Your Dad's Knife
- Thread starter clearkevin
- Start date
Only knife I recall my dad carrying on a regular is the Buck 110. He had a gold bolstered one until I got him the 110 Pro with silver bolsters just over 20 years ago. I dont know if thats the exact model, may have been different back then. I didnt know about knives like I do now, I just know the one I got him was the same as his 110 except silver.
Theres honestly too many memories of him with his knife to remember. But every pair of pants he has has the imprint of that knife in the back right pocket. For the most part, Ive taken this trip on my own. His knife is just a tool and he probably doesnt even know the steel of the knife hes carried for the last 25 years. But its always shave sharp.
Theres honestly too many memories of him with his knife to remember. But every pair of pants he has has the imprint of that knife in the back right pocket. For the most part, Ive taken this trip on my own. His knife is just a tool and he probably doesnt even know the steel of the knife hes carried for the last 25 years. But its always shave sharp.
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My dad never carried a knife in daily life, but he always had a pair of nail clippers and a P-38 can opener on his keychain. He carried a Kabar on his shoulder when he went out with the Marines and carried a Buck 110 in his Unit 1 medical kit for the same. Later in life he started carrying a Spyderco Paramilitary after seeing my Endura.
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My dad never left the house without a pocket knife. The Marine knife and Old Crafty were a couple of survivors that belonged to him.
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It was cool and rainin when I set out at 8:00 am with my mom to deliver the letters for a request for a variance to put two apartments on the second floor of a Firehouse my old man had just bought.
I was fifteen then, it was 1975, Saturday, October 25th, I was into my second year of HS, goin to a High Class Private School on a scholarship.
Everything was great, almost everything, I should have been on that plane, I should have been the one going Up State NY to the camp to close it up for the winter, usually wed sneak a little preseason hunting, deer, bear and whatever else we could shoot.
Yup it shouldve been me but it wasnt, I had goofed around at school a little too much that semester, the wrestling team was getting ready to go to the USSR that year for a goodwill match and we, I wasnt keepin' my grades up, so I got a B- in physics, my old man wouldnt let me go this time, I could use the week to study and deliver the variance letters with my mom, he gave me a hug and said well sneak up in a couple weeks and finish closin' up and do some huntin'.
That was the last time I saw him, Friday night before he left with five other friends and pseudo family members on a so called huntin' trip/end of year camp closin', the property once belonged to the Rockefellers and then a very wealthy friend of the family bought it, the only way in was by boat, nine miles up the Stillwater Reservoir, or by plane to a half mile runway I helped carve out of the woods with my old man, there was a road that took us 28 days to carve through the woods with a Cat D-9 and a few other pieces of road building equipment but thats another adventure.
Still it shouldve been me goin' but it wasnt, the plane was a brand new Piper Twin Engine Aztec E series, back then one of the more advanced planes out there, The Doctor who owned the plane and the camp was a pilot and certified to train commercial airline pilots, my old mad had countless hours flying time and tons of solo time, (he also had his pilots licence), it was cold and rainey when they left at 6:00 am that mornin' from Solberg a little airport in Jersey.
All day I pissed and moaned because I was stuck deliverin these stupid letters it was goin on 12 noon when we finally headed home, my old man was probably openin' up the lodge and startin a fire, turnin on the propane tanks for light and gettin ready to head out to our favorite deer run to check out the signs.
The night before, I helped him pack while he explained to me yet again why I couldnt go this time, he took my 308 bolt action Savage, his S&W 38 cal. Detective Special, his 44 magnum, a double barrel 12 gauge shotgun and two sheath knives, one was a Kabar fixed blade, like the ones you see them openin crates with in the old WW2 movies and the other was a split tang Edge Brand 10-12 Bowie knife with a Stag handle. He threw these into his duffle bag along with his huntin clothes and other survival necessities, hell hed be back in a week.
As we turned the corner to our street I thought I heard the guy on the radio say somethin about a small plane crash in NJ, my mom clicked off the radio just as we pulled up to the house.
My uncles truck was parked in front of the house, I thought this was kinda odd but I followed my mom into the house just in time to hear her scream and start wailin, I wasnt sure what my uncle told her but I knew it couldnt be good.
