After a dirty night of rain storms, today turned into a glorious but windy chilly day, and I just wanted to be out in it. So far the winter here has been unusually mild, and I have the feeling mother nature is setting us up for a good sucker punch, so I'm going to enjoy every bit of sunny mild weather I can. I went shooting.
It was such a gorgous day I took the dog along for a walk in the woods after. While I put some rounds through the old .22 the pup waited in the car and afterward we took a stroll around the Izaak Walton League property. Theres a thick stand of pine trees uphill from the range area and we headed that way. I've always loved the sound of wind in the pines, that light rushing noise is like music to me. The dog, a Cardigan Welsh Corgi named Tri-creeks Miss Pearl Divine, but known to us as Pearl the wonder corgi, loves the woods. She thinks it's her holy mission in life to keep all the squrrels up the trees, because you never know what evil may happen if too many of them get on the ground at once. So while Pearl went about her duties as squrrel guard, I found a dry log to sit on and took out a knife to whittle a bit, maybe practice making a fuzz stick.
Recently I've been going to the cigar box. This is the cigar box of pocket knives of passed away family, friends, and such. For some reason I've been a bit nostalgic of late, and this morning I took out my Uncle Pat's old Imperial cigar jack. It was one of his last pocket knives, he had others but sometimes lost them when he was drunk. Once grandad gave him a nice stag handle stockman, but later found out Uncle Pat had traded it off for a pint of whiskey. Poor uncle Pat was a hopeless alcholic, but a lovable guy. He fought against the disease for most of his life, and had periods of sobriety, but not for long.
Pearl was well occupied looking up the trees, watching for a squirrel, so I carved on a piece of dry wood. The old Imperial had a wide carbon steel blade, like most equal end cigar patterns, and I had touched it up only that morning. It was a pleasure to feel it cut and watch the long curl of wood wind up on itself like a clock spring. The wide flat ground grey blade took a very sharp edge, and the patina looked good with the white fake ivory scales. The knife reeked of 1950's style. I used to be good at boy scouts skills like making fuzz sticks so I kept at it while Pearl the wonder corgi kept the evil squirrels at bay.
With the mild sunshine beaming in and the wind rushing in the pines, I was in no hurry, so I carved slowly, creating a mess of tight curls sticking up from the wood. I remembered Uncle Pat, and how he would connive for a drink. While carving with his old knife I thought about how he had got me to contribute to the I.R.A. on my 18th birthday.
Grandad had taken his family away from Ireland in the mid-1920's after the assaination of Micheal Collins. From the dark whispering of the family I had gathered that he and some others had taken part of the "troubles" in the aftermath of the 1916 easter uprising. For some reason growing disgruntled with both the cause and the Catholic church he emigrated to America and the eastern shore of Maryland where some of his family had emigrated to years before. Grandad had grown up working the boats out of both Sligo and Donegal in the cod fishing industry out on the waters of the North Atantic. There were rummors of smuggleing for the cause in those days, and it was natural for grandad to stay on the water to make a living.
Pearl let out a woof, and I looked up to see a misguided squirrel had tried to come down but the mighty corgi had done her job, and I told her she was a good girl, keep it up, and I went back to making the fuzz stick. I felt the edge of the Imperial and it was sharp as I could wish.
When I had turned 18, and was old enough to leagally drink, Uncle Pat took me out to buy me my first leagal beer. He'd been living up in Washington D.C. with us as he had not been able to get another job on the boats out of Cambrdge. Dad took him in and found him a job at the Main avenue marina, and crossed our fingers. There was an Irish bar on 14th and Colorado in those days called Gafneys. It was no turist Irish bar like Matt Kanes, or even the Dubliner. This was a little hole in the wall place. low ceilinged and smokey, with rough clad men sitting with pints of dark stout. They seemed to know Uncle Pat, and he called out the typical Irish greeting "God bless all here!" and was greeted by name. We had a seat at the bar and Uncle Pat told the bartender to get us a couple of porters to toast my birthday.
Another woof made me look up and Pearl had moved on to another tree, her thick black tail with the white tip waved back and forth. She was enjoying herself so I kept on with my fuzz stick and thought back to Uncle Pat.
