The boy watched the old man as he baited the line and cast out. He had been fishing with his grandfather for a few years now, but it seemed to the boy that he was seeing the old man in a new light these days. When he was younger, he never noticed many of the small things his grandfather did, and how he made it all seem so easy. It was almost like his hands knew just what to do without the old man really thinking about it. The old man would be tying a blood knot while keeping one eye on the water to watch every little ring on the surface where a fish would feed on an insect. Nothing got by the old man. Even when he was using the small knife that always fascinated the boy.
It was no bigger than a pen knife, a little two blade pocket knife that the old man always use for just about anything. Cutting a piece of bait, slicing a sliver of apple, trimming some line, deftly lifting a splinter out of a finger, reaming the bowl of his corncob pipe. The knife seemed as old as the old man himself. The bone handles were worn smooth with the years of handling, and the blades were much thinner than they were on a new knife. Yet, they were sharp as scalpels. The old man had a bigger knife in his kit bag, as he called it, but very rarely used it. It was a cut down machete that he called his bushwhacker.
"Grandpa, how long have you been fishing like this?" the boy asked the old man.
The old man looked at the boy, his a slight smile on his creased weather worn features.
"Since the great Lord Almighty created lakes and rivers, pup. I pulled the very first fish from the waters!"
"Aw grandpa, seriously, how long have you been a fisherman?" the boy insisted.
The old man took a puff on his pipe and though for a moment.
"Oh, I reckon about 60 some years now. A long long time before your daddy was born. Why do you ask?"
The boy thought carefully how to put it to the old man.
"Well grandpa, watching you, it always seems that you know just what to do and when to do it. Like the stuff you carry, it's always just enough to get the job done, but small enough that it's no big deal to carry the stuff around. You always seem to know what to do with the stuff you have in your pockets, and always fix stuff up with almost nothing. I guess maybe it has to do with what I heard about you from the family."
"And just what did you hear about me from the family?" the old man asked.
The boy told of the tales that he'd heard of how the old man would disappear in the wilderness for weeks at a time, how he'd been a wandering drifter in his younger days before he met the woman who would settle him down. The old man listened and nodded.
"Yeah, I was a black sheep of the family in my younger days. I did take off and do some wandering. Rode the rails some, and did some boon docking. I was a restless soul in my young days, and did my share of drifting with the wind. I learned early on, if you fish good, you can eat good. No matter how far from home you are, there's always a lake or river to fish, and you don't really need much gear to do it. But you have to learn to do it effectively, and carry the right stuff in your pockets. For that, small is good. When you're on the move, everything you carry has to be light. Ounces mount up to pounds."
The boy thought about what the old man said, as he looked at his own pile of stuff on the ground beside him. He looked at his full size flashlight he'd taken along because they would be walking back in the dark, his large sheath knife, the odds and ends. Then he looked over at the old mans small canvas shoulder bag that was half the size of his own pack. It was laying on it's side with the flap open, and the boy could see a few items that made up the contents. But now thoughts were suddenly drawn to the water. A large silvery flash broke the surface of the water, and the boy's line went taught and started buzzing as the drag played out.
"Set the hook, boy!" the old man shouted, "Ya got a big one there, hang on to him. Play him out, don't give 'em any slack." The old man coached.
The fish fought against the line, but the boy reeled in every chance he got, and soon the prize was on the shore.
"Well, we got dinner, boy, lets gather up some wood. Make it mostly small stuff, good and dry."
The wood was gathered and the old man laid a small fire of sticks no bigger than a finger. Soon it was clear what he was doing. While the fire burned down to coals, he cleaned the fish with his small pocket knife. The boy watched in wonder as the thin sharp blade went in just in back of the jaw, and like magic, slid through the big fish's belly like it was warm butter. The old man scraped out the guts and butterflied the fish. Then with green willow branches made a grill to roast the fish over the now glowing coals. From a small tin in his bag, he sprinkled spices over the cooking fish, and the old man and his grandson had a succulent supper. Afterward, the old man cleaned his knife carefully, using a corner of his bandana to wipe off the blade. By the flickering light of the fire, he inspected the cutting edge with great care, then stropped it on his boot top. His grandson watched him carefully.
"So grandpa, is the fact that you were traveling around a lot, is why you always carry stuff as small as you can get by with?"
The old man thought for a moment.