My mom stumbled over to me and grabbed on and said, Your fathers dead, theyre all dead . the plane crashed and theyre all gone, then my uncle told her she needed to identify his body, so she left, she left a 15 year old boy who was closer to his father than anyone else, after tellin him his best friend was dead, she left him alone in the house, standin in the doorway sobbin.
The next week was a blur with funeral after funeral six in all, investigators from the insurance companies and the FAA, newspapers tv reporters, it was a circus and that 15 year old boy had to grow up quick that year.
Around spring I remember my mom askin me to go to the police station with her to pick up the guns and knives they recovered from the plane crash, they handed her several bags and a some gun parts, in one bag was the blade of the Kabar, apparently the knife was on his belt and when the plane hit the ground the blade went into his hip and the blade snapped, I still have the broken blade and then there was the Bowie, my mom kept that.
She eventually gave me the knife back in the early 80s but it was packed away and never seen again, till a few weeks ago, I was goin through an old toolbox of his I inherited after he died and there wrapped in paper was the knife a little rusty and kinda pitted but Ill be damned there it was, a little clean up with some steel wool and she was almost as good as new, the leather spacers had shrunk a little leavin the pommel a little loose but all in all still in good shape and still sharp as heck.
I was fifteen then, it was 1975, Saturday, October 25th, I was into my second year of HS, goin to a High Class Private School on a scholarship.
Everything was great, almost everything, I should have been on that plane, I should have been the one going Up State NY to the camp to close it up for the winter, usually wed sneak a little preseason hunting, deer, bear and whatever else we could shoot.
Yup it shouldve been me but it wasnt, I had goofed around at school a little too much that semester, the wrestling team was getting ready to go to the USSR that year for a goodwill match and we, I wasnt keepin' my grades up, so I got a B- in physics, my old man wouldnt let me go this time, I could use the week to study and deliver the variance letters with my mom, he gave me a hug and said well sneak up in a couple weeks and finish closin' up and do some huntin'.
That was the last time I saw him, Friday night before he left with five other friends and pseudo family members on a so called huntin' trip/end of year camp closin', the property once belonged to the Rockefellers and then a very wealthy friend of the family bought it, the only way in was by boat, nine miles up the Stillwater Reservoir, or by plane to a half mile runway I helped carve out of the woods with my old man, there was a road that took us 28 days to carve through the woods with a Cat D-9 and a few other pieces of road building equipment but thats another adventure.
Still it shouldve been me goin' but it wasnt, the plane was a brand new Piper Twin Engine Aztec E series, back then one of the more advanced planes out there, The Doctor who owned the plane and the camp was a pilot and certified to train commercial airline pilots, my old mad had countless hours flying time and tons of solo time, (he also had his pilots licence), it was cold and rainey when they left at 6:00 am that mornin' from Solberg a little airport in Jersey.
All day I pissed and moaned because I was stuck deliverin these stupid letters it was goin on 12 noon when we finally headed home, my old man was probably openin' up the lodge and startin a fire, turnin on the propane tanks for light and gettin ready to head out to our favorite deer run to check out the signs.
The night before, I helped him pack while he explained to me yet again why I couldnt go this time, he took my 308 bolt action Savage, his S&W 38 cal. Detective Special, his 44 magnum, a double barrel 12 gauge shotgun and two sheath knives, one was a Kabar fixed blade, like the ones you see them openin crates with in the old WW2 movies and the other was a split tang Edge Brand 10-12 Bowie knife with a Stag handle. He threw these into his duffle bag along with his huntin clothes and other survival necessities, hell hed be back in a week.
As we turned the corner to our street I thought I heard the guy on the radio say somethin about a small plane crash in NJ, my mom clicked off the radio just as we pulled up to the house.
My uncles truck was parked in front of the house, I thought this was kinda odd but I followed my mom into the house just in time to hear her scream and start wailin, I wasnt sure what my uncle told her but I knew it couldnt be good.
My mom stumbled over to me and grabbed on and said, Your fathers dead, theyre all dead . the plane crashed and theyre all gone, then my uncle told her she needed to identify his body, so she left, she left a 15 year old boy who was closer to his father than anyone else, after tellin him his best friend was dead, she left him alone in the house, standin in the doorway sobbin.
The next week was a blur with funeral after funeral six in all, investigators from the insurance companies and the FAA, newspapers tv reporters, it was a circus and that 15 year old boy had to grow up quick that year.
