He didn't start off to be a suit. In fact, as a boy he was a most casual dresser, much preferring jeans and khaki's to dress clothes. But life has a way of changing things. Early on, his teachers in school noticed his natural talent with numbers. His math skills were almost savant like, and complex problems were fun for his well ordered mind. But it was the time after school that he spent with his grandfather that gave him the most pleasure out of life. The old man loved to fish and meander the woods with his old .22 rifle in search of squirrel for his favorite dish; Brunswick stew. Very often, he'd take the boy with him, and the afternoon was a different kind of school. The old man taught the boy to study the tracks left in the soft ground, and watch for the fragments of chewed open nutshells on the ground under the trees. When a squirrel sought safety by hiding on the other side of the tree, the old man showed the boy how to toss his hat around the other side to spook the squirrel around where the old .22 rifle would bark, and reap meat for the pot. The boy cherished the time spent with the old man, but boyhood has a way of evaporating like the morning mist.
The boy grew up, and after college got a well paying job with a think tank, crunching the numbers in surveys and studies of all types. He advanced quickly, and in time got the corner office, the nice condo on an upper floor, and a wife and son. His closet was filled with three piece suits. But he still carried the knife. His grandfathers 'pen knife' as the old man had called it, even though it was really a small jack. Most people who saw it, took little note of it, small as it was it was low profile and only drew comments like 'My, what a cute little pen knife' or ' Boy, that looks like an old time knife.' And it was old time. The old man had taken great care of the little knife, using it gently, honing the pointy blade carefully. It was still as razor sharp as it had been when the old man carried it, even though the blade was a little thinner, and the jigged bone handles were worn smooth with the handling of many years. But in the office environment the young man worked, there was little call for much knife. Once in a while he sliced open a ream of paper, carefully removed a staple from a sheaf of papers, opened his mail. But the young man had a vague feeling of disquiet when he used the little knife. Even though he was living the good life of an executive in the big city, he'd look down at the knife and remember his grandfather, and their hunts together, or the peace of a shady bank on the river and the feel of a fish on the line, and the smell of woodsmoke. One day, his son asked him why he carried a knife, and he knew then he'd been away from his duties as a father too long. Too many late nights, and six day work weeks for the firm.
One day, he left work, and while riding the metro train home to his stop, he made the decision. Getting off, he walked down the street to a sporting goods store and made some purchases. At his building, he stashed his goods in the trunk of the BMW coupe in the underground parking garage, and went up to his home. The next morning, he told his son that he wasn't going to school that day, and that they would have a different kind of school day. His wife packed a picnic basket, and they drove out of the city, north to his old town up on the river. He found a spot he remembered from the many years before, and they set up by the huge old sycamore tree over hanging the river bank. There, the water was deep and still, and he and his son dropped the lines in the water.
"What do we do now, dad?" the boy asked.
"Well, we're gonna practice doing nothing while we do something important." the man told his son.
"What's that?" the boy asked.
"You keep one eye on that bobber, and while you wait for a fish to bite, you study the way the sun reflects on the water, the way those nice big white clouds move by up there, and maybe listen to the world going on around you. You listen to the sound the breeze makes in the trees over us, and the little noises the critters make. There's life going on out here, just like in the city. We watch, and listen, and if we're lucky we'll learn from it."
So the man and his son sat and watched, and they talked about many things. The man told his son about the things his grandfather had taught him, then the red and white bobber on the line moved. At first it was just a little dip, and the man told his son to wait, then the bobber dipped under the water.
"Now son, pull-up and set the hook. Yes, you've got him, haul him in!"
A silvery flash, and a nice fat yellow perch landed on the bank when the boy pulled up on the cane pole.
"Well, now we have some fish to go with what your mother packed for lunch. Gather some some nice dry sticks and I'll show you how to clean and cook it."
"We're gonna do that right here and now?" his son asked.
"We eat what we harvest, boy. "
A small campfire was laid, and the man laid the fish on a nearby log. He opened the little pocket knife and handed it it the boy.
"Now be careful, it's very sharp and will open up your finger to the bone if you get careless. " he told the boy.
