I was wondering about how many of us are attracted to a certain style of knife. Harness jacks, barlow's, stockmen, peanuts, or any other brand or type that draws you over another style of knife? And is it because a family member or mentor was an important factor in your choice of knife?
I have no doubt that in my case, (no pun intended, really!) my own end has been influenced by memories of my father. It's a weird thing, but when he was alive, I didn't even think of carrying a peanut. But after he passed away, his old knife sitting up on top of my dresser was like a reminder of him. Even then it took a good while until I felt compelled by some unknown reason to drop it in my pocket one morning before going off to work.
There was Mr. Van of course, with his Excalliber of scout knives, the Remington that dangled from his belt on the "Official" belt hanger. It was there in plain sight for all us young scouts to see, and of course lust after. But then Mr. Van would always have one of his 3 1/8 or 3 1/4 two blade serpentine jacks in a pocket for detail carving. He'd do these Indian faces in neckerchief rings, or odd winding Celtic designs on napkin rings with the small blade that he had like a surgeons scalpel. He take the tiniest of chips at a time, and he'd end up with a piece of art. His little two blade jacks came from Schrade, Camillus, Case, Imperial, and some others. It's almost like is old Remington was the special use knife, and the two blade jack in his pants pockets was for all the other cutting.
There was the time we had made moccasins for a project. There was some leather cutting, and when they were done, Mr. Van had us tie the laces just to where we could slip them on like loafers, maybe a little snugger. Then he'd take some glue from a round can with a brush attached to the cap and glue the knot where it was tied. The knot, when dry was a rock hard little ball, then if we'd not trimmed the ends clean enough for Mr. Van, he'd take the moccasin and with the small blade of his pocket knife, slice it off clean with the glued knot. It was a little scary for us 12 year olds to watch as the blade just seemed to glide like magic through the glue smeared rawhide lace. Then the rest of the camp out we'd practice sneaking around the woods, trying be as silent as what we'd imagine an Indian would be. It was then that Mr. Van offered up the unimaginable prize.
He told us that for the rest of the afternoon, if one of us managed to sneak up and grab his Remington, the scout could have it. A hush fell over the scouts, and who knows what thoughts went through young minds to be so tempted. The competition was on. During the afternoon, scout after scout failed. If he heard anything behind him, Mr. Van would blow the whistle that was hanging around his neck. The old Marine seemed to have eyes in back of his head. Ears that heard the faintest of whisper of leaves. Then Peter Kendall seemed on the brink of a Remington scout knife.
Mr. Van was working on his old Kaywoodie pipe, fiddling with the tamping of the tobacco to get it just right. Peter was within an arms reach of the prize, taking time to place each foot carefully before putting his weight on it. Step by step, he inched closer to Mr. Van who seemed totally unaware of Pete's silent advance on the sacred Remington. His hand reached slowly...
With a sudden move, almost as fast as a striking rattler, Mr. Van's hand shot down and grabbed Pete's wrist just inches from the knife, with Pete letting loose a scream of shock.
"Mr. Kendall, if you're going to sneak up on someone, breath through your mouth in shallow breaths. You sounded like a blacksmiths bellows behind me." Mr. Van told him with a voice that echoed through the campsite. "How ever, your footsteps were unheard."
Pete walked away with a proud swagger, he'd come closer that any of us to grabbing the prize. Mr. Van kept his prized Remington, but we all learned something about being quiet in the woods. Breath through our mouths.
Then there was my dad and the peanut. If ever there was a lesson in minimalism, he would have been the professor. A quiet thoughtful man, he would give a moment to contemplate what he was doing, and then do it in a low key manor that made it seem like he'd hardly been bothered by it. He and Uncle Paul were two of a kind. Both seemed to be able to do with almost nothing. Like Mr. Van, they both carried a small two blade jack. Uncle Paul always had the advertising knives that came his way at the Wright-Patterson engine plant in New Jersey where he was a machinist. Some had advertising from TRW drill bits, some Starret tools, but all had the cracked ice celluloid handles of the day, or white plastic. But all had thin carbon steel blades that really did cut well and hold a decent edge. They were usually as small as my dad's peanut, but Uncle Paul seems to get by with it. No matter if he was making a twine and wax gasket for a leaking sink, or getting ready to gut a nice size Rockfish, he'd hesitate, poised with knife in hand planing the cut, then going to work. Dad was the same way, a studied hesitation to size it up, then a quiet snick as the knife was opened and the job set about according to the plan in his head. No matter if cutting pine boughs for getting stuck car out of mud, or trimming a chicken liver for catfish hunting. I often wonder if dad had carried a barlow or a trapper, would I have been a barlow or trapper fan?
So what knife is it for you guys? Is there a favorite Uncle, grandfather, or other mentor that a certain pattern knife reminds you of?
Carl.
