Yesterday was a crisp cool fall day, too good to be wasted by not taking a walk in the woods. Karen and I packed a few items in our daypacks and wondered along one of our favorite trails in Black hill regional park. It was a very breezy day, with the wind making a rushing noise in the trees, and yellow and red leaves falling gently.
We got to a high spot in the woods and sat down on a rolled out space blanket to have a bite to eat. Took out the crusty baggete and some nice brie, a small flask of a white wine that Karen informed me was something called a Yellow Tail Chardenay or something like that. Karen is the wine enthusiest of the family, to me, I'm happy with a beer or glass of whisky. But I tell her it tastes wonderfull even if I don't really care for wine, peasent that I am. I would'nt ruin her act for all the tea in China.
Sitting there, Karen reached into the right hand pocket of her jeans and took out a familiar old scout knife. Gingerly, because of her left wrist still wrapped in ace bandage from her carpel surgery, she used her left thumb and forfinger to open the worn grey spear point blade to spread some of the brie on a piece of the French baggete. She looked down at the knife for a moment, and I knew what she was thinking because I've done it myself a thousand times with one of my old family knives.
Billy Thomas was a blue eyed blond haired young Georgia boy when WW2 broke out. With his parents permission he enlisted in the Navy at 17 and was sent to radio school. Billy was a very bright guy to say the least, and he would later exel at electronics and science. As a Navy radio man Billy had need of a pocket knife with a screw driver blade, and his old boy scout knife came in handy. In the early days of the war, the armed services were issueing alot of gear that was civilian by nature, and knives were no exeption. Billy got a bone handled Imperial issued to him and later a TL-29. He had those knives the rest of his life. Assigned to PBY duty, Billy served in the south Pacific with the Black Cats, a strange unit to say the least. Somebody got the idea of painting the lumbering slow PBY's flat black, and taking advantage of their 12 to 16 hour endurance by using them as night bombers over a place called "the slot". Staying down by day, and taking off from thier lagoon at dusk, they would patrol the slot off Bouganville in the Soloman islands, looking for the tell tale green phosphesant wake of a ship in the night. Circling around and throttling back the engines they would come gliding up the wake from astern the enemy ship and let loose their bombs by surprise out of the night. The Black Cats sent alot of Japanese shipping to the bottom with the surprise attacks out of the dark night sky. Billy went on to become a pilot, and his love of flying lasted the rest of his life. He even went on to sail planes in the 70's and early 80's.
After the war Billy went to college under the GI bill and became a meteriologist for the U.S. Weather service. He was facinated with weather and nature in all her moods, and he gave this love to his kids, one of whom he even gave his love of target shooting, and a gift of a Smth and Wesson K22. But most of all, Billy just loved to be out in nature. Camping, backpacking, sailing, and canoing. He thought nothing of speding a week or two canoing the Boundry Waters or the Allagash. He was the best father in law a guy could have. When he was not off on a scientific missin to places like antartica, or other exotic places, he was never too busy to go on a hike in the woods or camping no matter what the weather. If it was nasty, he loved it even more. He loved life. When he passed on at too young an age from lung cancer, it was a loss for the family.
I know as Karen looked down at the old scout knife in her hand, she was thinking of her father. It's strange how an inaniimate object can hold the memories of the man who carried it for so many years. Billy carried that Imperial scout knife everywhere for the rest of his life after 1942 when he got it. In many ways he was like my dad, and other men of that era. They needed a knife, so if they had one, then that was that. They had a knife, why buy another one?
Karen looked up at me and without a word handed me Billy's old knife. Holding it in my own hand, I could see Billy so clearly. I'd seen him use that knife countless times. On a family picnic, adjusting the scope on a .22 rifle with the screw driver, sharpening a pencil, slitting open a package of Mountain House dehydrated turkey tetrazini on a backpacking trip, using the hook on the old style can opener to help get a knot undone. In a weird way, it was like having him with us on that breezy fall day with the red and yellow leaves falling around us. It seemed fitting to use his knife out in the woods on a chilly fall day, even if it was only to spread some brie on a piece of fresh baggete.
