The cold wind made a rushing noise in the thick pine trees, covering the small noises of the lesser creatures of the forest. The old man and the boy stood still and listened to the music of the wind.
"That's nature giving us a serenade to eat by, boy. This is a good spot for lunch." the old man said, taking off his pack.
The boy sat down on a fallen tree truck where his grandfather pointed, and waited anxiously for his lunch. As much as he was hungry though, he loved watching the old man work with his knife. The boy had been going on hikes with his grandfather for a couple of years now, and the old man had taught him deer tracks and raccoon and possum, and even one cold winters day, some bobcat tracks. But now he would see the old man use his fish tale knife.
It was a little bigger than most pocket knives, with a dark stained wood handle that was shaped like what the boy called a fish tale. A single thin blade folded out, and was locked by a ring that the old man would sometimes turn, but not all the time. That it was sharp as a razor was evident in the way it glided though the hard roll of salami that the old man would put on the sourdough rolls that the boys grandmother had baked just the morning. On the occasions that the old man had let the boy handle the knife, the boy was always surprised at how light weight it was. Now his grandfather was slicing up lunch with the fish tale knife like he always did. The old man held to the belief that a sandwich was best when made up fresh, not wrapped up for hours in some plastic. He handed the boy a sandwich and then stuck the knife in the log they were sitting on.
"Here ya go pup, eat up." he said, as the boy took the food.
As they sat and listened to the rush of the wind in the pines, the old man poured out some hot sweet tea from a old dented up thermos into two beat up tin cups to go with the fresh made sandwiches.
"Ain't it nice to have mother nature serenade us with such beautiful music?" he said.
The boy nodded, and then had a question for the old man.
"Grandpa, how come you always carry that same kind of knife? I only see you with that kind of knife, and you have them in different sizes."
"Well pup, when I tried one out, it kind of impressed me more than a lot of the other knives, and it kind of became a habit."
"When did you first get one?" the boy asked.
The old man was quiet for a little, then simple said, "Back during the war. It was in France, and I'd lost my pocket knife. We got to this little town and those folks were sure glad to see us. Well, there was lots of wine and champagne floating around, but I went looking for a shop where I could find a knife. I found this little place, and they had some knives like I'd never seen before. No springs, no liners, I didn't think much of them. Asked the guy behind the counter if they had anything better. Well pup, you'd of thought I insulted his wife and mother both! Gave me an earful I tell ya. He then gave me one. Then he said if I didn't like it, just give it away to someone. Well, I took it, and I thought beggars can't be choosy. I tried to give him something for it, but he wouldn't take anything. He just said since we had liberated his town, he wouldn't take anything from me, even if I had been insulting."
The old man paused and chuckled.
"Well boy, the big joke was on me. I took that knife, and stuck it in my pocket, and I used the heck out of it. I didn't think it would hold up, but I was surprised. The other guys in my squad made fun of it at first, but they got on the band wagon when I passed it around. From then we'd come to a town, and the guys would hunt down any of those knives they could. As well as any wine and women. This was before I met your grandma, of course. Well, I got real used to using those knives, and when I got to where our supply was, I got another knife, but I didn't like it as much as those Frenchie knives. After I got used to them, the regular knife felt heavy and clumsy. So I came home with a bunch of Opinel's, and been using them ever since."
The boy looked at the knife where it was stuck in the log. The old man saw him looking, and nodded, and the boy pulled out the knife and balanced it in his hand. Again, he felt the lightness of it, and how well the wood handle felt in his grasp. Gently, with a great deal of caution, the boy felt the edge. He felt the way the razor edge grabbed almost eagerly at the ridges of his thumb print. He saw that the locking ring had not been turned, and he looked up at his grandfather questioningly.
"I don't use the lock a heck of a lot. When I first started using those Opinel's, none of them had a lock. They were called friction folders. They didn't add the lock until 1955. They are used just like a regular pocket knife, since the action of cutting keeps it open. And I grew to like it better than the knives I grew up with. Working around on the farm, I have gloves on a lot of the time, and the Opinel I can open without taking my work gloves off. You use the knock."
"What's the knock, grandpa?" the boy asked.
The old man grinned, and took the knife and pushed the blade closed. Then slowly so the boy could see what he was doing, held the knife with the blade facing down. He then knocked the butt of the knife against the log they were sitting on, and the blade popped out a bit. Then the old man shifted his grip on the wood handle and used the point of the knife against the log to pull open the blade as he pivoted the handle.
"See boy? Easy as pie.With no spring working against ya, it's really easy to open one of these knives, and if your hand slips, the blade won't snap back and cut you the way that knife did to ya last fall. "
The old man handed the knife back to the boy, and let him whittle on some sticks for a bit. The boy liked how easy the blade slid through the wood, making almost translucent curls of white wood. The round handle felt good in his young hand, and he wrapped his fingers around the knife it felt secure in his grasp. Slowly, he pushed the blade closed, feeling how it was one steady push, with no sudden grabbing of a spring. Then he slowly pulled the blade open, again feeling nothing but a steady pressure, and he stopped halfway to open, and the blade stayed right there until he got a better grip on the blade, and his small young hands could pull it all the way open.
