there. Is it on the other side? Did I put it in my pocket? No. The knife was gone. Just gone.
I don't know when I learned that clips work a lot better when you put the knife in your pocket and clip it to the top, but the weight of my experience made painfully clear the value of such a practice. In hindsight it was just such an innocent and juvenile thing to do. I didn't think about losing it, securing it better on my person, or even obscuring it from view. That Delica was my first Rosebud. I think I'll always have a Gen 1 Delica in my knife collection, but it will never be that one. Occasionally I consider, would I have the collection I have now if I hadn't lost that Delica? Am I fruitlessly trying to replace it with every new addition, or am I just an enthusiast with a collector's bent enjoying a hobby?
Melodrama aside, a few decades later I appreciate how collecting knives and admiring their features, usefulness and artful expression have helped me learn about myself and share in a community with like-minded people. My second knife was a lot cheaper because I expected to lose it, and with that knife I learned to differentiate price and value, but that's a story for another day.