Just to the west of Cambbridge Maryland, on route 343 is an inlet from the Chesapeake Bay called Jenkins Creek. It was of course named after the Jenkins family who have been in that area ever since the original members of that clan deserted from John Smith's expedition. At least thats the story put out by the Jenkins family.
This was the same family that owned the run down clapboard building that was a local general store. At least they called it a store, and you could buy things there as long as it had to do with canned goods, strong drink, fishing gear or bait, or ammunition and hunting supplies. It was also the meeting place of the exalted members of the Liars Circle.
The liars circle consisted of the oldest, and wisest of the elders of Dorchester county, at least to us kids who thought we were blessed by the almighty when these venerated elders would let us sit and listen to thier wisdom. I had no idea why our mothers and aunts said they were no good shiftless loafers. The wise elders held court from some rickity wood chairs that were arranged around the pot bellied stove in the winter, and out around the cracker barrel on the sagging front porch in the summer. When one of us kids were permitted to listen to the wise men, we had to make do with an up ended crate, chairs were for the elders.
One summer day when I was young and spent my summers down at grandads on the bay, I had bicycled in to buy a cold Coke from the machine at the store. The Liars circle was in court on the shaded porch, and as I sipped my cold drink I inched closer to gather any pearls of wisdom that came my way. Mr Jenkins himself, a can of Pabst Blue ribbon in hand, saw me and asked "Ain't you old man devlins grandkid?"
I assured him I was and he told me to pull up a box and have a seat. I felt giddy with the honnor of being invited. They were disgussing knives, a favorite subject there along with guns, hunting, fishing, and some mysterious subject that we boys were always told to leave, as some sort of secret conversation was above our standing.
There was a general discussion going on about how much blade a man needs on his pocket knife. Some were saying 3 inches, some 4 inches, some going for 2 and a half inches. Old man Jenkins was holding to the opinion that at least as much blade as a large trapper would give you. Billy Calder, a small weasel of a man who was rumored to be one of the best chicken thieves in the county, disagreed. He thought the average barlow gave a man enough blade to do most anything he needed to. This went back and forth for a while, with everyone giving their opinion. I listened well hoping to learn from these elders.
One of the members, Bill the trapper, reputed to be the best muskrat trapper on the eastern shore, rapped his empty beer can on the arm of the old wood chair he was sitting in. Silence fell on the elders as Bill was the most esteamed member of the circle.
Bill held up one finger in silence. All present looked at the raised index finger and waited for him to speak. And waited.
Bill seamed lost in thought, but after a while he realized he had the attention of all the rest of the wise men
"This is it!" he said, and we waited for him to elaborate on that.
And we waited. Bill again seemed lost in thought, and I could only think his thinking being a bit slow that day, had something to do with the large pile of empty Pabst cans at his side. Finally he cought up his train of thought.
"This is all the blade you need," he said still holding up his index finger. "I've skinned deer, muskrat, and a few things I won't name, and all I used is a finger length of blade!"
He finished this out pouring of wisdom with a loud belch, and then went to sleep in his chair.
Now 55 years later I think about the wisdom of the elders of the Jenkins general store patrons, and for the most part I think they had a handle on the truth of the matter. They may well have been a den of chicken thieves, loafers, poachers, trappers, and Lord knows what else, but they used alot of knives in whatever they really did do. I think about the average stockman, barlow, jackknife, and they really do give you just about a finger length of blade.
If that was good enough for Bill the trapper, it's good enough for me.
This was the same family that owned the run down clapboard building that was a local general store. At least they called it a store, and you could buy things there as long as it had to do with canned goods, strong drink, fishing gear or bait, or ammunition and hunting supplies. It was also the meeting place of the exalted members of the Liars Circle.
The liars circle consisted of the oldest, and wisest of the elders of Dorchester county, at least to us kids who thought we were blessed by the almighty when these venerated elders would let us sit and listen to thier wisdom. I had no idea why our mothers and aunts said they were no good shiftless loafers. The wise elders held court from some rickity wood chairs that were arranged around the pot bellied stove in the winter, and out around the cracker barrel on the sagging front porch in the summer. When one of us kids were permitted to listen to the wise men, we had to make do with an up ended crate, chairs were for the elders.
One summer day when I was young and spent my summers down at grandads on the bay, I had bicycled in to buy a cold Coke from the machine at the store. The Liars circle was in court on the shaded porch, and as I sipped my cold drink I inched closer to gather any pearls of wisdom that came my way. Mr Jenkins himself, a can of Pabst Blue ribbon in hand, saw me and asked "Ain't you old man devlins grandkid?"
I assured him I was and he told me to pull up a box and have a seat. I felt giddy with the honnor of being invited. They were disgussing knives, a favorite subject there along with guns, hunting, fishing, and some mysterious subject that we boys were always told to leave, as some sort of secret conversation was above our standing.
There was a general discussion going on about how much blade a man needs on his pocket knife. Some were saying 3 inches, some 4 inches, some going for 2 and a half inches. Old man Jenkins was holding to the opinion that at least as much blade as a large trapper would give you. Billy Calder, a small weasel of a man who was rumored to be one of the best chicken thieves in the county, disagreed. He thought the average barlow gave a man enough blade to do most anything he needed to. This went back and forth for a while, with everyone giving their opinion. I listened well hoping to learn from these elders.
One of the members, Bill the trapper, reputed to be the best muskrat trapper on the eastern shore, rapped his empty beer can on the arm of the old wood chair he was sitting in. Silence fell on the elders as Bill was the most esteamed member of the circle.
Bill held up one finger in silence. All present looked at the raised index finger and waited for him to speak. And waited.
Bill seamed lost in thought, but after a while he realized he had the attention of all the rest of the wise men
"This is it!" he said, and we waited for him to elaborate on that.
And we waited. Bill again seemed lost in thought, and I could only think his thinking being a bit slow that day, had something to do with the large pile of empty Pabst cans at his side. Finally he cought up his train of thought.
"This is all the blade you need," he said still holding up his index finger. "I've skinned deer, muskrat, and a few things I won't name, and all I used is a finger length of blade!"
He finished this out pouring of wisdom with a loud belch, and then went to sleep in his chair.
Now 55 years later I think about the wisdom of the elders of the Jenkins general store patrons, and for the most part I think they had a handle on the truth of the matter. They may well have been a den of chicken thieves, loafers, poachers, trappers, and Lord knows what else, but they used alot of knives in whatever they really did do. I think about the average stockman, barlow, jackknife, and they really do give you just about a finger length of blade.
If that was good enough for Bill the trapper, it's good enough for me.
