Long I have pondered just where my DNA gene came from that gave me our "afliction" of uncontrolable knife accumulation. I know it was not from either of my parents, as my dad was very frugal and conservitive by nature. In 1938 his mother gave him a peanut as a gift as he was being sent off to be the first one in his family to go to college. Grandmom felt a smaller pocket knife was more in line with his new life as an academic person. Dad carried it instead of his old knife as he did not want to hurt his mothers feelings, and as he told me, once he carried it a while, he found he liked the smaller knife that did most of what he needed, but did not weight down his pocket. Since he had a pocket knife, he did not feel a need for another.
Most of my other family members were the same. Grandad had his one pocket knife he'd carry, Uncle Mike had the stockman he got from the Navy in 1944, and never carried any other knife till his passing. The more I think about where my knife knut genes must have come from, I can only blame my Uncle Paul.
Uncle Paul was my mothers oldest brother in a family with 5 siblings. All the times I ever saw him he had at least two or three pocket knives on him. Like most familys that came from the old country, mom's family came in through Ellis Island, and for a time lived in the poor section of New York called Hell's Kitchen. Like most immigrants, soon as they saved some money they got out of town, moving across to New Jersey and ending up down the coast in Maryland. My uncle Paul however never made it past New Jersey, where he got a job at the Wright aircraft plant in Patterson. He lived his whole life there untill he retired to Florida, and as it was only about 4 hours away by car, he'd come to visit now and then. I always looked forward to these visits as alot of time I would get a new knife.
On his arrival I'd watch him like a hawk, eager for the first knife sighting of the visit. Uncle Paul was a bonafide knife knut, and he could not sit long before fiddling with one. Sharpen a toothpick after lunch, whittle on a twig while sitting on the back porch with dad, scrape out the bowl of his pipe, or like a doodler unable to keep his hands still, he'd whittle. One time he carved a little horse out of a piece of wood for my sister Anne.
He allways carried a small two blade jack about the size of a peanut. Sometimes it would be a peanut, but other times some sort of small serpentine jack, and even advertising knives. It seemed like evey visit he had a different one. He was a forman in the machine shop where he worked, and he must have had alot of salesmen contacts. One time he had a nice little teardrop jack with white plastic-pearl handles that had the logo in red ink from TRW taps and dies. Another time he had a little jack that had the Starret brand and the logo "When it has to be exact." He carried alot of those little advertising knives, and he used them as his dirty deeds knife. Things like scraping the bowl of his beat up Doctor Graybow pipe, or stripping wire on a repair of something. Often when he left, he's slip me one of the little plastic pearl handle advertising knives. I'd treasure it and keep it sharp and use it for all manner of whittling. I do remember most of them actually had thin carbon blades that cut well, surprisingly enough.
He's pair up knives. He'd carry a real nice knife like something from Sheffield or Solingen with real pearl or bone handles for some cutting chores, then he'd have a cheapie Colonial or Imperial with cracked ice celluloid handles that were cracking up, for more mundane things. He even had a spare knife in his tobacco pouch. Along with a small piece of a Norton brown India stone. I remember him telling me that one advantage to small knives is that he could carry more of them, for different uses. I don't think he ever carried a knife over 3 inches closed, with most under. Being a machinist, he did everything with a deliberate thought out plan. He never cut anything without looking carefully at what he was doing. He was alot like my dad, and I think that was the basis of the friendship. They were both the quiet introverts of thier family, and were very deliberate persons. Thier long conversations on the back porch was something to be listened to as carefully as the liers circle for gems of knowledge. One time we went fishing out on the bay and came home with some Rockfish. Dad was going to lend Uncle Paul his boning knife that he used, but Uncle Paul declined and used one of his little pocket knives. It unzipped the fishbelly and gutted the rockfish as neat as a surgeons scalple. He kept those little knives sharp.
He and Aunt Betty never had any kids for reasons unkown. But they traveled on these long epic journeys in the old Studebaker Champ. Dad would be agast at the trip they were going on, and would offer and then plead with them to take his Pontiac. Uncle Paul would just scoff it off saying in his New Jersey accent "Aww, it'll be fine." And it usually was. Uncle Paul was one of those old guys we talk about here that seemed to be able to fix anything. He carried a tool kit in the trunk of his Studdie and if it broke down, he always manged to fix it up and get on the road again. A few open and box end wrenches, a screwdriver and a ball peen hammer, and he seemed to be able to fix anything. We'd get postcards and short letters from the Mayan ruins in Mexico to the winter quarters of the Lewis and Clark expedition in Astoria Oregon. I always had this image in my minds eye, of Uncle Paul and Aunt Betty broke down some far off place with Paul under the hood. Aunt Betty would be asking if it could be fixed and Uncle Paul answering her with "Aww sure, it's gonna be fine." And it was.