The bartender had put down our beers and Uncle Pat gave him a couple bills and when the bartender came back with the change, Uncle Pat told him it was for the lads. The bartender was cheerfull and told us the lads thank us, and he puts the change in a pickle jar on the end of the bar. I wondered at that but kept my silence and sipped the smooth brew with gusto. Uncle Pat and I talked and by and by our glasses need filling. The bartender comes back and Uncle Pat tells me its my turn to buy. Okay, I tell the bartender to get us another couple of porters, feeling very grown up. The beer comes and while the change is being brought, Uncle Pat tells me "When he comes back, tell him its for the lads." Having faith in my Uncle Pat I do as he bids and the bartender again tells us "Thank you sir, the lads are gratefull"
By now I'm curious about the big pickle jar half full of money and as I watch, others in the bar are sending thier change to it as well. Finally I can hold my quiet no longer. "Uncle Pat, whats the pickle jar for?"
He looks at me with surprise and tells me " Why its for the lads of course!"
I ask him what are and who are "the lads". This is when he tells me that all the money collected from change goes to the I.R.A. I think about that for a minute, and in my minds eye I see a senerio repeated in smokey Irish bars all over Washington, New York, Boston. All the pickle jars being collected and all that money going for "the cause" as they put it. I was agast. All that money was going to buy guns in America and smuggled to Ireland, and I had just contributed! I could imagine the heavy hand of some Brit cop on my shoulder, even though I was in Washington D.C. I wondered for a moment what it would be like to have some white whigged British judge looking down at me " You James Devlin, on January 2d, 1958 did contribute 2 dollars and 47 cents to the I.R.A.! Take him away" Of course I'd have to plead my Uncle Pat tricked me into it.
Pearl came over and nosed me, so I gave her a pat on the head telling her she's kept the forest safe again. I was done with the fuzz stick, and it had come out perfect. A miniature Christmas tree of tight curls of wood. I set it on the log and stropped the old imperial on my jeans and felt the edge, still razer sharp. It had never been that sharp when Uncle Pat had it, but it had honed up nice. I looked at the worn white imitation ivory scales, and wondered how uncle Pat had kept this one. He had lost or traded off most of the other pocket knives he had owned. It must have been special to him for it to have stayed with him.
Me and the pup walked back to the truck to head home and to put Uncle Pats imperial back in the cigar box.
It was such a gorgous day I took the dog along for a walk in the woods after. While I put some rounds through the old .22 the pup waited in the car and afterward we took a stroll around the Izaak Walton League property. Theres a thick stand of pine trees uphill from the range area and we headed that way. I've always loved the sound of wind in the pines, that light rushing noise is like music to me. The dog, a Cardigan Welsh Corgi named Tri-creeks Miss Pearl Divine, but known to us as Pearl the wonder corgi, loves the woods. She thinks it's her holy mission in life to keep all the squrrels up the trees, because you never know what evil may happen if too many of them get on the ground at once. So while Pearl went about her duties as squrrel guard, I found a dry log to sit on and took out a knife to whittle a bit, maybe practice making a fuzz stick.
Recently I've been going to the cigar box. This is the cigar box of pocket knives of passed away family, friends, and such. For some reason I've been a bit nostalgic of late, and this morning I took out my Uncle Pat's old Imperial cigar jack. It was one of his last pocket knives, he had others but sometimes lost them when he was drunk. Once grandad gave him a nice stag handle stockman, but later found out Uncle Pat had traded it off for a pint of whiskey. Poor uncle Pat was a hopeless alcholic, but a lovable guy. He fought against the disease for most of his life, and had periods of sobriety, but not for long.
Pearl was well occupied looking up the trees, watching for a squirrel, so I carved on a piece of dry wood. The old Imperial had a wide carbon steel blade, like most equal end cigar patterns, and I had touched it up only that morning. It was a pleasure to feel it cut and watch the long curl of wood wind up on itself like a clock spring. The wide flat ground grey blade took a very sharp edge, and the patina looked good with the white fake ivory scales. The knife reeked of 1950's style. I used to be good at boy scouts skills like making fuzz sticks so I kept at it while Pearl the wonder corgi kept the evil squirrels at bay.