"Maybe so, pup. I sure didn't want to carry any more than I really needed to. This little Case pocket knife is all I need for most stuff. It's a cutting tool, pure and simple. I guess I look at what I have to do, what I expect of my stuff. Like walking back tonight, it's gonna be dark in those woods, and we'll need a light to see the path. But how much light do we really need? Come on, lets start back and I'll show ya what I mean."
They packed up and as the boy went to pull out his full size flashlight from his pack, the old man held out his hand. The boy almost missed seeing the tiny flashlight in the old mans hand. It wasn't any bigger than the boy's index finger.
"Just twist the head, boy." the old man told him.
The boy did as he was instructed, and a soft flood of white light reached out, lighting up the path in the woods for a good ways in front of them. The boy shined the light around the woods, and suddenly was startled by two red eyes staring back from the darkness beyond the light. He heard the old man chuckle behind him.
"Don't worry, pup. It's just a 'coon or 'possum out and about his business."
They made the short hike back to the old mans truck without incident, and the boy was fascinated by the tiny flashlight. It was a lesson in just what the old man had talked about, being big enough for the job, but small enough to always have on you. Later that night, when the old man had the boy back home, the boy went to give the light back, but the old man told him to keep it. Then the old man handed him a small two blade jackknife.
"Here ya go boy. Give this a try and maybe lighten your load some. It's one just like mine, so I know it's a good one."
The boy hugged his grandfather tightly.
"Thanks grandpa. I love you."
"And I love you, pup."
Later that night, before bed, the boy emptied out his pack on the bed. He took out everything he didn't see the old man carry. With only the few things the old man called his 'essentials" the boy was amazed at how light his pack had become. He made a vow to try to be just like his grandfather, and he opened up the blade on the little jackknife and felt the edge gently. It was finger print grabbing sharp, and he knew it would open up a fish belly as well as the old mans knife. He ran his fingers over the jigged bone, and liked the way it felt under his thumb. As the years past, the boy always rememberd his grandfather, and long after the old man passed away, the boy still carried his little Case jackknife, and the other things the old man had always carried on him. Then one day, many years later, he sat on the river bank with his son. The boy was leaning to be an outdoorsman, and loved the fishing trips with his father. The boy watched his dad carefully.
"Dad, why do you always carry that little pocket knife? Wouldn't a bigger knife be better?"
" Well son," the man replied, " When I was your age I was taught by a very wise old man...
It was no bigger than a pen knife, a little two blade pocket knife that the old man always use for just about anything. Cutting a piece of bait, slicing a sliver of apple, trimming some line, deftly lifting a splinter out of a finger, reaming the bowl of his corncob pipe. The knife seemed as old as the old man himself. The bone handles were worn smooth with the years of handling, and the blades were much thinner than they were on a new knife. Yet, they were sharp as scalpels. The old man had a bigger knife in his kit bag, as he called it, but very rarely used it. It was a cut down machete that he called his bushwhacker.
"Grandpa, how long have you been fishing like this?" the boy asked the old man.
The old man looked at the boy, his a slight smile on his creased weather worn features.
"Since the great Lord Almighty created lakes and rivers, pup. I pulled the very first fish from the waters!"
"Aw grandpa, seriously, how long have you been a fisherman?" the boy insisted.
The old man took a puff on his pipe and though for a moment.
"Oh, I reckon about 60 some years now. A long long time before your daddy was born. Why do you ask?"
The boy thought carefully how to put it to the old man.
"Well grandpa, watching you, it always seems that you know just what to do and when to do it. Like the stuff you carry, it's always just enough to get the job done, but small enough that it's no big deal to carry the stuff around. You always seem to know what to do with the stuff you have in your pockets, and always fix stuff up with almost nothing. I guess maybe it has to do with what I heard about you from the family."
"And just what did you hear about me from the family?" the old man asked.
The boy told of the tales that he'd heard of how the old man would disappear in the wilderness for weeks at a time, how he'd been a wandering drifter in his younger days before he met the woman who would settle him down. The old man listened and nodded.
"Yeah, I was a black sheep of the family in my younger days. I did take off and do some wandering. Rode the rails some, and did some boon docking. I was a restless soul in my young days, and did my share of drifting with the wind. I learned early on, if you fish good, you can eat good. No matter how far from home you are, there's always a lake or river to fish, and you don't really need much gear to do it. But you have to learn to do it effectively, and carry the right stuff in your pockets. For that, small is good. When you're on the move, everything you carry has to be light. Ounces mount up to pounds."