"It's a little stiff for me, grandpa." the boy said.
"Well, I got it snugged up good so I can just use it like a friction folder. I figure if old Joseph Opinel and his company made them for 75 years before adding the locking ring, that's a heck of a lot of French farmers and day workers using them. Who am I to question that kind of success. So most of the time I don't use it."
The boy was quiet, and then he asked the inevitable question.
"Grandpa, when can I have an Opinel?"
The old man looked the boy over carefully.
"How old are ya now, pup?" he asked he boy.
"Aw grandpa, you know I'm almost 10 now."
The old man thought carefully as he put away the gear from their lunch. "I tell ya what, I'll have a talk with your dad when he picks you up tonight. Until then, you be careful with it and hold onto my knife until then."
The boy was thunder struck. It was as if he were being entrusted with a priceless treasure, and in a small way he was. He stuck the knife deep down in his pocket, and they hiked back to the truck, the old man smiled and pretended not to notice how the boy kept slipping his hand into the pocket to feel the knife, and make sure it was staying put. That night, he spoke with his son.
"I don't know, dad. Does he need a knife at 10 years old?" the boys father asked.
"How old were you, bonehead? As I recall, it was about the same time." the old man told his son.
An agreement was reached, and the boy swore a solemn oath to never carry ti to school, be careful and use it only as the old man had taught him.
"Okay boy, you go ahead and take that one. I got a spare around here someplace. I now it's a good one because I've worked it over real good." his grandfather told him.
"But grandpa, are you sure you want to give me your own knife?"
"Sure pup. You go and take it, but take good care of it for me." He told the boy.
The boy threw his arms around the old man.
"I love you grandpa." he said.
"And I love you too, pup."
They left, and the the old man went over to a kitchen drawer, and upon opening it, he took out an identical Opinel. His silver haired wife watched him with a smile.
"You old faker. You let that boy think he was getting a special knife. Why, you must have a dozen or two floating around here. You sand them down and make a project out of doing a new one almost every week."
The old man just smiled, as he put the other Opinel in his pants pocket.
"But he is getting a special knife. He's getting his first pocket knife from his dear old grandpa. That's gonna be special for a long long time. "
"That's nature giving us a serenade to eat by, boy. This is a good spot for lunch." the old man said, taking off his pack.
The boy sat down on a fallen tree truck where his grandfather pointed, and waited anxiously for his lunch. As much as he was hungry though, he loved watching the old man work with his knife. The boy had been going on hikes with his grandfather for a couple of years now, and the old man had taught him deer tracks and raccoon and possum, and even one cold winters day, some bobcat tracks. But now he would see the old man use his fish tale knife.
It was a little bigger than most pocket knives, with a dark stained wood handle that was shaped like what the boy called a fish tale. A single thin blade folded out, and was locked by a ring that the old man would sometimes turn, but not all the time. That it was sharp as a razor was evident in the way it glided though the hard roll of salami that the old man would put on the sourdough rolls that the boys grandmother had baked just the morning. On the occasions that the old man had let the boy handle the knife, the boy was always surprised at how light weight it was. Now his grandfather was slicing up lunch with the fish tale knife like he always did. The old man held to the belief that a sandwich was best when made up fresh, not wrapped up for hours in some plastic. He handed the boy a sandwich and then stuck the knife in the log they were sitting on.
"Here ya go pup, eat up." he said, as the boy took the food.
As they sat and listened to the rush of the wind in the pines, the old man poured out some hot sweet tea from a old dented up thermos into two beat up tin cups to go with the fresh made sandwiches.
"Ain't it nice to have mother nature serenade us with such beautiful music?" he said.
The boy nodded, and then had a question for the old man.
"Grandpa, how come you always carry that same kind of knife? I only see you with that kind of knife, and you have them in different sizes."
"Well pup, when I tried one out, it kind of impressed me more than a lot of the other knives, and it kind of became a habit."
"When did you first get one?" the boy asked.
The old man was quiet for a little, then simple said, "Back during the war. It was in France, and I'd lost my pocket knife. We got to this little town and those folks were sure glad to see us. Well, there was lots of wine and champagne floating around, but I went looking for a shop where I could find a knife. I found this little place, and they had some knives like I'd never seen before. No springs, no liners, I didn't think much of them. Asked the guy behind the counter if they had anything better. Well pup, you'd of thought I insulted his wife and mother both! Gave me an earful I tell ya. He then gave me one. Then he said if I didn't like it, just give it away to someone. Well, I took it, and I thought beggars can't be choosy. I tried to give him something for it, but he wouldn't take anything. He just said since we had liberated his town, he wouldn't take anything from me, even if I had been insulting."