Under close supervision, the boy put the point of the main blade under the jaw, and carefully cut back. The thin sharp blade went right through the fish belly, and the fish was cleaned and prepared for cooking. The fish was roasted over the coals, and the white meat flaked off easy. It went well with the hot dogs also roasted over the coals, and the boy now knew how to cut the proper hot dog stick. Cutting through the green wood, the thin blade went through like the wood it was warm butter. The boy was careful to cut away from himself like his father had shown him. Later, the boy was admiring the little knife, his fingers lightly tracing the outlines of the jigging left in the bone scales. The short boxy handle of the knife fit the boys hand well.
"Dad, when can I have a knife?"
The father studied his son carefully.
"I think maybe soon. We'll talk about it." he told the boy.
In late afternoon, they packed up and while the boy was tossing stones into the river, the man stood with his wife by the parked BMW, looking out over the peaceful scene. He was unusually quiet.
" Are you okay?" his wife asked, "You seem lost in deep thought."
He looked at his wife and simply said, "I want to go home. I don't want him growing up in the city."
HIs wife raised her eyebrows in surprise, but didn't raise any objections.
"Okay." was all she said.
So the condo in the city was sold, and the family moved to a home in the old town on the river. The man quit his job in the city and became a math teacher at the local high school. The boy went to a school bicycle distance from the house, and went meandering the old woods with his father, learning about the makings of Brunswick stew. The day came that they went to the old hardware store in town that had been there forever. There, they found a large display of Case pocket knives. The boy looked in wonder at all the different patterns.
"Wow, that's a lot of jackknives." he said to the store owner, a white haired old man with Ben Franklin reading glasses down on his nose.
"Yep, theres all kinds of jackknives. There's barlow's, Texas jacks, dog leg jacks, and whatever you want. Do you have a particular one in mind?" the storekeeper asked the boy.
The boy looked up at his father.
"What kind is yours, that great granddad carried?" he asked
HIs father smiled.
"That's one of the best ones. It's a peanut. Granddad got a lot of milage out of that little knife!" the father said as he took out the small jack from his pocket and held it up.
The old store keeper got a strange look on his face as he looked at the small serpentine jack.
"Ya now, I once knew man who carried a knife like that. One of the best squirrel hunters I ever knew, and the best shot with an old Marlin .22 rifle that I ever saw. His name was…"
"Hank Dickerson." the boys father said.
The old storekeeper looked at the man, studying him carefully.
"Mister, you look familiar. Like I've…" he paused. "My lord, your Hank's grand son! I thought you moved away down to the city."
"I did, but I came home. I missed this place."
The storekeeper held out his hand.
"Welcome home, son. "
The boy grew up, and after college got a well paying job with a think tank, crunching the numbers in surveys and studies of all types. He advanced quickly, and in time got the corner office, the nice condo on an upper floor, and a wife and son. His closet was filled with three piece suits. But he still carried the knife. His grandfathers 'pen knife' as the old man had called it, even though it was really a small jack. Most people who saw it, took little note of it, small as it was it was low profile and only drew comments like 'My, what a cute little pen knife' or ' Boy, that looks like an old time knife.' And it was old time. The old man had taken great care of the little knife, using it gently, honing the pointy blade carefully. It was still as razor sharp as it had been when the old man carried it, even though the blade was a little thinner, and the jigged bone handles were worn smooth with the handling of many years. But in the office environment the young man worked, there was little call for much knife. Once in a while he sliced open a ream of paper, carefully removed a staple from a sheaf of papers, opened his mail. But the young man had a vague feeling of disquiet when he used the little knife. Even though he was living the good life of an executive in the big city, he'd look down at the knife and remember his grandfather, and their hunts together, or the peace of a shady bank on the river and the feel of a fish on the line, and the smell of woodsmoke. One day, his son asked him why he carried a knife, and he knew then he'd been away from his duties as a father too long. Too many late nights, and six day work weeks for the firm.
One day, he left work, and while riding the metro train home to his stop, he made the decision. Getting off, he walked down the street to a sporting goods store and made some purchases. At his building, he stashed his goods in the trunk of the BMW coupe in the underground parking garage, and went up to his home. The next morning, he told his son that he wasn't going to school that day, and that they would have a different kind of school day. His wife packed a picnic basket, and they drove out of the city, north to his old town up on the river. He found a spot he remembered from the many years before, and they set up by the huge old sycamore tree over hanging the river bank. There, the water was deep and still, and he and his son dropped the lines in the water.
