When my Uncle Johnny was 9 or 10 years old, he got a Davey Crockett Camco barlow for Christmas. My father got one, too, but his has since been lost to antiquity. Uncle Johnny didn't have it easy growing up. When he was still in high school, he ran away from home and lived in a cave on a farmer's property several miles down the road. He probably could have lived there indefinitely if he hadn't started having parties there. He even carved, with his Camco barlow, a sign that read, "Johnny's Den" and planted it right in front of the cave.
Needless to say, the farmer caught him, and Uncle Johnny returned home. Briefly.
He volunteered for Vietnam. He knew his number would come up eventually, and volunteers allegedly got a better deal than draftees. Johnny served as a medic and came home with two purple hearts and only eight fingers.
He rarely talked about the war. I heard people calling my Uncle Johnny a hero, but whenever I would ask him about it (child that I was, I could not yet understand how someone could be a hero and be reluctant to talk about it) he would just say he went to Vietnam, got shot, and came home. Often, after he had a few shots of bourbon, I would catch him holding the old barlow--a true boy's knife--as if it were an anchor to simpler, better times. Or a portal to memories that he preferred to keep to himself.
Five years ago, he was diagnosed with stage four esophageal cancer. Whatever he was exposed to in Vietnam, coupled with a lifetime of smoking, had caught up with him. I never once heard him complain. Never once did he display a self pity that, quite frankly, would be understandable. He told me that he was not going to waste what was left of his life in an attempt to preserve it. And so, after the chemo and all the treatments began taking more than they were giving, Uncle Johnny decided to let nature take over.
Around this time, the Lick Creek Barlows became available. I had thought Uncle Johnny might like one, but I failed in my quest to get my hands on one. I don't think Uncle Johnny would have particularly cared. He wasn't a knife nut, clearly. I believe he carried that knife more for the memories it held than the utility it could provide. Davey Crockett's name is barely visible on the black synthetic handle.
Out of the blue, Uncle Johnny answered my question about his heroism. He sent me a link to a website that contained an audio file of a helicopter pilot in Vietnam who was trying to extract soldiers from a hilltop that had come under fire. Medics were trying to reach the wounded and being cut down from all sides. Uncle Johnny, though he had been shot up himself, was the last medic standing that day.
He passed away shortly after sending me that file. After the funeral, my father hugged me. He had something in his hand. It was the the old Christmas barlow.
I was fortunate enough to attend the GEC Rendezvous, and I got to meet Charlie and Lyle--fantastic gentlemen. And I was lucky to have been able to get a Lick Creek barlow from Charlie himself. My own life has been infinitely easier than my Uncle Johnny's ever was, but I will no doubt find myself pulling that shiny new barlow from my pocket and watching as each memory I create with it adds patina and character.
There is a wonderful thread on this forum titled, "What makes a good, traditional barlow?"
There are many, many answers.
But for me, the answer is, "memories."
Needless to say, the farmer caught him, and Uncle Johnny returned home. Briefly.
He volunteered for Vietnam. He knew his number would come up eventually, and volunteers allegedly got a better deal than draftees. Johnny served as a medic and came home with two purple hearts and only eight fingers.
He rarely talked about the war. I heard people calling my Uncle Johnny a hero, but whenever I would ask him about it (child that I was, I could not yet understand how someone could be a hero and be reluctant to talk about it) he would just say he went to Vietnam, got shot, and came home. Often, after he had a few shots of bourbon, I would catch him holding the old barlow--a true boy's knife--as if it were an anchor to simpler, better times. Or a portal to memories that he preferred to keep to himself.
Five years ago, he was diagnosed with stage four esophageal cancer. Whatever he was exposed to in Vietnam, coupled with a lifetime of smoking, had caught up with him. I never once heard him complain. Never once did he display a self pity that, quite frankly, would be understandable. He told me that he was not going to waste what was left of his life in an attempt to preserve it. And so, after the chemo and all the treatments began taking more than they were giving, Uncle Johnny decided to let nature take over.
Around this time, the Lick Creek Barlows became available. I had thought Uncle Johnny might like one, but I failed in my quest to get my hands on one. I don't think Uncle Johnny would have particularly cared. He wasn't a knife nut, clearly. I believe he carried that knife more for the memories it held than the utility it could provide. Davey Crockett's name is barely visible on the black synthetic handle.
Out of the blue, Uncle Johnny answered my question about his heroism. He sent me a link to a website that contained an audio file of a helicopter pilot in Vietnam who was trying to extract soldiers from a hilltop that had come under fire. Medics were trying to reach the wounded and being cut down from all sides. Uncle Johnny, though he had been shot up himself, was the last medic standing that day.
He passed away shortly after sending me that file. After the funeral, my father hugged me. He had something in his hand. It was the the old Christmas barlow.
I was fortunate enough to attend the GEC Rendezvous, and I got to meet Charlie and Lyle--fantastic gentlemen. And I was lucky to have been able to get a Lick Creek barlow from Charlie himself. My own life has been infinitely easier than my Uncle Johnny's ever was, but I will no doubt find myself pulling that shiny new barlow from my pocket and watching as each memory I create with it adds patina and character.
There is a wonderful thread on this forum titled, "What makes a good, traditional barlow?"
There are many, many answers.
But for me, the answer is, "memories."
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