There was once a time when a knife was not a collector's item or an heirloom but a tool, a necessary component to survival and comfort. Someone, some little ape-like thing living with its tribe, has to have invented it one day. What was he thinking when he picked up his sharp little piece of rock, looked to the game he had to process, and made the connection? Whatever happened, he cleared the path for knife aficionados young and old, giving us the privileges affiliated with using, abusing and collecting our cutlery. My Becker is a true blue because it gives tribute to our history, the times when a knife was as much a part of us as our flesh and bones.
A few weeks ago my troupe and I went camping in the pine barrens, and one of our first tasks was gathering plenty of firewood before dusk set in. The less ambitious of us collected kindling from the forest floor, but with my Becker in hand we were able to fell several dead trees. Within mere minutes we'd dragged back enough wood to account for dinner and breakfast fires. My Becker is a true blue because it lets me approach any cutting, chopping or otherwise destructive task with raw efficiency and finesse.
My father is an old-fashioned guy. All his life he has relied on Swiss Army knives when going out on outdoors endeavors. So when he saw my Becker for the first time he probably wanted to laugh at me, though the $70 I spent on it gleamed against his mind. "That thing is useless," he told me. "All you need is a small folding knife to get by in life." But once he used the knife to clear some brush in our campsite, something changed in him. There was a new vigor about his movements. He never admitted it, but I think he found a new fondness for huge slabs of 1095.
"Damn, that thing's sharp," he said as he handed it back to me.
My Becker is a true blue because it effects the confidence of knowing so few obstacles can stand in your way when you wield it.
