- Joined
- Jun 2, 2013
- Messages
- 306
I remember back when I was a youngin' my grandfather would take me out down to the bush land just down the road from his and gran's place with his black Labrador Toby. We'd walk the beaten paths and he'd show me how to pick a cat track from a fox track, a rabbit from a bandicoot and so on. He'd tell me about his younger years and the years he owned a farm out in the middle of nowhere, of times when you made do with what you had and didn't whinge about what you couldn't change.
On those walks I learned, at least in my humble opinion, more useful information about life than the full twelve years I spent in school. He'd tell me about how the trees lived and the animals survived in the harsh country, and he taught me to learn from nature. He also taught me what he called "seat of your pants survivalism", how to get water and make fire with only what you had on hand. It was he who first told me the secret to any survival situation.
He sat on a rotting log in a clearing one fine spring day and mopped the sweat from his ever spreading forehead. I sat down next him and waited. I knew well by then that he didn't sit unless he was about to deliver a pearl of wisdom for "time spent idle is life unspent". He looked down at me with his calm grey eyes and smiled.
"You know what the secret to living in the bush is young man?" I shook my head, "the secret is a sharp knife" he said with finality, and felt he didn't need to elaborate. I already knew what he meant, Pa always carried a knife wherever he went, as long as he had pants on you could bet a knife was in his right pocket.
I remember well my grandpa's knife, I used to see him whittle with it when I was growing up, and then when we did our bush walks it took the role of primary cutting tool. I saw Pa cut nearly everything with that knife, always keeping it scarily sharp with a piece of Dover slate he brought back from England. I remember the dark grey patina on the blade and the ribbon of bright steel right at the edge, the dawn yellow stag scales worn with many handlings. His Knife was his pride and joy.
It wasn't until my late teens I thought to ask what the old blade was, my young mind fixated on the idea anything not tacti-cool black wasn't a knife. "This is a Schrade stockman" he said proudly and offered it to me to look at. I'd never laid hands on it before, when he'd deemed me trustworthy of handling a blade he got me a victorinox spartan that I abused horrifically, I still have nightmares where the ghost of that old knife haunts me. The little Schrade was beautiful, well cared for and pocket-worn I remember thinking as I held it that it felt alive in my hands, still warm from my grandfather's touch.
In that moment I was converted, and since then anything that doesn't have an air of the traditional about it doesn't hold my fancy.
The years passed and then so did he, suddenly and without warning. To my dying day I don't think I'll ever be able to understand how such an island of a man, steadfast and sure, could be taken so quickly.
After the funeral his will was read and a few things passed to me, his collection of flying books, his old piano accordion... And his Schrade stockman. I remember crying like a newborn when I was told I would inherit that I knew he treasured most.
But it was not to be.
I later found out the hospital had thrown out his personal effects when he passed without asking the family first. My grandmother railed at them using words at that time I didn't know she knew.
And so the stockman faded into memory. Until I stepped into a surplus store and saw one on the shelf, rough sawn Delrin instead of stag, but it was my grandfather's knife. I quickly asked to take a look and when it was handed to me I held it reverently. I opened the three blades, saddened they weren't the old carbon blades I was used to. Then I noticed that the main blade had a mighty twist in it, the sheepsfoot next to it had a massive curve to it and the mini-Spey blade hadn't a point at all. The walk and talk was shoddy and the fit and finish sadly lacking.
I replaced it on the store shelf and wondered at how easily our memories get sold or traded on us. I hope my grandfather doesn't see what has become of his beloved stockman.
On those walks I learned, at least in my humble opinion, more useful information about life than the full twelve years I spent in school. He'd tell me about how the trees lived and the animals survived in the harsh country, and he taught me to learn from nature. He also taught me what he called "seat of your pants survivalism", how to get water and make fire with only what you had on hand. It was he who first told me the secret to any survival situation.
He sat on a rotting log in a clearing one fine spring day and mopped the sweat from his ever spreading forehead. I sat down next him and waited. I knew well by then that he didn't sit unless he was about to deliver a pearl of wisdom for "time spent idle is life unspent". He looked down at me with his calm grey eyes and smiled.
"You know what the secret to living in the bush is young man?" I shook my head, "the secret is a sharp knife" he said with finality, and felt he didn't need to elaborate. I already knew what he meant, Pa always carried a knife wherever he went, as long as he had pants on you could bet a knife was in his right pocket.
I remember well my grandpa's knife, I used to see him whittle with it when I was growing up, and then when we did our bush walks it took the role of primary cutting tool. I saw Pa cut nearly everything with that knife, always keeping it scarily sharp with a piece of Dover slate he brought back from England. I remember the dark grey patina on the blade and the ribbon of bright steel right at the edge, the dawn yellow stag scales worn with many handlings. His Knife was his pride and joy.
It wasn't until my late teens I thought to ask what the old blade was, my young mind fixated on the idea anything not tacti-cool black wasn't a knife. "This is a Schrade stockman" he said proudly and offered it to me to look at. I'd never laid hands on it before, when he'd deemed me trustworthy of handling a blade he got me a victorinox spartan that I abused horrifically, I still have nightmares where the ghost of that old knife haunts me. The little Schrade was beautiful, well cared for and pocket-worn I remember thinking as I held it that it felt alive in my hands, still warm from my grandfather's touch.
In that moment I was converted, and since then anything that doesn't have an air of the traditional about it doesn't hold my fancy.
The years passed and then so did he, suddenly and without warning. To my dying day I don't think I'll ever be able to understand how such an island of a man, steadfast and sure, could be taken so quickly.
After the funeral his will was read and a few things passed to me, his collection of flying books, his old piano accordion... And his Schrade stockman. I remember crying like a newborn when I was told I would inherit that I knew he treasured most.
But it was not to be.
I later found out the hospital had thrown out his personal effects when he passed without asking the family first. My grandmother railed at them using words at that time I didn't know she knew.
And so the stockman faded into memory. Until I stepped into a surplus store and saw one on the shelf, rough sawn Delrin instead of stag, but it was my grandfather's knife. I quickly asked to take a look and when it was handed to me I held it reverently. I opened the three blades, saddened they weren't the old carbon blades I was used to. Then I noticed that the main blade had a mighty twist in it, the sheepsfoot next to it had a massive curve to it and the mini-Spey blade hadn't a point at all. The walk and talk was shoddy and the fit and finish sadly lacking.
I replaced it on the store shelf and wondered at how easily our memories get sold or traded on us. I hope my grandfather doesn't see what has become of his beloved stockman.