With the mild sunshine beaming in and the wind rushing in the pines, I was in no hurry, so I carved slowly, creating a mess of tight curls sticking up from the wood. I remembered Uncle Pat, and how he would connive for a drink. While carving with his old knife I thought about how he had got me to contribute to the I.R.A. on my 18th birthday.
Grandad had taken his family away from Ireland in the mid-1920's after the assaination of Micheal Collins. From the dark whispering of the family I had gathered that he and some others had taken part of the "troubles" in the aftermath of the 1916 easter uprising. For some reason growing disgruntled with both the cause and the Catholic church he emigrated to America and the eastern shore of Maryland where some of his family had emigrated to years before. Grandad had grown up working the boats out of both Sligo and Donegal in the cod fishing industry out on the waters of the North Atantic. There were rummors of smuggleing for the cause in those days, and it was natural for grandad to stay on the water to make a living.
Pearl let out a woof, and I looked up to see a misguided squirrel had tried to come down but the mighty corgi had done her job, and I told her she was a good girl, keep it up, and I went back to making the fuzz stick. I felt the edge of the Imperial and it was sharp as I could wish.
When I had turned 18, and was old enough to leagally drink, Uncle Pat took me out to buy me my first leagal beer. He'd been living up in Washington D.C. with us as he had not been able to get another job on the boats out of Cambrdge. Dad took him in and found him a job at the Main avenue marina, and crossed our fingers. There was an Irish bar on 14th and Colorado in those days called Gafneys. It was no turist Irish bar like Matt Kanes, or even the Dubliner. This was a little hole in the wall place. low ceilinged and smokey, with rough clad men sitting with pints of dark stout. They seemed to know Uncle Pat, and he called out the typical Irish greeting "God bless all here!" and was greeted by name. We had a seat at the bar and Uncle Pat told the bartender to get us a couple of porters to toast my birthday.
Another woof made me look up and Pearl had moved on to another tree, her thick black tail with the white tip waved back and forth. She was enjoying herself so I kept on with my fuzz stick and thought back to Uncle Pat.
The bartender had put down our beers and Uncle Pat gave him a couple bills and when the bartender came back with the change, Uncle Pat told him it was for the lads. The bartender was cheerfull and told us the lads thank us, and he puts the change in a pickle jar on the end of the bar. I wondered at that but kept my silence and sipped the smooth brew with gusto. Uncle Pat and I talked and by and by our glasses need filling. The bartender comes back and Uncle Pat tells me its my turn to buy. Okay, I tell the bartender to get us another couple of porters, feeling very grown up. The beer comes and while the change is being brought, Uncle Pat tells me "When he comes back, tell him its for the lads." Having faith in my Uncle Pat I do as he bids and the bartender again tells us "Thank you sir, the lads are gratefull"
By now I'm curious about the big pickle jar half full of money and as I watch, others in the bar are sending thier change to it as well. Finally I can hold my quiet no longer. "Uncle Pat, whats the pickle jar for?"
He looks at me with surprise and tells me " Why its for the lads of course!"
I ask him what are and who are "the lads". This is when he tells me that all the money collected from change goes to the I.R.A. I think about that for a minute, and in my minds eye I see a senerio repeated in smokey Irish bars all over Washington, New York, Boston. All the pickle jars being collected and all that money going for "the cause" as they put it. I was agast. All that money was going to buy guns in America and smuggled to Ireland, and I had just contributed! I could imagine the heavy hand of some Brit cop on my shoulder, even though I was in Washington D.C. I wondered for a moment what it would be like to have some white whigged British judge looking down at me " You James Devlin, on January 2d, 1958 did contribute 2 dollars and 47 cents to the I.R.A.! Take him away" Of course I'd have to plead my Uncle Pat tricked me into it.
Pearl came over and nosed me, so I gave her a pat on the head telling her she's kept the forest safe again. I was done with the fuzz stick, and it had come out perfect. A miniature Christmas tree of tight curls of wood. I set it on the log and stropped the old imperial on my jeans and felt the edge, still razer sharp. It had never been that sharp when Uncle Pat had it, but it had honed up nice. I looked at the worn white imitation ivory scales, and wondered how uncle Pat had kept this one. He had lost or traded off most of the other pocket knives he had owned. It must have been special to him for it to have stayed with him.
Me and the pup walked back to the truck to head home and to put Uncle Pats imperial back in the cigar box.
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