Childhood in the late 1940's and early 50's was a wonderfull time. It was a combination of Norman Rockwell and Mark Twain, especially down on the Choptank. There were seemingly endless marshes to explore, fish to be cought, and other adventures a boy would look back on for the rest of his life. And then there were the cast of charaters. Among them, the Harding brothers.
No two men were ever born that were as different since Cain and Able. Old Bill Harding was a semi-leagal trapper, sometimes poacher, full time loafer and reprobate, and esteemed senior member of the liers circle. Then there was his younger brother, the Reverend Harding.
Robert Harding came from a good family of very respectable standing in the Cambridge area, and he rarely was seen in public talking to his semi-outlaw older brother. The Reverend was a compact man, of genteel manners and dress, dark hair with a distinguished silver at the temples. His suit was always impecable, and he was not only the Reverend of the local Methodist church, but a friend to every boy in town. Part Father Flanigan, part Sheriff Andy Taylor, with a large dose of your favorite uncle, he always could be counted on to give sage advise and moral guidance in total confidence. A boy with a problem often went to the good reverend for help, advise, or both.
I personally know of one young boy who missed a shot with a slingshot and broke a window by accident. Going to the Reverend Harding, he made an agreement with the boy that he, the reverend, would pay for the window and smooth things over in confidence, and the boy would pay him back each week out of his allowance. Thus saving the boy in question a good hiding. The boy paid back every penny.
Like most men of the period who wore a suit and was employed in a genteel vocation, the Reverend carried a small pen knife of modest size. Typical of the breed, there was jigged bone handles, two blades of grey carbon steel. It was used to scrape the bowl of the old brier pipe the reverend smoked, scrape mud from ones shoes if stepped in a puddle, cut the strings off the post office boxes that came in the mail. Boxes were still wrapped in twine in those days. I had seen the good Reverend use his little knife in public many times, as it was expected for a man to have a knife on him in those days.
But the good reverend had another knife.
It was sometimes a nice treat to eat out on a Sunday evening, saving the lady of the house the trouble of cooking and cleaning up a Sunday dinner. The one main diner in town did a good buisness on Sunday evernings, and on one everning in particular, grandad told grandmom to put on her Sunday dress, she's eating out. At the diner, the special was pork chops with mashed potatos and gravy, and fresh local grown green beans. We sat down after the first name grettings of everyone in the place. Back then, you knew everyone in town, and as you made your way to a table you exchanged greeting with many people. The good Reverend Harding was in attendence with his wife, sitting at the table right next to us.
As we were being waited on, the good reverend and wife were already eating, and I noticed that he was having less than good luck with the supplied flatwear. In particular, the dull knife. He was attempting to trim a bit of pork chop from close to the bone without much luck, and looking at his wife said "I'm sorry dear." and took out his penknife.
Only it was not his regular pen knife with the brown jigged bone handles. It was a thing of exquisite beauty I recall to this day.
Since it was Sunday everning, I can only presume it was his Sunday-go-to-meeting knife. White gleaming pearl with strong pink and blueish hues running through it, and shinning fluted nickle silver bolsters, and lightly greyed blade, sliced right through his pork chop as he held the chop a bit over the plate to avoid the blade hitting the plate. He enjoyed his meal with obvious pleasure, but I must have been staring. He glance over at me gawking at his pocket knife.
"Would you like to see it son?
I thought I'd been given a great honor. "Yes sir, I'd love to see it."
The Reverend carefully wiped off his knife with the napkin, and passed over the prettiest knife I had seen till then. The pearl was fantastic, turning hues when you moved it slightly. The main blade was razor sharp, and it was fitted with care. On the tang was the stamp of one of the biggest Sheffield firms; IXL in bold capital letters. I'll always rember that example of fine English cutlery. It seemed jewel like in its beauty.
When I handed it back to the reverend, he carefully wiped it down again with a clean part of his napkin, and folded it up and tucked it carefully in his vest pocket. It seemed to hold a great value to him. perhaps he sensed my thoughts.