The old man paused and chuckled.
"Well boy, the big joke was on me. I took that knife, and stuck it in my pocket, and I used the heck out of it. I didn't think it would hold up, but I was surprised. The other guys in my squad made fun of it at first, but they got on the band wagon when I passed it around. From then we'd come to a town, and the guys would hunt down any of those knives they could. As well as any wine and women. This was before I met your grandma, of course. Well, I got real used to using those knives, and when I got to where our supply was, I got another knife, but I didn't like it as much as those Frenchie knives. After I got used to them, the regular knife felt heavy and clumsy. So I came home with a bunch of Opinel's, and been using them ever since."
The boy looked at the knife where it was stuck in the log. The old man saw him looking, and nodded, and the boy pulled out the knife and balanced it in his hand. Again, he felt the lightness of it, and how well the wood handle felt in his grasp. Gently, with a great deal of caution, the boy felt the edge. He felt the way the razor edge grabbed almost eagerly at the ridges of his thumb print. He saw that the locking ring had not been turned, and he looked up at his grandfather questioningly.
"I don't use the lock a heck of a lot. When I first started using those Opinel's, none of them had a lock. They were called friction folders. They didn't add the lock until 1955. They are used just like a regular pocket knife, since the action of cutting keeps it open. And I grew to like it better than the knives I grew up with. Working around on the farm, I have gloves on a lot of the time, and the Opinel I can open without taking my work gloves off. You use the knock."
"What's the knock, grandpa?" the boy asked.
The old man grinned, and took the knife and pushed the blade closed. Then slowly so the boy could see what he was doing, held the knife with the blade facing down. He then knocked the butt of the knife against the log they were sitting on, and the blade popped out a bit. Then the old man shifted his grip on the wood handle and used the point of the knife against the log to pull open the blade as he pivoted the handle.
"See boy? Easy as pie.With no spring working against ya, it's really easy to open one of these knives, and if your hand slips, the blade won't snap back and cut you the way that knife did to ya last fall. "
The old man handed the knife back to the boy, and let him whittle on some sticks for a bit. The boy liked how easy the blade slid through the wood, making almost translucent curls of white wood. The round handle felt good in his young hand, and he wrapped his fingers around the knife it felt secure in his grasp. Slowly, he pushed the blade closed, feeling how it was one steady push, with no sudden grabbing of a spring. Then he slowly pulled the blade open, again feeling nothing but a steady pressure, and he stopped halfway to open, and the blade stayed right there until he got a better grip on the blade, and his small young hands could pull it all the way open.
"It's a little stiff for me, grandpa." the boy said.
"Well, I got it snugged up good so I can just use it like a friction folder. I figure if old Joseph Opinel and his company made them for 75 years before adding the locking ring, that's a heck of a lot of French farmers and day workers using them. Who am I to question that kind of success. So most of the time I don't use it."
The boy was quiet, and then he asked the inevitable question.
"Grandpa, when can I have an Opinel?"
The old man looked the boy over carefully.
"How old are ya now, pup?" he asked he boy.
"Aw grandpa, you know I'm almost 10 now."
The old man thought carefully as he put away the gear from their lunch. "I tell ya what, I'll have a talk with your dad when he picks you up tonight. Until then, you be careful with it and hold onto my knife until then."
The boy was thunder struck. It was as if he were being entrusted with a priceless treasure, and in a small way he was. He stuck the knife deep down in his pocket, and they hiked back to the truck, the old man smiled and pretended not to notice how the boy kept slipping his hand into the pocket to feel the knife, and make sure it was staying put. That night, he spoke with his son.
"I don't know, dad. Does he need a knife at 10 years old?" the boys father asked.
"How old were you, bonehead? As I recall, it was about the same time." the old man told his son.
An agreement was reached, and the boy swore a solemn oath to never carry ti to school, be careful and use it only as the old man had taught him.
"Okay boy, you go ahead and take that one. I got a spare around here someplace. I now it's a good one because I've worked it over real good." his grandfather told him.
"But grandpa, are you sure you want to give me your own knife?"
"Sure pup. You go and take it, but take good care of it for me." He told the boy.
The boy threw his arms around the old man.
"I love you grandpa." he said.
"And I love you too, pup."
They left, and the the old man went over to a kitchen drawer, and upon opening it, he took out an identical Opinel. His silver haired wife watched him with a smile.
"You old faker. You let that boy think he was getting a special knife. Why, you must have a dozen or two floating around here. You sand them down and make a project out of doing a new one almost every week."
The old man just smiled, as he put the other Opinel in his pants pocket.
"But he is getting a special knife. He's getting his first pocket knife from his dear old grandpa. That's gonna be special for a long long time. "