I have no doubt that in my case, (no pun intended, really!) my own end has been influenced by memories of my father. It's a weird thing, but when he was alive, I didn't even think of carrying a peanut. But after he passed away, his old knife sitting up on top of my dresser was like a reminder of him. Even then it took a good while until I felt compelled by some unknown reason to drop it in my pocket one morning before going off to work.
There was Mr. Van of course, with his Excalliber of scout knives, the Remington that dangled from his belt on the "Official" belt hanger. It was there in plain sight for all us young scouts to see, and of course lust after. But then Mr. Van would always have one of his 3 1/8 or 3 1/4 two blade serpentine jacks in a pocket for detail carving. He'd do these Indian faces in neckerchief rings, or odd winding Celtic designs on napkin rings with the small blade that he had like a surgeons scalpel. He take the tiniest of chips at a time, and he'd end up with a piece of art. His little two blade jacks came from Schrade, Camillus, Case, Imperial, and some others. It's almost like is old Remington was the special use knife, and the two blade jack in his pants pockets was for all the other cutting.
There was the time we had made moccasins for a project. There was some leather cutting, and when they were done, Mr. Van had us tie the laces just to where we could slip them on like loafers, maybe a little snugger. Then he'd take some glue from a round can with a brush attached to the cap and glue the knot where it was tied. The knot, when dry was a rock hard little ball, then if we'd not trimmed the ends clean enough for Mr. Van, he'd take the moccasin and with the small blade of his pocket knife, slice it off clean with the glued knot. It was a little scary for us 12 year olds to watch as the blade just seemed to glide like magic through the glue smeared rawhide lace. Then the rest of the camp out we'd practice sneaking around the woods, trying be as silent as what we'd imagine an Indian would be. It was then that Mr. Van offered up the unimaginable prize.
He told us that for the rest of the afternoon, if one of us managed to sneak up and grab his Remington, the scout could have it. A hush fell over the scouts, and who knows what thoughts went through young minds to be so tempted. The competition was on. During the afternoon, scout after scout failed. If he heard anything behind him, Mr. Van would blow the whistle that was hanging around his neck. The old Marine seemed to have eyes in back of his head. Ears that heard the faintest of whisper of leaves. Then Peter Kendall seemed on the brink of a Remington scout knife.
Mr. Van was working on his old Kaywoodie pipe, fiddling with the tamping of the tobacco to get it just right. Peter was within an arms reach of the prize, taking time to place each foot carefully before putting his weight on it. Step by step, he inched closer to Mr. Van who seemed totally unaware of Pete's silent advance on the sacred Remington. His hand reached slowly...
With a sudden move, almost as fast as a striking rattler, Mr. Van's hand shot down and grabbed Pete's wrist just inches from the knife, with Pete letting loose a scream of shock.
"Mr. Kendall, if you're going to sneak up on someone, breath through your mouth in shallow breaths. You sounded like a blacksmiths bellows behind me." Mr. Van told him with a voice that echoed through the campsite. "How ever, your footsteps were unheard."
Pete walked away with a proud swagger, he'd come closer that any of us to grabbing the prize. Mr. Van kept his prized Remington, but we all learned something about being quiet in the woods. Breath through our mouths.
Then there was my dad and the peanut. If ever there was a lesson in minimalism, he would have been the professor. A quiet thoughtful man, he would give a moment to contemplate what he was doing, and then do it in a low key manor that made it seem like he'd hardly been bothered by it. He and Uncle Paul were two of a kind. Both seemed to be able to do with almost nothing. Like Mr. Van, they both carried a small two blade jack. Uncle Paul always had the advertising knives that came his way at the Wright-Patterson engine plant in New Jersey where he was a machinist. Some had advertising from TRW drill bits, some Starret tools, but all had the cracked ice celluloid handles of the day, or white plastic. But all had thin carbon steel blades that really did cut well and hold a decent edge. They were usually as small as my dad's peanut, but Uncle Paul seems to get by with it. No matter if he was making a twine and wax gasket for a leaking sink, or getting ready to gut a nice size Rockfish, he'd hesitate, poised with knife in hand planing the cut, then going to work. Dad was the same way, a studied hesitation to size it up, then a quiet snick as the knife was opened and the job set about according to the plan in his head. No matter if cutting pine boughs for getting stuck car out of mud, or trimming a chicken liver for catfish hunting. I often wonder if dad had carried a barlow or a trapper, would I have been a barlow or trapper fan?
So what knife is it for you guys? Is there a favorite Uncle, grandfather, or other mentor that a certain pattern knife reminds you of?
Carl.
,but later i found SAK(literally found it on the beach)with one broken scale,and i treasured that find for many years,at that time it was ultimate folding knife for me, until i met guy with Buck 55,sharpest thing i ever sow,i knew then,there is undiscovered world of knives waiting for me to discover,it wasn't easy,considering place i lived at that time(limbo of the World 
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