We got to a high spot in the woods and sat down on a rolled out space blanket to have a bite to eat. Took out the crusty baggete and some nice brie, a small flask of a white wine that Karen informed me was something called a Yellow Tail Chardenay or something like that. Karen is the wine enthusiest of the family, to me, I'm happy with a beer or glass of whisky. But I tell her it tastes wonderfull even if I don't really care for wine, peasent that I am. I would'nt ruin her act for all the tea in China.
Sitting there, Karen reached into the right hand pocket of her jeans and took out a familiar old scout knife. Gingerly, because of her left wrist still wrapped in ace bandage from her carpel surgery, she used her left thumb and forfinger to open the worn grey spear point blade to spread some of the brie on a piece of the French baggete. She looked down at the knife for a moment, and I knew what she was thinking because I've done it myself a thousand times with one of my old family knives.
Billy Thomas was a blue eyed blond haired young Georgia boy when WW2 broke out. With his parents permission he enlisted in the Navy at 17 and was sent to radio school. Billy was a very bright guy to say the least, and he would later exel at electronics and science. As a Navy radio man Billy had need of a pocket knife with a screw driver blade, and his old boy scout knife came in handy. In the early days of the war, the armed services were issueing alot of gear that was civilian by nature, and knives were no exeption. Billy got a bone handled Imperial issued to him and later a TL-29. He had those knives the rest of his life. Assigned to PBY duty, Billy served in the south Pacific with the Black Cats, a strange unit to say the least. Somebody got the idea of painting the lumbering slow PBY's flat black, and taking advantage of their 12 to 16 hour endurance by using them as night bombers over a place called "the slot". Staying down by day, and taking off from thier lagoon at dusk, they would patrol the slot off Bouganville in the Soloman islands, looking for the tell tale green phosphesant wake of a ship in the night. Circling around and throttling back the engines they would come gliding up the wake from astern the enemy ship and let loose their bombs by surprise out of the night. The Black Cats sent alot of Japanese shipping to the bottom with the surprise attacks out of the dark night sky. Billy went on to become a pilot, and his love of flying lasted the rest of his life. He even went on to sail planes in the 70's and early 80's.
After the war Billy went to college under the GI bill and became a meteriologist for the U.S. Weather service. He was facinated with weather and nature in all her moods, and he gave this love to his kids, one of whom he even gave his love of target shooting, and a gift of a Smth and Wesson K22. But most of all, Billy just loved to be out in nature. Camping, backpacking, sailing, and canoing. He thought nothing of speding a week or two canoing the Boundry Waters or the Allagash. He was the best father in law a guy could have. When he was not off on a scientific missin to places like antartica, or other exotic places, he was never too busy to go on a hike in the woods or camping no matter what the weather. If it was nasty, he loved it even more. He loved life. When he passed on at too young an age from lung cancer, it was a loss for the family.
I know as Karen looked down at the old scout knife in her hand, she was thinking of her father. It's strange how an inaniimate object can hold the memories of the man who carried it for so many years. Billy carried that Imperial scout knife everywhere for the rest of his life after 1942 when he got it. In many ways he was like my dad, and other men of that era. They needed a knife, so if they had one, then that was that. They had a knife, why buy another one?
Karen looked up at me and without a word handed me Billy's old knife. Holding it in my own hand, I could see Billy so clearly. I'd seen him use that knife countless times. On a family picnic, adjusting the scope on a .22 rifle with the screw driver, sharpening a pencil, slitting open a package of Mountain House dehydrated turkey tetrazini on a backpacking trip, using the hook on the old style can opener to help get a knot undone. In a weird way, it was like having him with us on that breezy fall day with the red and yellow leaves falling around us. It seemed fitting to use his knife out in the woods on a chilly fall day, even if it was only to spread some brie on a piece of fresh baggete.
