The old man looked around the winter woods, and soaked in the peaceful surroundings. Most of the recent snow had melted away, and only scattered patches of snow remained in deep sheltered spots. He liked to get away for a while everyday, and he'd always felt at peace in the eastern hardwood forest. Surrounded by tall poplars, maples, sprawling oak's, he had a sense of being sheltered from the world. Of being in a place where he didn't have to worry about things. And of late he'd been worrying. He hadn't felt right for some time, and his lust for the things he'd always liked doing had faded. He'd found himself drinking more than usual, and his wife had pressed him to see a doctor. The old man had talked to the doc's down at the V.A. hospital, and the bright young man that didn't look old enough to be a doctor, had diagnosed him as being depressed. A prescription for the latest miracle drug of the month and an appointment to come back in a month was what they had done. The old man had tossed the bottle of pills in the trash, and then went for a walk in the woods with only his dog for company.
They had covered a length of trail, and now found a spot overlooking a wooded hillside with a small creek flowing by. An old fallen tree made a good bench to sit on, and the old man watched as the dog lay down in a alert Sphinx position, watching the woods, and following the movements of the squirrels carefully. The old man thought about that, and smiled sadly to himself. With over a dozen years behind her, the dog once would have been chasing every squirrel back up the trees, but now was content to just watch carefully, in case one got close enough to make it worth her while to expend the energy.
"I know what you feel, old girl. I don't feel much like doing what I used to do either. I guess we're getting old." the old man said to the dog, who looked over at her owner with big brown eyes that spoke her feelings as well as words.
The old man unzipped his jacket part way to get his pipe out of the pocket of the thick wool shirt, and was startled for a moment when he saw he'd forgotten to clean out the bowl from his last smoke. He'd been worried over his growing forgetfulness and now seeing how he'd not even cleaned his pipe set him in a bad mood. Reaching into his pants pocket, he pulled out the pocket knife. It wasn't a very big knife, nor was it a fancy knife. The three old carbon blades were dark with years of patina, and the brown delrin handle scales were worn almost to the point that the saw cut marks on the scales were worn away. He opened the spey blade of the small stockman, and reamed out the pipe bowl with care, and packed in some fresh tobacco. When he had the pipe going well, he took a moment to admire the old knife. It had been with him for almost 30 years now, and it had been a fathers day gift from his 6 year old son with some help from mom. For all those years, it had been a daily companion, cutting open packages, small food chores, fishing duty, and invaluable on scouts camping trips with his son, who was now a grown man with a small son of his own. All three blades of the Schrade Old Timer were sharpened down over the years so now they were maybe half what they once where.
"Maybe time for a new knife" someone has said just recently to the old man, "that one looks about wore out!"
"Wore out like hell!" the old man had told him.
Now the old man bent and picked up a stick. He liked to whittle while he sat in the woods, and loved the feel of a razor sharp knife smoothly slicing through wood. He still had the spey blade open, so he pushed it shut and pulled open the narrow clip blade. A thin bright edge ran up the blade where only that morning he had touched up the blades on the stone in the kitchen drawer. Sometimes he liked to make a checker board pattern on the sticks, sometimes he did a barber pole spiral, but today he took a long thin slice. He watched as the curl made one, then two, then three curls inside itself, almost translucent it was so thin. It was a mute testament to how sharp the knife was.
"May have lost a lot of steel over the years, but there's plenty of life left in this old knife yet." the old man said to himself.
Then the sudden epiphany hit him like a bucket of ice water thrown in his face. He stood up suddenly, dropping the stick and looking down at the old Schrade in his hand. A smile slowly spread over the old man's face, and for the first time in a good while, the old man felt good.
"Yes, there's plenty of life left in you yet, old friend. Just like there is in me. Not wore out by a long shot!" he said, then spoke to the dog.
"Come on dog, we got some living to do! We're not down to laying about just yet."
The man walked off up the trail, followed by his dog with her tail wagging at he joy of being out in the woods and on the move.
They had covered a length of trail, and now found a spot overlooking a wooded hillside with a small creek flowing by. An old fallen tree made a good bench to sit on, and the old man watched as the dog lay down in a alert Sphinx position, watching the woods, and following the movements of the squirrels carefully. The old man thought about that, and smiled sadly to himself. With over a dozen years behind her, the dog once would have been chasing every squirrel back up the trees, but now was content to just watch carefully, in case one got close enough to make it worth her while to expend the energy.
"I know what you feel, old girl. I don't feel much like doing what I used to do either. I guess we're getting old." the old man said to the dog, who looked over at her owner with big brown eyes that spoke her feelings as well as words.
The old man unzipped his jacket part way to get his pipe out of the pocket of the thick wool shirt, and was startled for a moment when he saw he'd forgotten to clean out the bowl from his last smoke. He'd been worried over his growing forgetfulness and now seeing how he'd not even cleaned his pipe set him in a bad mood. Reaching into his pants pocket, he pulled out the pocket knife. It wasn't a very big knife, nor was it a fancy knife. The three old carbon blades were dark with years of patina, and the brown delrin handle scales were worn almost to the point that the saw cut marks on the scales were worn away. He opened the spey blade of the small stockman, and reamed out the pipe bowl with care, and packed in some fresh tobacco. When he had the pipe going well, he took a moment to admire the old knife. It had been with him for almost 30 years now, and it had been a fathers day gift from his 6 year old son with some help from mom. For all those years, it had been a daily companion, cutting open packages, small food chores, fishing duty, and invaluable on scouts camping trips with his son, who was now a grown man with a small son of his own. All three blades of the Schrade Old Timer were sharpened down over the years so now they were maybe half what they once where.
"Maybe time for a new knife" someone has said just recently to the old man, "that one looks about wore out!"
"Wore out like hell!" the old man had told him.
Now the old man bent and picked up a stick. He liked to whittle while he sat in the woods, and loved the feel of a razor sharp knife smoothly slicing through wood. He still had the spey blade open, so he pushed it shut and pulled open the narrow clip blade. A thin bright edge ran up the blade where only that morning he had touched up the blades on the stone in the kitchen drawer. Sometimes he liked to make a checker board pattern on the sticks, sometimes he did a barber pole spiral, but today he took a long thin slice. He watched as the curl made one, then two, then three curls inside itself, almost translucent it was so thin. It was a mute testament to how sharp the knife was.
"May have lost a lot of steel over the years, but there's plenty of life left in this old knife yet." the old man said to himself.
Then the sudden epiphany hit him like a bucket of ice water thrown in his face. He stood up suddenly, dropping the stick and looking down at the old Schrade in his hand. A smile slowly spread over the old man's face, and for the first time in a good while, the old man felt good.
"Yes, there's plenty of life left in you yet, old friend. Just like there is in me. Not wore out by a long shot!" he said, then spoke to the dog.
"Come on dog, we got some living to do! We're not down to laying about just yet."
The man walked off up the trail, followed by his dog with her tail wagging at he joy of being out in the woods and on the move.
.