Around spring I remember my mom askin me to go to the police station with her to pick up the guns and knives they recovered from the plane crash, they handed her several bags and a some gun parts, in one bag was the blade of the Kabar, apparently the knife was on his belt and when the plane hit the ground the blade went into his hip and the blade snapped, I still have the broken blade and then there was the Bowie, my mom kept that.
She eventually gave me the knife back in the early 80s but it was packed away and never seen again, till a few weeks ago, I was goin through an old toolbox of his I inherited after he died and there wrapped in paper was the knife a little rusty and kinda pitted but Ill be damned there it was, a little clean up with some steel wool and she was almost as good as new, the leather spacers had shrunk a little leavin the pommel a little loose but all in all still in good shape and still sharp as heck.
Both my grandpas carried Schrade 3 blade stockmans.
My dad always had a knife but hes rough on them and constantly misplacing them. He carried whatever the local stores had that caught his eye and was fairly cheap for a long time. I finally gave him a Buck 284 Bantam one day and hes carried one ever since think hes on number 3 or 4. I order him a new one every year or so
My dad always had a knife but hes rough on them and constantly misplacing them. He carried whatever the local stores had that caught his eye and was fairly cheap for a long time. I finally gave him a Buck 284 Bantam one day and hes carried one ever since think hes on number 3 or 4. I order him a new one every year or so
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Could have, would have, should have^. I feel for you T. Erdelyi. I was working on a job site 2 miles from my family's house and for a week straight I would drive past it saying to myself that "I should stop by and say hello" but I was ether too tired or Life was too busy today so Ill stop by tomorrow. Friday comes and on my way home a quarter mile from his house I get the call from my mom crying telling me that my dad just fell down the stairs into the basement and the fire department was on the way. I got their just in time to see him getting loaded into the ambulance and two police officers and a fireman weeping and saluting my farther as he passed them on the stretcher. You see my farther was a bit of a war hero and was well known and deeply respected around town having served in the Marines in Korea. He was a cross between John Wayne and Don Rickles with his looks and sense of humor and donated hours of his free time from three jobs "Town machine operator, Scuba instructor, and upholsterer" Scuba diving to recover sunken cars, guns, and even a boxcar full of valuable Caviar that derailed into a local lake. I can also remember on more than one occasion watching him from the shore of a newly frozen lake while he searched for someones son or daughter who had fallen through the ice. He was one of the only guys around for 50 miles who Scuba dived and he use to instruct lessons on the weekends but the local FD and PD knew they could depend on him and he never hesitated to help out. I was a scared young boy of 5 when I asked him why He had to do it and he explained to me how important it was to the family to get the child's body back so they could grieve and that he was the only one around that could do it. A couple of those family's sent Christmas cards for years thanking him for what he had did for them and eventually he put together a Search and rescue plan for the town and state to traine officers and Firemen in underwater recovery Free of charge. If you were flying over Natick Mass on the day of his funeral you would have thought a president was getting laid to rest with a funeral procession of hundreds of cars weaving threw the town with the Hurst stopping at the War Memorial park that he helped design, plan, and solicit money for it's renovation with the local veterans organizations. He told me that he made a promise that if he made it out of the war alive he was going to make sure his fallen buddy's would not be forgotten and he was always a man of his word. I never realized growing up as a kid what a huge impact he made on the community or the fact that my farther was a War hero/rock star, to me he was just the coolest dad on the block. What got me hooked on knives "again" was that my youngest son was rummaging threw my attic and came across some boxes of his belongings that I could never get myself to open and he discovered a box with an assortment of his knifes. Explaining the different knives to him helped soften my pain of my dads passing "ten years ago" and helped him understand the grandfather that he was too young to remember. I wish I could talk to dad now about my rekindled knife hobby because after reflecting with my son that day over that box of knives made me realize that on top of all his cool skills and hobby's he was also a knife nut but I was just too close to notice it. I'll never forgive myself for not stopping by earlier that week. These are his diving knives and a few of his EDC pocket knives my son discovered.
Last edited:
Byrom Hermo
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My dad doesn’t carry a knife. He gave me my first one when I was in 2nd grade. I don’t think he ever understood why I got into it. He tried, like 20 years ago. He ended up with several Case Peanuts and like sized mini folders but never ended up carrying one. Didn’t like having a knife in his pocket. His dad, my grandfather, always carried a knife. That’s where I got it from.