"My father gave that knife when I graduated from the seminary, along with a leather bound family bible. I use the bible on Sunday mornings, but a nice pocket knife is a beautifull thing you can use anywhere. " he said.
The good Reverend always had good advise for a young man.
No two men were ever born that were as different since Cain and Able. Old Bill Harding was a semi-leagal trapper, sometimes poacher, full time loafer and reprobate, and esteemed senior member of the liers circle. Then there was his younger brother, the Reverend Harding.
Robert Harding came from a good family of very respectable standing in the Cambridge area, and he rarely was seen in public talking to his semi-outlaw older brother. The Reverend was a compact man, of genteel manners and dress, dark hair with a distinguished silver at the temples. His suit was always impecable, and he was not only the Reverend of the local Methodist church, but a friend to every boy in town. Part Father Flanigan, part Sheriff Andy Taylor, with a large dose of your favorite uncle, he always could be counted on to give sage advise and moral guidance in total confidence. A boy with a problem often went to the good reverend for help, advise, or both.
I personally know of one young boy who missed a shot with a slingshot and broke a window by accident. Going to the Reverend Harding, he made an agreement with the boy that he, the reverend, would pay for the window and smooth things over in confidence, and the boy would pay him back each week out of his allowance. Thus saving the boy in question a good hiding. The boy paid back every penny.
Like most men of the period who wore a suit and was employed in a genteel vocation, the Reverend carried a small pen knife of modest size. Typical of the breed, there was jigged bone handles, two blades of grey carbon steel. It was used to scrape the bowl of the old brier pipe the reverend smoked, scrape mud from ones shoes if stepped in a puddle, cut the strings off the post office boxes that came in the mail. Boxes were still wrapped in twine in those days. I had seen the good Reverend use his little knife in public many times, as it was expected for a man to have a knife on him in those days.
But the good reverend had another knife.
It was sometimes a nice treat to eat out on a Sunday evening, saving the lady of the house the trouble of cooking and cleaning up a Sunday dinner. The one main diner in town did a good buisness on Sunday evernings, and on one everning in particular, grandad told grandmom to put on her Sunday dress, she's eating out. At the diner, the special was pork chops with mashed potatos and gravy, and fresh local grown green beans. We sat down after the first name grettings of everyone in the place. Back then, you knew everyone in town, and as you made your way to a table you exchanged greeting with many people. The good Reverend Harding was in attendence with his wife, sitting at the table right next to us.
As we were being waited on, the good reverend and wife were already eating, and I noticed that he was having less than good luck with the supplied flatwear. In particular, the dull knife. He was attempting to trim a bit of pork chop from close to the bone without much luck, and looking at his wife said "I'm sorry dear." and took out his penknife.
Only it was not his regular pen knife with the brown jigged bone handles. It was a thing of exquisite beauty I recall to this day.
Since it was Sunday everning, I can only presume it was his Sunday-go-to-meeting knife. White gleaming pearl with strong pink and blueish hues running through it, and shinning fluted nickle silver bolsters, and lightly greyed blade, sliced right through his pork chop as he held the chop a bit over the plate to avoid the blade hitting the plate. He enjoyed his meal with obvious pleasure, but I must have been staring. He glance over at me gawking at his pocket knife.
"Would you like to see it son?
I thought I'd been given a great honor. "Yes sir, I'd love to see it."
The Reverend carefully wiped off his knife with the napkin, and passed over the prettiest knife I had seen till then. The pearl was fantastic, turning hues when you moved it slightly. The main blade was razor sharp, and it was fitted with care. On the tang was the stamp of one of the biggest Sheffield firms; IXL in bold capital letters. I'll always rember that example of fine English cutlery. It seemed jewel like in its beauty.
When I handed it back to the reverend, he carefully wiped it down again with a clean part of his napkin, and folded it up and tucked it carefully in his vest pocket. It seemed to hold a great value to him. perhaps he sensed my thoughts.
"My father gave that knife when I graduated from the seminary, along with a leather bound family bible. I use the bible on Sunday mornings, but a nice pocket knife is a beautifull thing you can use anywhere. " he said.
The good Reverend always had good advise for a young man.
