Sometimes an object can hold and bring back strong memories. A vase your mom always kept fresh flowers in, an old pipe dad smoked after dinner. Or an old pocket knife. I think getting older has made some changes in my perspective. We get old, and see things in a whole different light. Sometimes we see things that went right over our heads before.
When I was fresh out of the army, and was just getting serious about traditional archery, an un-expected aid came from someone I didn't think of. I had met Bill Moran in the late 1960's, when I read about him in a Washington Post article about a guy up in Middletown Maryland who made knives. I had known of Bo Randall, and had a few of his knives, so I took a drive up. There I fond this little white cement block building that looked inside like a tornado had blown through. Organized chaos seemed a good way to describe the inside of the shop. I didn't know the owner at that point, but I had brought along a few knives to get sharpened, but I could't find a soul around. The door was open to the very warm summer day, and I head a noise out the back door, that was also open. I poked my head out and saw a guy shooting an old fashioned long bow. He released the arrow as I watched, and the shaft flew downrange right into a cluster of arrows in the dead center of a excelsior bale.
"Hello, are you Mr. William Moran?" I asked.
The man with the bow looked around at me, and made a good humored reply,
"I was when I woke up this morning, so I may be. What can I do for you?"
I was a little hesitant, facing the famous man at last, but I told him I had some knives to be sharpened. He told me to bring them in and he'll take care of them right off. I did so, and as I watched him put a new edge on some knives, I saw how he did have a fine touch with the steel. They were shaving sharp in no time. All for a few dollars. As he was sharpening my knives, I had taken out my pipe and loaded it and had got it going good. Bill looked at my pipe and made the remark how he didn't see many people with Petersons. This of course started a whole other conversation that went on for quite a while. We both were dedicated pipe smokers, so a common ground was found. Then the subject of archery came up. I made mention of how I had been trying to shoot a old recurve Ben Pearson bow with little luck.
"Well, next time you come up, bring it and we'll try to figure out what you're not doing." Bill said.
I was a little taken aback, but I was to find out later that this was Bill Moran's nature, always trying to help or teach those who needed. And he was a good teacher.
The week passed slowly, but finally Saturday came, and I went dashing up to the little building on Rt 40, only to find it deserted. As I was dealing with my dejection, an old green and white VW microbus rattled up with Bill at the wheel. Now this was funny, because Bill got out of the window bus and looked at my khaki tan bug siting there and smiled.
"Well, you smoke a good pipe, and drive a good car, so lets see if we can get you shooting a stick bow right!" he said.
He did. I think I learned more from that man about getting an arrow down range than any other three sources. Along the way conversations about pipes, guns, knives, and history took place and I felt like a dried up sponge soaking up moisture and knowledge. I think Bill took the place of teacher, role model, mentor, and father confessor to me. Always teaching, but in a way that he didn't seem to be teaching. More like friendly advise from a favorite uncle. Did I mention we talked a lot about knives? I think I had a few major attitude changes take place in that one room shop.
While we talked about many things, I noticed that Bill would fiddle or whittle with his pocket knife. It was an interesting knife, one single blade set in a stag handle that was actually a single piece of crown stag that had been split to make two mirror scales. A simple slip joint single blade folder, it looked like it had a ton of character from years of use and carry. The stag was already that soft buttery smooth texture from years of handling, and it was sharp enough that the slivers of wood he shaved off a piece of scrap lumber were tissue thin. You could read a newspaper through them. Intrigued by the knife, I asked him about it, finally.
"Why this old thing is my first handmade knife. Not that I made it, but it was the lesson on how to make a folding knife." he said. " We had some German P.O.W.'s on the farm during the war, and this nice old fella that was one of them had worked in the Solingen knife trade before the war. Albert was his name, and he showed me a lot. "
Bill went on to tell how the old German guy was put in the blacksmith shop because of both his knowledge of how to forge weld for repairs, and he was not really fit enough to work the fields. A combination of injuries before being captured and age was affecting him, so he was put in the shop. The whole time Bill is telling this story, he had handed me the knife, and I was chicken eyeing and coon fingering it to beat the band. It was a grand old knife, and Bill liked it so much, he didn't bother with any other pocket knife. It had been with him constantly since about 1943. I was reluctant to hand it back.