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Dad’s knife was a Schmidt and Ziegler peanut that he purchased sometime in the mid-60s, when I was a tot. The main blade was broken at some time relatively early in its life, and most of the cutting chores Dad had to do for the next 30-40 years as a country parson and part-time farmer were performed with that tiny pen blade, which was eventually sharpened into a Wharncliffe.
A few years ago that overworked blade finally gave up the ghost, and Dad asked me if I could locate a replacement. I found a Ka-Bar of similar appearance and vintage and traded him for it. This is the most useless knife I own, but it will be passed down to my own son.
A few years ago that overworked blade finally gave up the ghost, and Dad asked me if I could locate a replacement. I found a Ka-Bar of similar appearance and vintage and traded him for it. This is the most useless knife I own, but it will be passed down to my own son.
MolokaiRider
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It was cool and rainin when I set out at 8:00 am with my mom to deliver the letters for a request for a variance to put two apartments on the second floor of a Firehouse my old man had just bought.
I was fifteen then, it was 1975, Saturday, October 25th, I was into my second year of HS, goin to a High Class Private School on a scholarship.
Everything was great, almost everything, I should have been on that plane, I should have been the one going Up State NY to the camp to close it up for the winter, usually wed sneak a little preseason hunting, deer, bear and whatever else we could shoot.
Yup it shouldve been me but it wasnt, I had goofed around at school a little too much that semester, the wrestling team was getting ready to go to the USSR that year for a goodwill match and we, I wasnt keepin' my grades up, so I got a B- in physics, my old man wouldnt let me go this time, I could use the week to study and deliver the variance letters with my mom, he gave me a hug and said well sneak up in a couple weeks and finish closin' up and do some huntin'.
That was the last time I saw him, Friday night before he left with five other friends and pseudo family members on a so called huntin' trip/end of year camp closin', the property once belonged to the Rockefellers and then a very wealthy friend of the family bought it, the only way in was by boat, nine miles up the Stillwater Reservoir, or by plane to a half mile runway I helped carve out of the woods with my old man, there was a road that took us 28 days to carve through the woods with a Cat D-9 and a few other pieces of road building equipment but thats another adventure.
Still it shouldve been me goin' but it wasnt, the plane was a brand new Piper Twin Engine Aztec E series, back then one of the more advanced planes out there, The Doctor who owned the plane and the camp was a pilot and certified to train commercial airline pilots, my old mad had countless hours flying time and tons of solo time, (he also had his pilots licence), it was cold and rainey when they left at 6:00 am that mornin' from Solberg a little airport in Jersey.
All day I pissed and moaned because I was stuck deliverin these stupid letters it was goin on 12 noon when we finally headed home, my old man was probably openin' up the lodge and startin a fire, turnin on the propane tanks for light and gettin ready to head out to our favorite deer run to check out the signs.
The night before, I helped him pack while he explained to me yet again why I couldnt go this time, he took my 308 bolt action Savage, his S&W 38 cal. Detective Special, his 44 magnum, a double barrel 12 gauge shotgun and two sheath knives, one was a Kabar fixed blade, like the ones you see them openin crates with in the old WW2 movies and the other was a split tang Edge Brand 10-12 Bowie knife with a Stag handle. He threw these into his duffle bag along with his huntin clothes and other survival necessities, hell hed be back in a week.
As we turned the corner to our street I thought I heard the guy on the radio say somethin about a small plane crash in NJ, my mom clicked off the radio just as we pulled up to the house.
My uncles truck was parked in front of the house, I thought this was kinda odd but I followed my mom into the house just in time to hear her scream and start wailin, I wasnt sure what my uncle told her but I knew it couldnt be good.
My mom stumbled over to me and grabbed on and said, Your fathers dead, theyre all dead . the plane crashed and theyre all gone, then my uncle told her she needed to identify his body, so she left, she left a 15 year old boy who was closer to his father than anyone else, after tellin him his best friend was dead, she left him alone in the house, standin in the doorway sobbin.
The next week was a blur with funeral after funeral six in all, investigators from the insurance companies and the FAA, newspapers tv reporters, it was a circus and that 15 year old boy had to grow up quick that year.
Around spring I remember my mom askin me to go to the police station with her to pick up the guns and knives they recovered from the plane crash, they handed her several bags and a some gun parts, in one bag was the blade of the Kabar, apparently the knife was on his belt and when the plane hit the ground the blade went into his hip and the blade snapped, I still have the broken blade and then there was the Bowie, my mom kept that.