"What do we do now, dad?" the boy asked.
"Well, we're gonna practice doing nothing while we do something important." the man told his son.
"What's that?" the boy asked.
"You keep one eye on that bobber, and while you wait for a fish to bite, you study the way the sun reflects on the water, the way those nice big white clouds move by up there, and maybe listen to the world going on around you. You listen to the sound the breeze makes in the trees over us, and the little noises the critters make. There's life going on out here, just like in the city. We watch, and listen, and if we're lucky we'll learn from it."
So the man and his son sat and watched, and they talked about many things. The man told his son about the things his grandfather had taught him, then the red and white bobber on the line moved. At first it was just a little dip, and the man told his son to wait, then the bobber dipped under the water.
"Now son, pull-up and set the hook. Yes, you've got him, haul him in!"
A silvery flash, and a nice fat yellow perch landed on the bank when the boy pulled up on the cane pole.
"Well, now we have some fish to go with what your mother packed for lunch. Gather some some nice dry sticks and I'll show you how to clean and cook it."
"We're gonna do that right here and now?" his son asked.
"We eat what we harvest, boy. "
A small campfire was laid, and the man laid the fish on a nearby log. He opened the little pocket knife and handed it it the boy.
"Now be careful, it's very sharp and will open up your finger to the bone if you get careless. " he told the boy.
Under close supervision, the boy put the point of the main blade under the jaw, and carefully cut back. The thin sharp blade went right through the fish belly, and the fish was cleaned and prepared for cooking. The fish was roasted over the coals, and the white meat flaked off easy. It went well with the hot dogs also roasted over the coals, and the boy now knew how to cut the proper hot dog stick. Cutting through the green wood, the thin blade went through like the wood it was warm butter. The boy was careful to cut away from himself like his father had shown him. Later, the boy was admiring the little knife, his fingers lightly tracing the outlines of the jigging left in the bone scales. The short boxy handle of the knife fit the boys hand well.
"Dad, when can I have a knife?"
The father studied his son carefully.
"I think maybe soon. We'll talk about it." he told the boy.
In late afternoon, they packed up and while the boy was tossing stones into the river, the man stood with his wife by the parked BMW, looking out over the peaceful scene. He was unusually quiet.
" Are you okay?" his wife asked, "You seem lost in deep thought."
He looked at his wife and simply said, "I want to go home. I don't want him growing up in the city."
HIs wife raised her eyebrows in surprise, but didn't raise any objections.
"Okay." was all she said.
So the condo in the city was sold, and the family moved to a home in the old town on the river. The man quit his job in the city and became a math teacher at the local high school. The boy went to a school bicycle distance from the house, and went meandering the old woods with his father, learning about the makings of Brunswick stew. The day came that they went to the old hardware store in town that had been there forever. There, they found a large display of Case pocket knives. The boy looked in wonder at all the different patterns.
"Wow, that's a lot of jackknives." he said to the store owner, a white haired old man with Ben Franklin reading glasses down on his nose.
"Yep, theres all kinds of jackknives. There's barlow's, Texas jacks, dog leg jacks, and whatever you want. Do you have a particular one in mind?" the storekeeper asked the boy.
The boy looked up at his father.
"What kind is yours, that great granddad carried?" he asked
HIs father smiled.
"That's one of the best ones. It's a peanut. Granddad got a lot of milage out of that little knife!" the father said as he took out the small jack from his pocket and held it up.
The old store keeper got a strange look on his face as he looked at the small serpentine jack.
"Ya now, I once knew man who carried a knife like that. One of the best squirrel hunters I ever knew, and the best shot with an old Marlin .22 rifle that I ever saw. His name was…"
"Hank Dickerson." the boys father said.
The old storekeeper looked at the man, studying him carefully.
"Mister, you look familiar. Like I've…" he paused. "My lord, your Hank's grand son! I thought you moved away down to the city."
"I did, but I came home. I missed this place."
The storekeeper held out his hand.
"Welcome home, son. "
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