I finally had to admit that I got old.
For years I joked about getting "older" and made light of the fact that little by little I couldn't do much of what I used to do. But then, when I looked at it in the harsh light of day, I really didn't want to do those things anymore. Kind of a 'been there, done that' thing. At my age, do I really want lug a back pack up a mountain trail, sleep on a closed cell mat on the ground, or do I want to sleep in a nice lodge, breakfast the next morning in the dining room and a hike with a guide unencumbered except for a light day pack with a bottle of water and a few muchies?
Pocket knives have come into that realm. I've never been a fan of very large knives, and a Buck 301 stockman was my go-to pocket knife for 25 years. A basic Victorinox tinker was in that category as well. In my late 40's/early 50's it was the mighty mite legume. The peanut that became "my knife." But the last decade of so, my taste has definitely changed to the general category of the coin pocket knife. The little knives that fit comfortably in that little 5th pocket that jeans have. Buck 309 companion, Boker 240 pen, the Sardinian resolza, Victorinox executive. With the advance of the senior citizen fumble fingers, I find the slightly larger 3 to 3 1/4 inch size a bit easier to avoid dropping and making myself look like the village idiot.
I continue to find it odd that, in my retirement I find the need for less knife, even though I'm spending much more time fishing, shooting, and rambling the woods with Karen, and road trips exploring Texas. I now fully understand the old guys with the little pen knife. I've joined the club that only time can bring understanding and admittance to.
I haven't been around here as much as I used to. Maybe it's that we're spending much less time at home while doing day trips and exploring. Or maybe it's my lessening interest in possessions and material things. If I have a knife in my pocket, I'm good to go. I don't seem to care anymore what kind of knife it is, as long as it doesn't take up much room, and is sharp. I remember like it was yesterday, my dad telling me "it doesn't have to be big, just sharp." I wish I knew then how right he was. Maybe as a white bearded old man I don't worry about what may be, just what really is. I seem to get by with a coin pocket size knife for cutting fishing line, opening packages, trimming a good hot dog stick. Besides, the little knife in the coin pocket leaves more room for the RONCO pocket defibrillator in case of a vapor lock in the old oil pump. But most of all, it kind reminds me of the old guys when I was kid. How they didn't rush, but sort of paused and looked over what had to be done, and then deliberately pulled out a little slip joint and carefully cut what had to be cut. Most times it wasn't a big knife, or a fancy knife. Sometimes it was one of those little two blade jacks with the cracked ice handles from a stand up cardboard display by the cash register in a five and dime. Or it could be a nice little Ulster or Case with a real jigged bone handle.
In the old days, things came wrapped in a heavy brown paper and tied up with white twine. A pocket knife was needed to get to what was in there. Then the things came in a cardboard box wrapped in that brown packing tape that you wet to put on and it dried and was as good as an Egyptian mummy wrap. You ain't getting in there without a knife. Now with civilization, we have the plastic blister package, designed to resist both both and nail and mild charges of C4 explosive. A sharp knife is the only force known to man that will liberate the contents. Doesn't have to be big, just sharp. I've found the pen bade of a peanut, the small blade of a Vic classic, a Buck companion, and my Boker 240 to work well defeating this packaging.
The youngest grand child seems to have learned this, although I don't know from where. This past summer was her third summer visit with here in Texas, and like her grandpa, she loves to fish. Sitting on the shady bank of the San Gabriel river, she's learned to tie a pretty good blood knot, and clean her own fish. We were siting on the back this past summer, and she was just tying on a hook, and I asked her if she needed a knife. Wth all the self assured attitude of a 9 year old, she flipped her ponytail and holding her head high said, "Grandpa, I do have my own knife now, you know!" And she took out a familiar looking Camillus/Remington peanut and trimmed what needed to be trimmed. She was careful and deliberate in her handling of the knife, and I was glad to see my pocket had a good home.
Then theres the harsh light of day reality. I know at my age I will never see real wilderness again. Karen and I saw Yosemite from the tourist train, and slept in the park lodge. Same thing with Yellowstone. And I have to admit it was nice to sit on the lodge veranda with a cocktail to watch Old Faithful. For the kinds of environment I will find myself in most times, a little coin pocket knife is all I need. I will never need to baton wood, I won't be hacking my way through the Amazon. I don't need heavy duty construction that will last for 30 years. In fact, I find it mildly depressing that everything I buy now, will come with a lifetime warrantee. In less than one month I will be a the average life expectancy of a male in the U.S. of A. I guess in the end, I'll just be another of those old men with a little pen knife in the coin pocket.
