Only the last couple of years I've come to appretiate the little peanut. I had bought a Case yellow CV peanut that I liked so much, I gave it to my grandson Ryan as his first real knife. I got a second one just like it as I missed it, and this delighted Ryan, that he and his grandad carried the same knife. Last summer I used it and my small case CV soddie as fishing knife to cut bait, clean panfish, not to mention all the normal day to day use of a pocket knife. By fall I had bought a nice bone stag with true sharp as my Sunday-go-to-meeting knife. There must be something innocent about a peanut, even some of the church ladies remarked that it was "pretty" when I had need to trim something after a Sunday service.
I wonder if the ability to appretiate a peanut called for some measure of matutity I did not have in my younger day. My dad carried a Case brown bone peanut as his daily knife for as long as I could remember. But then dad was a bit different anyways. Being used to Grandad and Uncle Mike, and Uncle Pat, dad was kind of a "grey man" by comparision. Spending my formative years around watermen who used 4 inch stockmen, barlows, and cigar jacks, I wondered at dads devotion to the little peanut. Surely, I thought, he could afford something bigger. It took me many years of my life to learn bigger is not always better. Dad always seemed to get by with his little knife, just as he got by with that old Colt woodsman as his only gun. Dad would pause for a moment, study the situation carefully, and make a cut here, a cut there, and then he was putting the knife away, job finished.
Carefull is a word that comes to my mind when I think of dad. He always studied things carefully before acting. Of the three brothers, dad was the quiet one who never would have alot to say. At least he'd not use three words when two would do as well, unless it was important. I think he was a minimalist at heart, he always seemed to do well with the smallest most easly carried gear. Today I look at his choice of tools, and I can see the logic that eluded me in my youth. The pre-war woodsman is a trim and slightly elegent little gun, with its pencil thin 6 inch barrel. His old peanut is of the same bent. A trim little knife that does disappear in a pocket till needed, but used carefully it gets the job done.
A few years ago I sent dads peanut back to Case, and for a reasonable fee they replaced the half worn main blade. I've been carrying it on occasion here and there, and its a weird thing. In my autum years I've been going back to basics in alot of things, and I find myself having more fun. Slowly I'm becoming my father as I said in another post. Sometimes when I use his little peanut, I pause for a moment and admire the knife. The jigging in the worn bone scales is very faint, and I wonder how many times dad held this knife in his hand contemplaiting some little cutting job. I can almost hear his voice telling me to look before I leap. I remember his after dinner ritual of carefully packing his pipe, and then reaching in the kitchen catch-all drawer and getting his strop out. While he smoked his pipe he would strop his knife on a thin piece of wood that he had glued a thick piece of leather on. He'd strop his knife for a few minutes, then tear a small piece out of his evening paper and slice the newsprint. The peanut would whisper thougth the newspaper.
When I was in the scouts and dad became involved in helping out, he'd go on campouts with us if he was not gone on one of his trips. Durring the course of events, he and Mr. Van became friends and it was not unusual to see them sitting or walking through the campgrounds disgussing something while puffing on their pipes. When it came time to make dinner, dad was right there whittling a hot dog stick, or a ka-bob stick with his peanut. The peanut would slice up the bell peppers and onions and pieces of beef to go on that ka-bob stick. That he impressed Mr. Van made an impression on me. That he tied Mr. Van shooting at Gun Farm with his woodsman impressed Mr. Van. I remember one time I was working at some camp craft for a merit badge, and Mr. Van stopped and looked at me for a spell, and then told me " I hope you appretiate your old man, he'd do to go over the mountain with."
Today, I oened my mail with dads peanut, and opened a UPS box from the tobacco distributor in Tennesse I get my pipe tobacco from. It zipped through envelope and cardboard box as smooth as ever. Could any other knife have done it better?
Too bad its a tragedy of almost Shakespearian proportion that it takes us so long to appretiate some things.
I think I'll go out to the range this afternoon and practice some more with an old .22.
I wonder if the ability to appretiate a peanut called for some measure of matutity I did not have in my younger day. My dad carried a Case brown bone peanut as his daily knife for as long as I could remember. But then dad was a bit different anyways. Being used to Grandad and Uncle Mike, and Uncle Pat, dad was kind of a "grey man" by comparision. Spending my formative years around watermen who used 4 inch stockmen, barlows, and cigar jacks, I wondered at dads devotion to the little peanut. Surely, I thought, he could afford something bigger. It took me many years of my life to learn bigger is not always better. Dad always seemed to get by with his little knife, just as he got by with that old Colt woodsman as his only gun. Dad would pause for a moment, study the situation carefully, and make a cut here, a cut there, and then he was putting the knife away, job finished.
Carefull is a word that comes to my mind when I think of dad. He always studied things carefully before acting. Of the three brothers, dad was the quiet one who never would have alot to say. At least he'd not use three words when two would do as well, unless it was important. I think he was a minimalist at heart, he always seemed to do well with the smallest most easly carried gear. Today I look at his choice of tools, and I can see the logic that eluded me in my youth. The pre-war woodsman is a trim and slightly elegent little gun, with its pencil thin 6 inch barrel. His old peanut is of the same bent. A trim little knife that does disappear in a pocket till needed, but used carefully it gets the job done.
A few years ago I sent dads peanut back to Case, and for a reasonable fee they replaced the half worn main blade. I've been carrying it on occasion here and there, and its a weird thing. In my autum years I've been going back to basics in alot of things, and I find myself having more fun. Slowly I'm becoming my father as I said in another post. Sometimes when I use his little peanut, I pause for a moment and admire the knife. The jigging in the worn bone scales is very faint, and I wonder how many times dad held this knife in his hand contemplaiting some little cutting job. I can almost hear his voice telling me to look before I leap. I remember his after dinner ritual of carefully packing his pipe, and then reaching in the kitchen catch-all drawer and getting his strop out. While he smoked his pipe he would strop his knife on a thin piece of wood that he had glued a thick piece of leather on. He'd strop his knife for a few minutes, then tear a small piece out of his evening paper and slice the newsprint. The peanut would whisper thougth the newspaper.
When I was in the scouts and dad became involved in helping out, he'd go on campouts with us if he was not gone on one of his trips. Durring the course of events, he and Mr. Van became friends and it was not unusual to see them sitting or walking through the campgrounds disgussing something while puffing on their pipes. When it came time to make dinner, dad was right there whittling a hot dog stick, or a ka-bob stick with his peanut. The peanut would slice up the bell peppers and onions and pieces of beef to go on that ka-bob stick. That he impressed Mr. Van made an impression on me. That he tied Mr. Van shooting at Gun Farm with his woodsman impressed Mr. Van. I remember one time I was working at some camp craft for a merit badge, and Mr. Van stopped and looked at me for a spell, and then told me " I hope you appretiate your old man, he'd do to go over the mountain with."
Today, I oened my mail with dads peanut, and opened a UPS box from the tobacco distributor in Tennesse I get my pipe tobacco from. It zipped through envelope and cardboard box as smooth as ever. Could any other knife have done it better?
Too bad its a tragedy of almost Shakespearian proportion that it takes us so long to appretiate some things.
I think I'll go out to the range this afternoon and practice some more with an old .22.