The boy thought about what the old man said, as he looked at his own pile of stuff on the ground beside him. He looked at his full size flashlight he'd taken along because they would be walking back in the dark, his large sheath knife, the odds and ends. Then he looked over at the old mans small canvas shoulder bag that was half the size of his own pack. It was laying on it's side with the flap open, and the boy could see a few items that made up the contents. But now thoughts were suddenly drawn to the water. A large silvery flash broke the surface of the water, and the boy's line went taught and started buzzing as the drag played out.
"Set the hook, boy!" the old man shouted, "Ya got a big one there, hang on to him. Play him out, don't give 'em any slack." The old man coached.
The fish fought against the line, but the boy reeled in every chance he got, and soon the prize was on the shore.
"Well, we got dinner, boy, lets gather up some wood. Make it mostly small stuff, good and dry."
The wood was gathered and the old man laid a small fire of sticks no bigger than a finger. Soon it was clear what he was doing. While the fire burned down to coals, he cleaned the fish with his small pocket knife. The boy watched in wonder as the thin sharp blade went in just in back of the jaw, and like magic, slid through the big fish's belly like it was warm butter. The old man scraped out the guts and butterflied the fish. Then with green willow branches made a grill to roast the fish over the now glowing coals. From a small tin in his bag, he sprinkled spices over the cooking fish, and the old man and his grandson had a succulent supper. Afterward, the old man cleaned his knife carefully, using a corner of his bandana to wipe off the blade. By the flickering light of the fire, he inspected the cutting edge with great care, then stropped it on his boot top. His grandson watched him carefully.
"So grandpa, is the fact that you were traveling around a lot, is why you always carry stuff as small as you can get by with?"
The old man thought for a moment.
"Maybe so, pup. I sure didn't want to carry any more than I really needed to. This little Case pocket knife is all I need for most stuff. It's a cutting tool, pure and simple. I guess I look at what I have to do, what I expect of my stuff. Like walking back tonight, it's gonna be dark in those woods, and we'll need a light to see the path. But how much light do we really need? Come on, lets start back and I'll show ya what I mean."
They packed up and as the boy went to pull out his full size flashlight from his pack, the old man held out his hand. The boy almost missed seeing the tiny flashlight in the old mans hand. It wasn't any bigger than the boy's index finger.
"Just twist the head, boy." the old man told him.
The boy did as he was instructed, and a soft flood of white light reached out, lighting up the path in the woods for a good ways in front of them. The boy shined the light around the woods, and suddenly was startled by two red eyes staring back from the darkness beyond the light. He heard the old man chuckle behind him.
"Don't worry, pup. It's just a 'coon or 'possum out and about his business."
They made the short hike back to the old mans truck without incident, and the boy was fascinated by the tiny flashlight. It was a lesson in just what the old man had talked about, being big enough for the job, but small enough to always have on you. Later that night, when the old man had the boy back home, the boy went to give the light back, but the old man told him to keep it. Then the old man handed him a small two blade jackknife.
"Here ya go boy. Give this a try and maybe lighten your load some. It's one just like mine, so I know it's a good one."
The boy hugged his grandfather tightly.
"Thanks grandpa. I love you."
"And I love you, pup."
Later that night, before bed, the boy emptied out his pack on the bed. He took out everything he didn't see the old man carry. With only the few things the old man called his 'essentials" the boy was amazed at how light his pack had become. He made a vow to try to be just like his grandfather, and he opened up the blade on the little jackknife and felt the edge gently. It was finger print grabbing sharp, and he knew it would open up a fish belly as well as the old mans knife. He ran his fingers over the jigged bone, and liked the way it felt under his thumb. As the years past, the boy always rememberd his grandfather, and long after the old man passed away, the boy still carried his little Case jackknife, and the other things the old man had always carried on him. Then one day, many years later, he sat on the river bank with his son. The boy was leaning to be an outdoorsman, and loved the fishing trips with his father. The boy watched his dad carefully.
"Dad, why do you always carry that little pocket knife? Wouldn't a bigger knife be better?"
" Well son," the man replied, " When I was your age I was taught by a very wise old man...
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