She eventually gave me the knife back in the early 80s but it was packed away and never seen again, till a few weeks ago, I was goin through an old toolbox of his I inherited after he died and there wrapped in paper was the knife a little rusty and kinda pitted but Ill be damned there it was, a little clean up with some steel wool and she was almost as good as new, the leather spacers had shrunk a little leavin the pommel a little loose but all in all still in good shape and still sharp as heck.
Fantastic read, thank you for sharing this story.
MolokaiRider
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Could have, would have, should have^. I feel for you T. Erdelyi. I was working on a job site 2 miles from my family's house and for a week straight I would drive past it saying to myself that "I should stop by and say hello" but I was ether too tired or Life was too busy today so Ill stop by tomorrow. Friday comes and on my way home a quarter mile from his house I get the call from my mom crying telling me that my dad just fell down the stairs into the basement and the fire department was on the way. I got their just in time to see him getting loaded into the ambulance and two police officers and a fireman weeping and saluting my farther as he passed them on the stretcher. You see my farther was a bit of a war hero and was well known and deeply respected around town having served in the Marines in Korea. He was a cross between John Wayne and Don Rickles with his looks and sense of humor and donated hours of his free time from three jobs "Town machine operator, Scuba instructor, and upholsterer" Scuba diving to recover sunken cars, guns, and even a boxcar full of valuable Caviar that derailed into a local lake. I can also remember on more than one occasion watching him from the shore of a newly frozen lake while he searched for someones son or daughter who had fallen through the ice. He was one of the only guys around for 50 miles who Scuba dived and he use to instruct lessons on the weekends but the local FD and PD knew they could depend on him and he never hesitated to help out. I was a scared young boy of 5 when I asked him why He had to do it and he explained to me how important it was to the family to get the child's body back so they could grieve and that he was the only one around that could do it. A couple of those family's sent Christmas cards for years thanking him for what he had did for them and eventually he put together a Search and rescue plan for the town and state to traine officers and Firemen in underwater recovery Free of charge. If you were flying over Natick Mass on the day of his funeral you would have thought a president was getting laid to rest with a funeral procession of hundreds of cars weaving threw the town with the Hurst stopping at the War Memorial park that he helped design, plan, and solicit money for it's renovation with the local veterans organizations. He told me that he made a promise that if he made it out of the war alive he was going to make sure his fallen buddy's would not be forgotten and he was always a man of his word. I never realized growing up as a kid what a huge impact he made on the community or the fact that my farther was a War hero/rock star, to me he was just the coolest dad on the block. What got me hooked on knives "again" was that my youngest son was rummaging threw my attic and came across some boxes of his belongings that I could never get myself to open and he discovered a box with an assortment of his knifes. Explaining the different knives to him helped soften my pain of my dads passing "ten years ago" and helped him understand the grandfather that he was too young to remember. I wish I could talk to dad now about my rekindled knife hobby because after reflecting with my son that day over that box of knives made me realize that on top of all his cool skills and hobby's he was also a knife nut but I was just too close to notice it. I'll never forgive myself for not stopping by earlier that week. These are his diving knives and a few of his EDC pocket knives my son discovered.
These stories remind me why inanimate objects can help us remember, and why we all share a common interest in our knives and such. Thanks for sharing.
Smaug
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- Jun 30, 2003
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- 1,797
Mine's not so exciting.
My dad carried a Wenger SAK (equivalent of a Spartan) until the mid- 80s.
Then, he decided all he needed was a Vic Classic, and carried that for the rest of his knife-wielding days. He's in a nursing home now, and not allowed to carry.
He took pride in minimizing his keychain. Toward the end, it was just the Classic and his car key. Not planning for any garage door opener issues...
My dad carried a Wenger SAK (equivalent of a Spartan) until the mid- 80s.
Then, he decided all he needed was a Vic Classic, and carried that for the rest of his knife-wielding days. He's in a nursing home now, and not allowed to carry.
He took pride in minimizing his keychain. Toward the end, it was just the Classic and his car key. Not planning for any garage door opener issues...