Over the years we had a deepening friendship, and went to pipe shows, archery shows, and even knife shows together. Every time Bill took that knife out of his pocket to cut something, I felt my eyes glued to it. There was something so special about it, but I couldn't put a finger on it. It seemed somehow both plain and exotic at the same time. And the maker, the old German guy named Albert, had made the knife so that it somehow felt like it was crafted just for you.
As the years past, I finally got to be a decent shot with a traditional bow. After a while I found myself with a small collection of stick bows, and Bill and I hit the local bow shoots. The three-D shoots had started to become popular, and it was worth my time to see Bill amaze a lot of the more modern folks with all the wheels and pulleys on their bows. He seemed to be able to just think the arrow onto the target. Even to this day, I sometimes wonder if he had an alter ego named Yoda.
Sometimes in the mid 1980's he retired his old P.O.W. made knife and started carrying a nice stag handle Hen And Rooster stockman. Beautiful stag like only the Germans could do, with thin razor blade sharp blades nested together in a trim package. The action was like warm butter when you pulled open a blade. It became Bill's everyday pocket knife, though the term wasn't in use back then.
One day I went up to his shop to meet up with him to go to a pipe show over at the Holiday Inn near the airport. Many years had passed, and I pulled up in front of the familiar white shop and his VW Rabbit pickup was there waiting. Inside I found him touching up the edge of his old P.O.W. made pocket knife.
"Taking the old soldier out of retirement, Bill?" I asked him.
Bill took a moment to answer.
"No, just touching up the blade before I give it away to friend." he said calmly.
' Give it away' I thought!? I felt amazed, like somehow the sun rose in the west. For one, I never thought Bill would part with that knife, he'd carried it so long. Another, I felt intense jealousy toward the unknown person getting what I considered a treasure.
Bill handed me the knife and I felt the edge that he had put on it, and it grabbed at my thumb print, eager to cut. I went to hand the knife back and Bill put both hands in the pockets of his jeans and stared at me. Not being the sharpest knife in the drawer, I didn't get it. I kept on holding the knife out to Bill wondering why he stuck his hands in his pockets and wouldn't take the knife back. It took a bit, but the humorous glint in Bill's light green eyes finally made me realize what was going on here. I was hardly eloquent.
"Oh sh-- you're giving me this knife!!!???" I blurted out. "Are you sure? I mean holy crap I don't know what to say!!!
Needles to say I was blathering like an idiot.
"Well Carl old boy, a simple thank you is usually said somewhere about now." he said with that smile of his.
We went off to the pipe show, and I vaguely remember looking at pipes, and even bought a nice little Peterson Tankard for 10 bucks that was in great condition. But they are hazy memories in the shadow of the memory of William F. Moran giving me his pocket knife that he carried for at least 40 years. I don't now if I took my hand out of my pocket the whole afternoon. I must have, I paid for a pipe, joined some pipe aficionados for lunch, and all that would have needed two hands. I know Bill was pleased at my reaction, and as we drove along in his VW, I remember openly fondling that knife. Of course this was not a bad thing, as Bill's driving left a bit to be desired. Bill often left squealing brakes and blowing horns in his wake, along with shouted curses. But that afternoon all I could see was that knife.
It's been ten years now that Bill's been gone. Time has moved on, I'm living in Texas now, and sometimes I miss my old friends. We drove back to Maryland recently and had a chance to see the old friends again that are still here. But looking at that old knife, I can still see and hear the arrow smacking into the target, smell that Dunhill 965 that Bill loved in his well used Peterson's. It amazes me that a pocket size item can hold all those memories.
