Cambridge Maryland, 1990.
It was days after the funeral of the old man, and his family were going through his things, figuring what to do with what, and who got dibs on what. His sons had found some old pocket knives down in the bottom of the sock drawer, and were examining them. Some were worn down to sharpened toothpicks, while a few others were in almost new condition. The old man had been an avid hunter and fisherman, and rumored to have been a poacher in his earlier days, in addition to owning a run down country store. The nearby salt marsh was home to a great number of creatures up to deer, and the old man always seemed to have some venison or duck in the freezer.
"Look at these two," said his grandson, pointing to a pair of stag handled pocket knives, He must have really liked these because he kept them for special times carry."
The two knives in question did seem to be in almost new condition. The old carbon blades had only the lightest of patina, and the stag still had the the almost sharp contours on the bark.
"Yeah," said the boys father, the oldest son of the old man. "He sure didn't want to mess them up by carrying them."
With that, the son went to open the main blade of the one knife, a large two bladed jack, and grunted when his thumbnail cracked.
"Wow, the old man must have had strong hands in his day, this knife is a bear to open." He said.
A nephew held up a well worn old stockman with a stag handle worn almost smooth by decades of handling and use. The blades he pulled open without much effort at all were worn down to half their original width, while the stag was an old mellow yellow with age and handling.
"He must have used the heck out this one, must have been his beater knife that he didn't care about." the nephew said. "He didn't seem to mind wearing it out."
The family all agreed, looking at the almost new knives from the bottom of the sock drawer.
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Cambridge Maryland, 1951.
The liars circle was in full meeting on the front porch of the Jenkins Store. A gathering of what the local church ladies called reprobates, loafers, and chicken thieves, they did admit to avoiding any kind of labor if possible. The lead reprobate was a man called Bill Harding, a poacher, illegal trapper, and general hard drinker. Getting by without doing any kind of work, he was the most admired and revered member of the liars circle. His advise was taken as gospel by the other members.
This particular day, Mr. Jenkins, who was the owner and operator of the little ramshackle country store, was sitting on the porch with a pocket knife and a small can of sewing machine oil. He had a rag in his lap, and was industrially working the blade of the knife back and fourth while dropping an bit of oil in the joint.
"What's the trouble with the knife?" asked Bill the trapper.
"Oh, the danged this is so hard to open that it's pure hell to try to open it. I've broken my thumbnail twice on the thing, and I've got to get it loosened up." he told Bill.
There was a moment of quiet on the porch, then another member of the circle spoke up. A tall lean man with vivid green eyes and slightly dangerous air about him, Matt Rankin was a professional poacher. He supplied many of the local restaurants with venison and duck and goose for the high rolling sports that came from Baltimore and Phillidelphia. Matt Rankin never said a lot, but when he did, it payed to listen.
"Know what to do with that knife?" he asked Mr. Jenkins, who looked up from his working the blades.
"No, what?" Jenkins asked, expecting some words of wisdom.
"Well first, close up all the blades and wipe it off real good." Rankin told him. "Make sure there's no oil anywhere on the outside of the knife."
"Then what?" asked Jenkins as Rankin took a long pull on the can of beer in his hand.
Matt Rankin wiped his mouth with the back of a hand and looked calmly at Mr. Jenkins.
"Then you drop it in the bottom of your sock drawer and leave it there. Don't carry it anymore because sooner or later you'll try to open it with wet hands or cold hands or something, and you'll cut yourself real good. Any knife you can't just pull open ain't worth a spit. If you don't want to keep it in your sock drawer, then walk down to the water and chuck it out in the bay as far as you can throw it. "
With that, Matt Rankin took another long pull from the beer then crumpled the can in his fist and tossed it in the trash can at the far side of the porch. Old Bill the trapper watched the accurate toss of the can.
"Good shot!" he said to Rankin.
"I don't miss." said Rankin. Nobody argued that as it was well known on the Eastern shore that Matt Rankin was the best shots in the county. It was rumored that he'd been a sniper during the war, and simply went to work after the war doing what he did best; killing with a rifle.
"I ain't gonna toss an almost new knife in the bay, Matt. I just got it a week ago!" Jenkins told Rankin.
"Well, it's your knife, do what you want with it. But in my experience, knives like that don't get much better with use. If it's sprung too heavy now, it's gonna stay that way for along while. I value my fingers, so I like an easy opening knife."
With that, Matt Rankin walked off the porch to his battered old pickup truck and drove off without another word.
"Where do ya think he's off to?" wondered Billy Calder, a known chicken thief.
"Most likey to kill something or other." replied Bill the trapper.
Much later, Mr. Jenkins was stocking some shelves in the store and took out the the almost new two bladed jack. Trying to pull open the blade, it slipped in his hand, and he fumbled the knife dropping it on top of the box of cans he was trying to open, cutting his right index finger in the process. It was't a bad cut, a bandaid took care of it. But he took the knife to the living quarters over the store and without ceremony dropped the offending knife in his sock drawer, alongside another knife that he didn't carry much because it was so hard to open. He reached in and took out his old stockman, a nice German made Hen and Rooster with easy springs and dropped it in his pocket. He'd carried that knife for a while and liked it, and he thought maybe he'd just leave the jack a bit. "I'll try it again,' he though to himself, but the years went by and the new knife just sat, while he really enjoyed using his stag stockman, which because like a good friend always in his pocket. The hard to open jackknife was never carried again.