My Uncle Paul was a real 100% bonfide knife knut. I must have got the genes from my moms side of the family.
Most of my other family members were the same. Grandad had his one pocket knife he'd carry, Uncle Mike had the stockman he got from the Navy in 1944, and never carried any other knife till his passing. The more I think about where my knife knut genes must have come from, I can only blame my Uncle Paul.
Uncle Paul was my mothers oldest brother in a family with 5 siblings. All the times I ever saw him he had at least two or three pocket knives on him. Like most familys that came from the old country, mom's family came in through Ellis Island, and for a time lived in the poor section of New York called Hell's Kitchen. Like most immigrants, soon as they saved some money they got out of town, moving across to New Jersey and ending up down the coast in Maryland. My uncle Paul however never made it past New Jersey, where he got a job at the Wright aircraft plant in Patterson. He lived his whole life there untill he retired to Florida, and as it was only about 4 hours away by car, he'd come to visit now and then. I always looked forward to these visits as alot of time I would get a new knife.
On his arrival I'd watch him like a hawk, eager for the first knife sighting of the visit. Uncle Paul was a bonafide knife knut, and he could not sit long before fiddling with one. Sharpen a toothpick after lunch, whittle on a twig while sitting on the back porch with dad, scrape out the bowl of his pipe, or like a doodler unable to keep his hands still, he'd whittle. One time he carved a little horse out of a piece of wood for my sister Anne.
He allways carried a small two blade jack about the size of a peanut. Sometimes it would be a peanut, but other times some sort of small serpentine jack, and even advertising knives. It seemed like evey visit he had a different one. He was a forman in the machine shop where he worked, and he must have had alot of salesmen contacts. One time he had a nice little teardrop jack with white plastic-pearl handles that had the logo in red ink from TRW taps and dies. Another time he had a little jack that had the Starret brand and the logo "When it has to be exact." He carried alot of those little advertising knives, and he used them as his dirty deeds knife. Things like scraping the bowl of his beat up Doctor Graybow pipe, or stripping wire on a repair of something. Often when he left, he's slip me one of the little plastic pearl handle advertising knives. I'd treasure it and keep it sharp and use it for all manner of whittling. I do remember most of them actually had thin carbon blades that cut well, surprisingly enough.
He's pair up knives. He'd carry a real nice knife like something from Sheffield or Solingen with real pearl or bone handles for some cutting chores, then he'd have a cheapie Colonial or Imperial with cracked ice celluloid handles that were cracking up, for more mundane things. He even had a spare knife in his tobacco pouch. Along with a small piece of a Norton brown India stone. I remember him telling me that one advantage to small knives is that he could carry more of them, for different uses. I don't think he ever carried a knife over 3 inches closed, with most under. Being a machinist, he did everything with a deliberate thought out plan. He never cut anything without looking carefully at what he was doing. He was alot like my dad, and I think that was the basis of the friendship. They were both the quiet introverts of thier family, and were very deliberate persons. Thier long conversations on the back porch was something to be listened to as carefully as the liers circle for gems of knowledge. One time we went fishing out on the bay and came home with some Rockfish. Dad was going to lend Uncle Paul his boning knife that he used, but Uncle Paul declined and used one of his little pocket knives. It unzipped the fishbelly and gutted the rockfish as neat as a surgeons scalple. He kept those little knives sharp.
He and Aunt Betty never had any kids for reasons unkown. But they traveled on these long epic journeys in the old Studebaker Champ. Dad would be agast at the trip they were going on, and would offer and then plead with them to take his Pontiac. Uncle Paul would just scoff it off saying in his New Jersey accent "Aww, it'll be fine." And it usually was. Uncle Paul was one of those old guys we talk about here that seemed to be able to fix anything. He carried a tool kit in the trunk of his Studdie and if it broke down, he always manged to fix it up and get on the road again. A few open and box end wrenches, a screwdriver and a ball peen hammer, and he seemed to be able to fix anything. We'd get postcards and short letters from the Mayan ruins in Mexico to the winter quarters of the Lewis and Clark expedition in Astoria Oregon. I always had this image in my minds eye, of Uncle Paul and Aunt Betty broke down some far off place with Paul under the hood. Aunt Betty would be asking if it could be fixed and Uncle Paul answering her with "Aww sure, it's gonna be fine." And it was.
My Uncle Paul was a real 100% bonfide knife knut. I must have got the genes from my moms side of the family.
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