Bill's knife and his favorite old Peterson meerschaum pipe that smoked the heck out of.
[/url]Untitled by Carl Levitan, on Flickr[/IMG]
When I was fresh out of the army, and was just getting serious about traditional archery, an un-expected aid came from someone I didn't think of. I had met Bill Moran in the late 1960's, when I read about him in a Washington Post article about a guy up in Middletown Maryland who made knives. I had known of Bo Randall, and had a few of his knives, so I took a drive up. There I fond this little white cement block building that looked inside like a tornado had blown through. Organized chaos seemed a good way to describe the inside of the shop. I didn't know the owner at that point, but I had brought along a few knives to get sharpened, but I could't find a soul around. The door was open to the very warm summer day, and I head a noise out the back door, that was also open. I poked my head out and saw a guy shooting an old fashioned long bow. He released the arrow as I watched, and the shaft flew downrange right into a cluster of arrows in the dead center of a excelsior bale.
"Hello, are you Mr. William Moran?" I asked.
The man with the bow looked around at me, and made a good humored reply,
"I was when I woke up this morning, so I may be. What can I do for you?"
I was a little hesitant, facing the famous man at last, but I told him I had some knives to be sharpened. He told me to bring them in and he'll take care of them right off. I did so, and as I watched him put a new edge on some knives, I saw how he did have a fine touch with the steel. They were shaving sharp in no time. All for a few dollars. As he was sharpening my knives, I had taken out my pipe and loaded it and had got it going good. Bill looked at my pipe and made the remark how he didn't see many people with Petersons. This of course started a whole other conversation that went on for quite a while. We both were dedicated pipe smokers, so a common ground was found. Then the subject of archery came up. I made mention of how I had been trying to shoot a old recurve Ben Pearson bow with little luck.
"Well, next time you come up, bring it and we'll try to figure out what you're not doing." Bill said.
I was a little taken aback, but I was to find out later that this was Bill Moran's nature, always trying to help or teach those who needed. And he was a good teacher.
The week passed slowly, but finally Saturday came, and I went dashing up to the little building on Rt 40, only to find it deserted. As I was dealing with my dejection, an old green and white VW microbus rattled up with Bill at the wheel. Now this was funny, because Bill got out of the window bus and looked at my khaki tan bug siting there and smiled.
"Well, you smoke a good pipe, and drive a good car, so lets see if we can get you shooting a stick bow right!" he said.
He did. I think I learned more from that man about getting an arrow down range than any other three sources. Along the way conversations about pipes, guns, knives, and history took place and I felt like a dried up sponge soaking up moisture and knowledge. I think Bill took the place of teacher, role model, mentor, and father confessor to me. Always teaching, but in a way that he didn't seem to be teaching. More like friendly advise from a favorite uncle. Did I mention we talked a lot about knives? I think I had a few major attitude changes take place in that one room shop.
While we talked about many things, I noticed that Bill would fiddle or whittle with his pocket knife. It was an interesting knife, one single blade set in a stag handle that was actually a single piece of crown stag that had been split to make two mirror scales. A simple slip joint single blade folder, it looked like it had a ton of character from years of use and carry. The stag was already that soft buttery smooth texture from years of handling, and it was sharp enough that the slivers of wood he shaved off a piece of scrap lumber were tissue thin. You could read a newspaper through them. Intrigued by the knife, I asked him about it, finally.
"Why this old thing is my first handmade knife. Not that I made it, but it was the lesson on how to make a folding knife." he said. " We had some German P.O.W.'s on the farm during the war, and this nice old fella that was one of them had worked in the Solingen knife trade before the war. Albert was his name, and he showed me a lot. "
Bill went on to tell how the old German guy was put in the blacksmith shop because of both his knowledge of how to forge weld for repairs, and he was not really fit enough to work the fields. A combination of injuries before being captured and age was affecting him, so he was put in the shop. The whole time Bill is telling this story, he had handed me the knife, and I was chicken eyeing and coon fingering it to beat the band. It was a grand old knife, and Bill liked it so much, he didn't bother with any other pocket knife. It had been with him constantly since about 1943. I was reluctant to hand it back.