It was days after the funeral of the old man, and his family were going through his things, figuring what to do with what, and who got dibs on what. His sons had found some old pocket knives down in the bottom of the sock drawer, and were examining them. Some were worn down to sharpened toothpicks, while a few others were in almost new condition. The old man had been an avid hunter and fisherman, and rumored to have been a poacher in his earlier days, in addition to owning a run down country store. The nearby salt marsh was home to a great number of creatures up to deer, and the old man always seemed to have some venison or duck in the freezer.
"Look at these two," said his grandson, pointing to a pair of stag handled pocket knives, He must have really liked these because he kept them for special times carry."
The two knives in question did seem to be in almost new condition. The old carbon blades had only the lightest of patina, and the stag still had the the almost sharp contours on the bark.
"Yeah," said the boys father, the oldest son of the old man. "He sure didn't want to mess them up by carrying them."
With that, the son went to open the main blade of the one knife, a large two bladed jack, and grunted when his thumbnail cracked.
"Wow, the old man must have had strong hands in his day, this knife is a bear to open." He said.
A nephew held up a well worn old stockman with a stag handle worn almost smooth by decades of handling and use. The blades he pulled open without much effort at all were worn down to half their original width, while the stag was an old mellow yellow with age and handling.
"He must have used the heck out this one, must have been his beater knife that he didn't care about." the nephew said. "He didn't seem to mind wearing it out."
The family all agreed, looking at the almost new knives from the bottom of the sock drawer.
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Cambridge Maryland, 1951.
The liars circle was in full meeting on the front porch of the Jenkins Store. A gathering of what the local church ladies called reprobates, loafers, and chicken thieves, they did admit to avoiding any kind of labor if possible. The lead reprobate was a man called Bill Harding, a poacher, illegal trapper, and general hard drinker. Getting by without doing any kind of work, he was the most admired and revered member of the liars circle. His advise was taken as gospel by the other members.
This particular day, Mr. Jenkins, who was the owner and operator of the little ramshackle country store, was sitting on the porch with a pocket knife and a small can of sewing machine oil. He had a rag in his lap, and was industrially working the blade of the knife back and fourth while dropping an bit of oil in the joint.
"What's the trouble with the knife?" asked Bill the trapper.
"Oh, the danged this is so hard to open that it's pure hell to try to open it. I've broken my thumbnail twice on the thing, and I've got to get it loosened up." he told Bill.
There was a moment of quiet on the porch, then another member of the circle spoke up. A tall lean man with vivid green eyes and slightly dangerous air about him, Matt Rankin was a professional poacher. He supplied many of the local restaurants with venison and duck and goose for the high rolling sports that came from Baltimore and Phillidelphia. Matt Rankin never said a lot, but when he did, it payed to listen.
"Know what to do with that knife?" he asked Mr. Jenkins, who looked up from his working the blades.
"No, what?" Jenkins asked, expecting some words of wisdom.
"Well first, close up all the blades and wipe it off real good." Rankin told him. "Make sure there's no oil anywhere on the outside of the knife."
"Then what?" asked Jenkins as Rankin took a long pull on the can of beer in his hand.
Matt Rankin wiped his mouth with the back of a hand and looked calmly at Mr. Jenkins.
"Then you drop it in the bottom of your sock drawer and leave it there. Don't carry it anymore because sooner or later you'll try to open it with wet hands or cold hands or something, and you'll cut yourself real good. Any knife you can't just pull open ain't worth a spit. If you don't want to keep it in your sock drawer, then walk down to the water and chuck it out in the bay as far as you can throw it. "
With that, Matt Rankin took another long pull from the beer then crumpled the can in his fist and tossed it in the trash can at the far side of the porch. Old Bill the trapper watched the accurate toss of the can.
"Good shot!" he said to Rankin.
"I don't miss." said Rankin. Nobody argued that as it was well known on the Eastern shore that Matt Rankin was the best shots in the county. It was rumored that he'd been a sniper during the war, and simply went to work after the war doing what he did best; killing with a rifle.
"I ain't gonna toss an almost new knife in the bay, Matt. I just got it a week ago!" Jenkins told Rankin.
"Well, it's your knife, do what you want with it. But in my experience, knives like that don't get much better with use. If it's sprung too heavy now, it's gonna stay that way for along while. I value my fingers, so I like an easy opening knife."
With that, Matt Rankin walked off the porch to his battered old pickup truck and drove off without another word.
"Where do ya think he's off to?" wondered Billy Calder, a known chicken thief.
"Most likey to kill something or other." replied Bill the trapper.
Much later, Mr. Jenkins was stocking some shelves in the store and took out the the almost new two bladed jack. Trying to pull open the blade, it slipped in his hand, and he fumbled the knife dropping it on top of the box of cans he was trying to open, cutting his right index finger in the process. It was't a bad cut, a bandaid took care of it. But he took the knife to the living quarters over the store and without ceremony dropped the offending knife in his sock drawer, alongside another knife that he didn't carry much because it was so hard to open. He reached in and took out his old stockman, a nice German made Hen and Rooster with easy springs and dropped it in his pocket. He'd carried that knife for a while and liked it, and he thought maybe he'd just leave the jack a bit. "I'll try it again,' he though to himself, but the years went by and the new knife just sat, while he really enjoyed using his stag stockman, which because like a good friend always in his pocket. The hard to open jackknife was never carried again.
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) and the theory behind it; thanks, Carl! :thumbup:
:thumbup:
