Once upon a time, there was this peanut. It came off the line at Case just like another pocket knife, with the sole exception that it had been fitted with damascus blades made by someone caviled Devon Thomas. The little 'nut didn't feel any different than the other nuts, and in time was shipped off to a dealer and sold. The little knife was eager to serve, and was looking forward to a long relationship with a new owner. But it was not to be yet.
The new owner carried the little knife for while, once in a while. But there was no bonding, no great love for it. Eventually it got tossed in the sock drawer with some other pocket knives and other odds and ends. The peanut was sad and neglected. He had no idea how long the exile would last, and why the new owner didn't like him. It was a depressing situation. Then he was taken out one day, and put in a box and shipped off. This was scary, not knowing where he was being shipped off to, or whom. It was dark and bumpy, the box being tossed around, and moved a lot. Then one day the box was opened and light of day flooded in. An older man was looking down at the 'nut, and the knife was taken out and handled. No, handled is not quite right, more like lovingly caressed. The man with the white beard looked the peanut over carefully, examining all sides and angles. Then he opened the blades one by one. He remarked that he'd never had a damascus bladed knife, and proceeded to cut some twine, slice some newsprint, and muttered positive excaimations. The little 'nut, eager to please, least he end up in another sock drawer, bit right into the material being cut. The toothy damascus blade cut the twine with a vengeance, grabbing and cutting with the multi metal edge. The man was impressed. Then came a little clear gun oil on a match end, the inside corners of the blade tang getting swabbed. The man looked down on his new knife and muttered, "My Precious!".
It became a friendship. The peanut was dropped in a pocket and carried day after day. The days turned into weeks, then months. Then a year passed. Then another year. Once in a while, another knife was tried, but it was always the peanut that ended up in the pocket. Life was good, and the little pocket knife was always eager to please. Twine? No problem, it's done. Opening the accursed plastic blister packages that everything in the world seems to be contained in? They were toast. Finis. Done for. Only once in a very long while, the peanut had to remind the man that it was not toy. If it was handled in a careless manner, a little nip brought things back to reality. A drop of bright crimson blood on a finger was a reminder, that it may be small, but it's a serious knife. The owner, impressed with the knife, wrote a manifesto on the care and handling of peanut's. The jigged bone scales grew smoother from the handling, and the owner sometimes slipped a hand into the pocket and stroked the bone handles like a worry stone.
All was well for a few years. Then one day, a strange knife arrived. It had honey blond horn for a handle, and a slim pointy blade, and was a sexy looking little thing from the land called Sardinia. It slid into the pocket next to the peanut, and the little peanut didn't like the new stranger right off the bat. It didn't like the way the owner held the new comer in his hand and admired it's slim lines, light weight. But the crusher came when the peanut, the one called "My Precious" was put in the sock drawer, and left. It was a sad time for the little nut. The new knife from a far off land had taken over the top spot in the man's right hand pocket. After a couple of years of steady carry, it was a betrayel.
But all was not lost. One day, the peanut heard a lot of activity. The drawer opened, and socks were taken. Other drawers were opened and clothing of all types was taken and packed into large nylon duffle bags. A trip was being taken, and the peanut languished, deep in the misery of knowing that it was being left behind in favor of the new comer with the honey blond horn handle from over seas. The peanut tried to imagine how long it would be left in the sock drawer before being discarded and falling into the hands of a stranger who would not care about it. Maybe even pry with it and break a blade. Misery.
Then a miracle happened. The drawer was yanked open quickly, and the man put the horn handle temptress in the drawer, and grabbed the peanut. The little knife was dropped in a pocket, and out they went. Freedom! Bags in the house foyer were loaded into the trunk of a car, and the man and peanut got in and closed the door and they were off on what was to be the peanut's big adventure. How long, and how far they would travel, the peanut had no idea. But over the next days, then weeks, they covered thousands of miles. The man drove for many hours a day, sometimes from the faint crack of dawn, to the darkening dusk. The man's better half sometimes reclined her seat in the car and slept, and while driving in quite, the man would sometimes slip a hand in the pocket and take out the knife and stroke the amber bone scales like a worry stone. They stopped at homes of family, sometimes spent a night at a motel. They hiked in mountains, traveled bleak deserts, and even went down in deep cavern's that the peanut heard the man call "Carlsbad". It was a dark and damp place, and the peanut hoped the man would not let the cave's moisture rust the damascus blades. The best of all was, the peanut got called on to many cutting jobs along the way. It even helped with dinner a few times they were at a family members house where there was no sharp cutlery. Salad got made with the peanut slicing up bell peppers, tomato's, and some other things. A hot dog stick was whittled in the chilly California mountains at a place called Lake Arrowhead. A large bag of charcoal was sliced open. A large fillet of salmon was sliced up to be marinated and grilled.
In the end, the peanut came home with his owner, and was treated to some slow strokes on a stone, and then a nice stropping. Some gun oil on a paper match got put in the right place, and a final stroke of a thumb on the jigged bone scales. When the man emptied his pockets to toss the pants in the wash, the peanut was put with the other knives for a time. The peanut told them of the adventure, and it was a tale of sun bleached desert, stark mountains, and deep dark caverns under the earth. All the other knives were impressed, and even the honey blond horn handled Sardinian slipped a little closer and expressed her awe of the journey. The peanut, thinking it over, decided that the honey horn handle number wasn't so bad after all, and he didn't mind sharing a pocket with her once in a while.
The new owner carried the little knife for while, once in a while. But there was no bonding, no great love for it. Eventually it got tossed in the sock drawer with some other pocket knives and other odds and ends. The peanut was sad and neglected. He had no idea how long the exile would last, and why the new owner didn't like him. It was a depressing situation. Then he was taken out one day, and put in a box and shipped off. This was scary, not knowing where he was being shipped off to, or whom. It was dark and bumpy, the box being tossed around, and moved a lot. Then one day the box was opened and light of day flooded in. An older man was looking down at the 'nut, and the knife was taken out and handled. No, handled is not quite right, more like lovingly caressed. The man with the white beard looked the peanut over carefully, examining all sides and angles. Then he opened the blades one by one. He remarked that he'd never had a damascus bladed knife, and proceeded to cut some twine, slice some newsprint, and muttered positive excaimations. The little 'nut, eager to please, least he end up in another sock drawer, bit right into the material being cut. The toothy damascus blade cut the twine with a vengeance, grabbing and cutting with the multi metal edge. The man was impressed. Then came a little clear gun oil on a match end, the inside corners of the blade tang getting swabbed. The man looked down on his new knife and muttered, "My Precious!".
It became a friendship. The peanut was dropped in a pocket and carried day after day. The days turned into weeks, then months. Then a year passed. Then another year. Once in a while, another knife was tried, but it was always the peanut that ended up in the pocket. Life was good, and the little pocket knife was always eager to please. Twine? No problem, it's done. Opening the accursed plastic blister packages that everything in the world seems to be contained in? They were toast. Finis. Done for. Only once in a very long while, the peanut had to remind the man that it was not toy. If it was handled in a careless manner, a little nip brought things back to reality. A drop of bright crimson blood on a finger was a reminder, that it may be small, but it's a serious knife. The owner, impressed with the knife, wrote a manifesto on the care and handling of peanut's. The jigged bone scales grew smoother from the handling, and the owner sometimes slipped a hand into the pocket and stroked the bone handles like a worry stone.
All was well for a few years. Then one day, a strange knife arrived. It had honey blond horn for a handle, and a slim pointy blade, and was a sexy looking little thing from the land called Sardinia. It slid into the pocket next to the peanut, and the little peanut didn't like the new stranger right off the bat. It didn't like the way the owner held the new comer in his hand and admired it's slim lines, light weight. But the crusher came when the peanut, the one called "My Precious" was put in the sock drawer, and left. It was a sad time for the little nut. The new knife from a far off land had taken over the top spot in the man's right hand pocket. After a couple of years of steady carry, it was a betrayel.
But all was not lost. One day, the peanut heard a lot of activity. The drawer opened, and socks were taken. Other drawers were opened and clothing of all types was taken and packed into large nylon duffle bags. A trip was being taken, and the peanut languished, deep in the misery of knowing that it was being left behind in favor of the new comer with the honey blond horn handle from over seas. The peanut tried to imagine how long it would be left in the sock drawer before being discarded and falling into the hands of a stranger who would not care about it. Maybe even pry with it and break a blade. Misery.
Then a miracle happened. The drawer was yanked open quickly, and the man put the horn handle temptress in the drawer, and grabbed the peanut. The little knife was dropped in a pocket, and out they went. Freedom! Bags in the house foyer were loaded into the trunk of a car, and the man and peanut got in and closed the door and they were off on what was to be the peanut's big adventure. How long, and how far they would travel, the peanut had no idea. But over the next days, then weeks, they covered thousands of miles. The man drove for many hours a day, sometimes from the faint crack of dawn, to the darkening dusk. The man's better half sometimes reclined her seat in the car and slept, and while driving in quite, the man would sometimes slip a hand in the pocket and take out the knife and stroke the amber bone scales like a worry stone. They stopped at homes of family, sometimes spent a night at a motel. They hiked in mountains, traveled bleak deserts, and even went down in deep cavern's that the peanut heard the man call "Carlsbad". It was a dark and damp place, and the peanut hoped the man would not let the cave's moisture rust the damascus blades. The best of all was, the peanut got called on to many cutting jobs along the way. It even helped with dinner a few times they were at a family members house where there was no sharp cutlery. Salad got made with the peanut slicing up bell peppers, tomato's, and some other things. A hot dog stick was whittled in the chilly California mountains at a place called Lake Arrowhead. A large bag of charcoal was sliced open. A large fillet of salmon was sliced up to be marinated and grilled.
In the end, the peanut came home with his owner, and was treated to some slow strokes on a stone, and then a nice stropping. Some gun oil on a paper match got put in the right place, and a final stroke of a thumb on the jigged bone scales. When the man emptied his pockets to toss the pants in the wash, the peanut was put with the other knives for a time. The peanut told them of the adventure, and it was a tale of sun bleached desert, stark mountains, and deep dark caverns under the earth. All the other knives were impressed, and even the honey blond horn handled Sardinian slipped a little closer and expressed her awe of the journey. The peanut, thinking it over, decided that the honey horn handle number wasn't so bad after all, and he didn't mind sharing a pocket with her once in a while.
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. Oh well, if they are less used now, then they will still be good for the future and eventually be in other hands and they will one day get the chance to be someone's only knife...
Good story Carl.