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- Feb 3, 2001
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- 32,293
Could have, would have, should have^. I feel for you T. Erdelyi. I was working on a job site 2 miles from my family's house and for a week straight I would drive past it saying to myself that "I should stop by and say hello" but I was ether too tired or Life was too busy today so Ill stop by tomorrow. Friday comes and on my way home a quarter mile from his house I get the call from my mom crying telling me that my dad just fell down the stairs into the basement and the fire department was on the way. I got their just in time to see him getting loaded into the ambulance and two police officers and a fireman weeping and saluting my farther as he passed them on the stretcher. You see my farther was a bit of a war hero and was well known and deeply respected around town having served in the Marines in Korea. He was a cross between John Wayne and Don Rickles with his looks and sense of humor and donated hours of his free time from three jobs "Town machine operator, Scuba instructor, and upholsterer" Scuba diving to recover sunken cars, guns, and even a boxcar full of valuable Caviar that derailed into a local lake. I can also remember on more than one occasion watching him from the shore of a newly frozen lake while he searched for someones son or daughter who had fallen through the ice. He was one of the only guys around for 50 miles who Scuba dived and he use to instruct lessons on the weekends but the local FD and PD knew they could depend on him and he never hesitated to help out. I was a scared young boy of 5 when I asked him why He had to do it and he explained to me how important it was to the family to get the child's body back so they could grieve and that he was the only one around that could do it. A couple of those family's sent Christmas cards for years thanking him for what he had did for them and eventually he put together a Search and rescue plan for the town and state to traine officers and Firemen in underwater recovery Free of charge. If you were flying over Natick Mass on the day of his funeral you would have thought a president was getting laid to rest with a funeral procession of hundreds of cars weaving threw the town with the Hurst stopping at the War Memorial park that he helped design, plan, and solicit money for it's renovation with the local veterans organizations. He told me that he made a promise that if he made it out of the war alive he was going to make sure his fallen buddy's would not be forgotten and he was always a man of his word. I never realized growing up as a kid what a huge impact he made on the community or the fact that my farther was a War hero/rock star, to me he was just the coolest dad on the block. What got me hooked on knives "again" was that my youngest son was rummaging threw my attic and came across some boxes of his belongings that I could never get myself to open and he discovered a box with an assortment of his knifes. Explaining the different knives to him helped soften my pain of my dads passing "ten years ago" and helped him understand the grandfather that he was too young to remember. I wish I could talk to dad now about my rekindled knife hobby because after reflecting with my son that day over that box of knives made me realize that on top of all his cool skills and hobby's he was also a knife nut but I was just too close to notice it. I'll never forgive myself for not stopping by earlier that week. These are his diving knives and a few of his EDC pocket knives my son discovered.
Thanks for sharing, tragig accidents taking a loved one is so different than watching someone with a terminal illness. Usually by the time they're ready to go we're sayin' things like,"...at least he's at peace now". When I last saw the Old Man he was perfectly fine, we were planning to go hunting in another couple of weeks. When he died I was left with nothing but questions. My greatest regret was that he never met my wife or granddaughter. I keep his memory alive by tellin' stories and sharing the things he taught me.
My Dad does not carry a knife unless he is going hiking. For this particular situation he carries a SAK made by the spanish brand AITOR (Gran Capitan model). He has had it for eons! So I should say that I have not been influenced by my family into the knives hobby.
Mikel
Mikel
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I have that knife, great hikin' knife for sure. Big enough to do most any job in the weeds but still pocket-able, with a lanyard to retrieve it.
I don't ever recall my Dad carrying a knife, however my brothers and I share his obsession with accumulating gadgets. I occasionally carried a SAK or Gerber Compact Scout knife until I went to visit my brother after his right hip replacement a couple of years ago and he had 6 or 8 folders. I thought that is really cool but why would he need that many? You only need one right?
I now have over 30 myself.
I now have over 30 myself.
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- Nov 20, 2005
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- 19,385
That is a sad story. Really sad and one of the reasons I pretty much won't fly in a small plane. Just not doing it. That limits me, but so be it. I feel for you even after 40+ years.
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My Dad had Alzheimer's for the last years of his life, he started sharpening knives down to nothing it was one of this first signs that something was wrong. Sadly I wasn't really into knives until after he passed away I often hold a really good knife and think how much he would appreciate something this well made or how cool it would be to gift him a good knife. I want to add that he was a sixth degree black belt who ran his own dojo for years. Now my son is taking Karate (the same style my Dad taught).