- Joined
- Apr 21, 2015
- Messages
- 67
My grandfather played a pretty significant role in my young life. Living just down the road, his garage was my second home and I spent countless days with him there fixing lawnmowers and fishing reels, and straining honey from his overflowing hives. The atmosphere down there was a miasma of old grease, woodsmoke and grindstone dust - all bound together by the sweet scent of clover honey. It didn't matter how many times I went into that mancave I could always find some treasure, hitherto undiscovered, to look at and wonder over. If i was lucky, it might be a .303 shell, an antique lighter - or maybe his writing desk would be open - full of photos and memories of family members who were as dead then as Grandpa is now.
One of his favorite hobbies was combing the nearby beaches for tangled birdsnest nylon balls, cut in frustration from unknown fishing vessels and set adrift without another thought. He would take these confused messes home and work on them for hours - finding an end, ceasely unstiching until the balls were spooled carefully onto a notched plank - ready to go on handline or reel.
His friends would occasionally come by for a roll of salvaged nylon (and leave with jar of honey to go with), but Grandpa's constant companion was a small stainless steel pocket knife that seemed an extension of his body - making up for the two fingers he lost in a rail accident. Its blade was ground thinner every time I saw it. The marlin spike on that knife was the real boon - used to great effect on his detangling missions. It is wonderful to have that knife in my collection to this day - sometimes it keeps me companion in my pocket too.
Now my grandfather had this big silver tapedeck - beyond doubt the most modern thing he owned in the early '80's - and a thing he was clearly proud of. He would haul this monstrous Sanyo out of the cupboard, set it up the offboard mic and start 'writing letters' to a blind man called George. Tapes would be sent and arrive in leather packages that required no postage payment - they were letters to and from the blind. Grandpa would share his life and tall tales with George via tape, and George likewise, though how they established this connexion, I never learned. It was a genuine family event when the monthly tape would arrive from wherever it was that this sightless correspondent lived. He was a certainly a character, just Grandpa was; and these exchanges were highly valued by both men, despite having never met in person.
One year, George came to visit. His wife, begifted unlike he, with sight, rented a camper wagon and drove George the length of the country to finally shake hands with Jack. And that, reader, is where this meandering tale catches up with the second part of its title.
After tea and pleasantries, George wasted no time in sending his obliging wife out to the camper for a mysterious suitcase he was excited to show us. This tartan striped, pressed cardboard box was dutifully placed on the table - Georges hands dabbling excitedly to find the catches. Inside was a knife collection of such magnificence that my seven-year-old mind was totally overwhelmed. He had in there all manner of Swiss Army knifes, daggers from 'the War', folders, fixed blades, pearl handles, custom knives, workworn beaters, you name it. He faced me and told me to withdraw any knife I wished and place it in his hand. I did this ten, fifteen, twenty times and each time he was able to tell me its maker and name of the knife, just by rubbing it momentarily between his palms. He told me who had sent them to him, what they were used for. He knew their colours, even though he couldn't remember what colours were anymore - he'd been forty years a blind man, after all. He spoke of those knives like a vintner describing his best bottle - it was a moving experience to watch this man with these talismans that so connected him to memories of days when he could see; focal points that kept him sharp as the steel within that treasured box.
He stayed with Grandpa only two days but before he left, he told me I could have any knife I wanted and directed his wife to open the box for me to make a selection. I chose a knife, and shortly thereafter they left. I never saw or heard anything of George ever again. His 'letters' stopped coming even. Perhaps the meeting of these two men changed the shape of their friendship somehow. All I can say of the man now is surely he too is dead - he was an old man even then.
What knife did I choose? Well, I have no idea. I can remember the feeling I had in my throat that day, and the expression of joy on George's face when he told me I had made a fine decision, but the memory of that knife is as lost as the knife itself. Gone.
I still get that same feeling though, when I buy a new knife - and I always think of George when I do. On occasion I will give a knife away to someone that I like so that maybe they can feel that way for a while too. Good on you George mate, wherever you are.
One of his favorite hobbies was combing the nearby beaches for tangled birdsnest nylon balls, cut in frustration from unknown fishing vessels and set adrift without another thought. He would take these confused messes home and work on them for hours - finding an end, ceasely unstiching until the balls were spooled carefully onto a notched plank - ready to go on handline or reel.
His friends would occasionally come by for a roll of salvaged nylon (and leave with jar of honey to go with), but Grandpa's constant companion was a small stainless steel pocket knife that seemed an extension of his body - making up for the two fingers he lost in a rail accident. Its blade was ground thinner every time I saw it. The marlin spike on that knife was the real boon - used to great effect on his detangling missions. It is wonderful to have that knife in my collection to this day - sometimes it keeps me companion in my pocket too.
Now my grandfather had this big silver tapedeck - beyond doubt the most modern thing he owned in the early '80's - and a thing he was clearly proud of. He would haul this monstrous Sanyo out of the cupboard, set it up the offboard mic and start 'writing letters' to a blind man called George. Tapes would be sent and arrive in leather packages that required no postage payment - they were letters to and from the blind. Grandpa would share his life and tall tales with George via tape, and George likewise, though how they established this connexion, I never learned. It was a genuine family event when the monthly tape would arrive from wherever it was that this sightless correspondent lived. He was a certainly a character, just Grandpa was; and these exchanges were highly valued by both men, despite having never met in person.
One year, George came to visit. His wife, begifted unlike he, with sight, rented a camper wagon and drove George the length of the country to finally shake hands with Jack. And that, reader, is where this meandering tale catches up with the second part of its title.
After tea and pleasantries, George wasted no time in sending his obliging wife out to the camper for a mysterious suitcase he was excited to show us. This tartan striped, pressed cardboard box was dutifully placed on the table - Georges hands dabbling excitedly to find the catches. Inside was a knife collection of such magnificence that my seven-year-old mind was totally overwhelmed. He had in there all manner of Swiss Army knifes, daggers from 'the War', folders, fixed blades, pearl handles, custom knives, workworn beaters, you name it. He faced me and told me to withdraw any knife I wished and place it in his hand. I did this ten, fifteen, twenty times and each time he was able to tell me its maker and name of the knife, just by rubbing it momentarily between his palms. He told me who had sent them to him, what they were used for. He knew their colours, even though he couldn't remember what colours were anymore - he'd been forty years a blind man, after all. He spoke of those knives like a vintner describing his best bottle - it was a moving experience to watch this man with these talismans that so connected him to memories of days when he could see; focal points that kept him sharp as the steel within that treasured box.
He stayed with Grandpa only two days but before he left, he told me I could have any knife I wanted and directed his wife to open the box for me to make a selection. I chose a knife, and shortly thereafter they left. I never saw or heard anything of George ever again. His 'letters' stopped coming even. Perhaps the meeting of these two men changed the shape of their friendship somehow. All I can say of the man now is surely he too is dead - he was an old man even then.
What knife did I choose? Well, I have no idea. I can remember the feeling I had in my throat that day, and the expression of joy on George's face when he told me I had made a fine decision, but the memory of that knife is as lost as the knife itself. Gone.
I still get that same feeling though, when I buy a new knife - and I always think of George when I do. On occasion I will give a knife away to someone that I like so that maybe they can feel that way for a while too. Good on you George mate, wherever you are.
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