Over the years we had a deepening friendship, and went to pipe shows, archery shows, and even knife shows together. Every time Bill took that knife out of his pocket to cut something, I felt my eyes glued to it. There was something so special about it, but I couldn't put a finger on it. It seemed somehow both plain and exotic at the same time. And the maker, the old German guy named Albert, had made the knife so that it somehow felt like it was crafted just for you.
As the years past, I finally got to be a decent shot with a traditional bow. After a while I found myself with a small collection of stick bows, and Bill and I hit the local bow shoots. The three-D shoots had started to become popular, and it was worth my time to see Bill amaze a lot of the more modern folks with all the wheels and pulleys on their bows. He seemed to be able to just think the arrow onto the target. Even to this day, I sometimes wonder if he had an alter ego named Yoda.
Sometimes in the mid 1980's he retired his old P.O.W. made knife and started carrying a nice stag handle Hen And Rooster stockman. Beautiful stag like only the Germans could do, with thin razor blade sharp blades nested together in a trim package. The action was like warm butter when you pulled open a blade. It became Bill's everyday pocket knife, though the term wasn't in use back then.
One day I went up to his shop to meet up with him to go to a pipe show over at the Holiday Inn near the airport. Many years had passed, and I pulled up in front of the familiar white shop and his VW Rabbit pickup was there waiting. Inside I found him touching up the edge of his old P.O.W. made pocket knife.
"Taking the old soldier out of retirement, Bill?" I asked him.
Bill took a moment to answer.
"No, just touching up the blade before I give it away to friend." he said calmly.
' Give it away' I thought!? I felt amazed, like somehow the sun rose in the west. For one, I never thought Bill would part with that knife, he'd carried it so long. Another, I felt intense jealousy toward the unknown person getting what I considered a treasure.
Bill handed me the knife and I felt the edge that he had put on it, and it grabbed at my thumb print, eager to cut. I went to hand the knife back and Bill put both hands in the pockets of his jeans and stared at me. Not being the sharpest knife in the drawer, I didn't get it. I kept on holding the knife out to Bill wondering why he stuck his hands in his pockets and wouldn't take the knife back. It took a bit, but the humorous glint in Bill's light green eyes finally made me realize what was going on here. I was hardly eloquent.
"Oh sh-- you're giving me this knife!!!???" I blurted out. "Are you sure? I mean holy crap I don't know what to say!!!
Needles to say I was blathering like an idiot.
"Well Carl old boy, a simple thank you is usually said somewhere about now." he said with that smile of his.
We went off to the pipe show, and I vaguely remember looking at pipes, and even bought a nice little Peterson Tankard for 10 bucks that was in great condition. But they are hazy memories in the shadow of the memory of William F. Moran giving me his pocket knife that he carried for at least 40 years. I don't now if I took my hand out of my pocket the whole afternoon. I must have, I paid for a pipe, joined some pipe aficionados for lunch, and all that would have needed two hands. I know Bill was pleased at my reaction, and as we drove along in his VW, I remember openly fondling that knife. Of course this was not a bad thing, as Bill's driving left a bit to be desired. Bill often left squealing brakes and blowing horns in his wake, along with shouted curses. But that afternoon all I could see was that knife.
It's been ten years now that Bill's been gone. Time has moved on, I'm living in Texas now, and sometimes I miss my old friends. We drove back to Maryland recently and had a chance to see the old friends again that are still here. But looking at that old knife, I can still see and hear the arrow smacking into the target, smell that Dunhill 965 that Bill loved in his well used Peterson's. It amazes me that a pocket size item can hold all those memories.
Bill's knife and his favorite old Peterson meerschaum pipe that smoked the heck out of.
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