What "Traditional Knife" are ya totin' today?

In the bottom of an old canvas rucksack, tucked behind a rusted compass and a dog-eared field journal, Eliot found a square of paisley cloth, carefully wrapped around a Mercator K55K pocket knife. The cloth was soft and faded, deep blue with navy and white teardrop curls, its edges worn to threads. The knife, smooth, black and slim with the outline of a leaping cat clicked open with a satisfying snap. It had belonged to his uncle Leo, a man spoken of in half-whispers ... part adventurer, part ghost. The last letter Leo had sent, arrived over a decade ago, postmarked from somewhere in the Carpathians, and ended with the words: Follow the pattern.

That night, sitting by the fire in the overgrown garden of his uncle’s abandoned cabin, Eliot spread the paisley cloth across his lap, running his fingers along the curves of the design. A flicker of intuition pulled him to hold the knife against the cloth. There, barely visible unless viewed at the right angle, was a series of tiny notches along the swirls, like a code etched in disguise. With every shift of the fabric under the blade, the message revealed itself piece by piece. Coordinates. A date. A name he didn’t recognize. The paisley wasn’t just decoration ... it was a map. And the knife, faithful and sharp after all those years, had been waiting to point the way ...

This isn't that cloth or knife ... just something I'm totin' for metal Monday.

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BrotherJim said:
In the bottom of an old canvas rucksack, tucked behind a rusted compass and a dog-eared field journal, Eliot found a square of paisley cloth, carefully wrapped around a Mercator K55K pocket knife. The cloth was soft and faded, deep blue with navy and white teardrop curls, its edges worn to threads. The knife, smooth, black and slim with the outline of a leaping cat clicked open with a satisfying snap. It had belonged to his uncle Leo, a man spoken of in half-whispers ... part adventurer, part ghost. The last letter Leo had sent, arrived over a decade ago, postmarked from somewhere in the Carpathians, and ended with the words: Follow the pattern.

That night, sitting by the fire in the overgrown garden of his uncle’s abandoned cabin, Eliot spread the paisley cloth across his lap, running his fingers along the curves of the design. A flicker of intuition pulled him to hold the knife against the cloth. There, barely visible unless viewed at the right angle, was a series of tiny notches along the swirls, like a code etched in disguise. With every shift of the fabric under the blade, the message revealed itself piece by piece. Coordinates. A date. A name he didn’t recognize. The paisley wasn’t just decoration ... it was a map. And the knife, faithful and sharp after all those years, had been waiting to point the way ...

This isn't that cloth or knife ... just something I'm totin' for metal Monday.

bwoyupq.jpeg
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Sounds like my kind of fairy tale....👍
 
BrotherJim said:
Little 33OT on a rainy Sunday afternoon

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I bought my 33 Middleman Jack in high school. Along with my Schrade 293 Y Trapper, it was in my pocket for decades. Of course, that was when it was ok to carry a pocket knife in school.
It's a great everyday knife.
315 said:
Actually it’s day three of my weekend but the second day I went fishing. Friday was better because the heat has really come on but I’ll take any day on the water I’m given over working any day of the week!!
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I gotta go fishing!
fishinfs said:
Is that a Grohmann on the left, Mr Jeff?
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It is🤙
A surprise from Robert Oldy Oldy up in Canada. Nice knife.
BrotherJim said:
In the bottom of an old canvas rucksack, tucked behind a rusted compass and a dog-eared field journal, Eliot found a square of paisley cloth, carefully wrapped around a Mercator K55K pocket knife. The cloth was soft and faded, deep blue with navy and white teardrop curls, its edges worn to threads. The knife, smooth, black and slim with the outline of a leaping cat clicked open with a satisfying snap. It had belonged to his uncle Leo, a man spoken of in half-whispers ... part adventurer, part ghost. The last letter Leo had sent, arrived over a decade ago, postmarked from somewhere in the Carpathians, and ended with the words: Follow the pattern.

That night, sitting by the fire in the overgrown garden of his uncle’s abandoned cabin, Eliot spread the paisley cloth across his lap, running his fingers along the curves of the design. A flicker of intuition pulled him to hold the knife against the cloth. There, barely visible unless viewed at the right angle, was a series of tiny notches along the swirls, like a code etched in disguise. With every shift of the fabric under the blade, the message revealed itself piece by piece. Coordinates. A date. A name he didn’t recognize. The paisley wasn’t just decoration ... it was a map. And the knife, faithful and sharp after all those years, had been waiting to point the way ...

This isn't that cloth or knife ... just something I'm totin' for metal Monday.

bwoyupq.jpeg
Click to expand...
I like your style.
I have concocted stories in my head while holding Grandpa's Camillus Silver Sword Jack.
 
The marine layer is low today here in the City by the Bay! Had to turn on the furnace to take the chill off. Nothing on the agenda for today but getting ready for tomorrow when we are having a new circuit breaker box installed along with a level two charger for our new car. No power for most of tomorrow. In the meantime keeping me company the usual lamb and C.Bell spear. Have a great week folks! 😀
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