For years I joked about getting "older" and made light of the fact that little by little I couldn't do much of what I used to do. But then, when I looked at it in the harsh light of day, I really didn't want to do those things anymore. Kind of a 'been there, done that' thing. At my age, do I really want lug a back pack up a mountain trail, sleep on a closed cell mat on the ground, or do I want to sleep in a nice lodge, breakfast the next morning in the dining room and a hike with a guide unencumbered except for a light day pack with a bottle of water and a few muchies?
Pocket knives have come into that realm. I've never been a fan of very large knives, and a Buck 301 stockman was my go-to pocket knife for 25 years. A basic Victorinox tinker was in that category as well. In my late 40's/early 50's it was the mighty mite legume. The peanut that became "my knife." But the last decade of so, my taste has definitely changed to the general category of the coin pocket knife. The little knives that fit comfortably in that little 5th pocket that jeans have. Buck 309 companion, Boker 240 pen, the Sardinian resolza, Victorinox executive. With the advance of the senior citizen fumble fingers, I find the slightly larger 3 to 3 1/4 inch size a bit easier to avoid dropping and making myself look like the village idiot.
I continue to find it odd that, in my retirement I find the need for less knife, even though I'm spending much more time fishing, shooting, and rambling the woods with Karen, and road trips exploring Texas. I now fully understand the old guys with the little pen knife. I've joined the club that only time can bring understanding and admittance to.
I haven't been around here as much as I used to. Maybe it's that we're spending much less time at home while doing day trips and exploring. Or maybe it's my lessening interest in possessions and material things. If I have a knife in my pocket, I'm good to go. I don't seem to care anymore what kind of knife it is, as long as it doesn't take up much room, and is sharp. I remember like it was yesterday, my dad telling me "it doesn't have to be big, just sharp." I wish I knew then how right he was. Maybe as a white bearded old man I don't worry about what may be, just what really is. I seem to get by with a coin pocket size knife for cutting fishing line, opening packages, trimming a good hot dog stick. Besides, the little knife in the coin pocket leaves more room for the RONCO pocket defibrillator in case of a vapor lock in the old oil pump. But most of all, it kind reminds me of the old guys when I was kid. How they didn't rush, but sort of paused and looked over what had to be done, and then deliberately pulled out a little slip joint and carefully cut what had to be cut. Most times it wasn't a big knife, or a fancy knife. Sometimes it was one of those little two blade jacks with the cracked ice handles from a stand up cardboard display by the cash register in a five and dime. Or it could be a nice little Ulster or Case with a real jigged bone handle.
In the old days, things came wrapped in a heavy brown paper and tied up with white twine. A pocket knife was needed to get to what was in there. Then the things came in a cardboard box wrapped in that brown packing tape that you wet to put on and it dried and was as good as an Egyptian mummy wrap. You ain't getting in there without a knife. Now with civilization, we have the plastic blister package, designed to resist both both and nail and mild charges of C4 explosive. A sharp knife is the only force known to man that will liberate the contents. Doesn't have to be big, just sharp. I've found the pen bade of a peanut, the small blade of a Vic classic, a Buck companion, and my Boker 240 to work well defeating this packaging.
The youngest grand child seems to have learned this, although I don't know from where. This past summer was her third summer visit with here in Texas, and like her grandpa, she loves to fish. Sitting on the shady bank of the San Gabriel river, she's learned to tie a pretty good blood knot, and clean her own fish. We were siting on the back this past summer, and she was just tying on a hook, and I asked her if she needed a knife. Wth all the self assured attitude of a 9 year old, she flipped her ponytail and holding her head high said, "Grandpa, I do have my own knife now, you know!" And she took out a familiar looking Camillus/Remington peanut and trimmed what needed to be trimmed. She was careful and deliberate in her handling of the knife, and I was glad to see my pocket had a good home.
Then theres the harsh light of day reality. I know at my age I will never see real wilderness again. Karen and I saw Yosemite from the tourist train, and slept in the park lodge. Same thing with Yellowstone. And I have to admit it was nice to sit on the lodge veranda with a cocktail to watch Old Faithful. For the kinds of environment I will find myself in most times, a little coin pocket knife is all I need. I will never need to baton wood, I won't be hacking my way through the Amazon. I don't need heavy duty construction that will last for 30 years. In fact, I find it mildly depressing that everything I buy now, will come with a lifetime warrantee. In less than one month I will be a the average life expectancy of a male in the U.S. of A. I guess in the end, I'll just be another of those old men with a little pen knife in the coin pocket.
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