My boy got to carry his own pocket knife when he had demonstrated the
ability to keep his bench knife sharp and use it safely, maybe he was about
11. He probably had been using and sharpening his bench knife, which stayed
on his bench, for about 3 years, usually with my supervision and guidance.
In my own case my dad wouldn't give me a pocket knife and just wouldn't give
a pocket knife, and then later on he still wouldn't, always saying, "you'll
cut yourself." So, I determined to make one for myself and keep it hidden
away. I knew there were two secrets to making a pocket knife: The Stone and
The Rivet. The first was easy and the second was unfathomable. First, was
the old round grindstone that leaned up against the tree out in the front
yard. It was a flat white sandstone, about two feet across, and had a square
hole in the middle of it. This stone had the magic ability to turn dull grey
metal into a sharp steelly edge. I had seen my dad do it many times, as he
stepped out to visit with the neighbor, that I had it down by heart: Take
the knife out of your pocket and open it up, hooch down with your knee
against the stone, spit on the blade of the knife, and touch the blade to
the stone. It was the knee and the spit that made it work, I had seen it
with my own eyes, a bright steelly edge so sharp it could cleanly shave the
hair off the back of his hand, as he demonstrated for the neighbor so many
times.
The rivet was still a mystery. These were little pins of metal that held the
sides on the knife and provided a pivot for opening the blade. I could see
how the rivet worked, and for the longest time I wondered how to make one.
Then one day my dad and I were making a new stovepipe for the woodstove.
After cutting a square of sheet metal and forming it into a cylinder he
reached up and pulled down an old wooden cigar box, and said those magic
words, "now, we'll just rivet this seam right up." The cigar box held
several sizes and types of rivets and the all important rivet set, a steel
tool with holes and dimples of various sizes that matched the rivets. We
lined up the sheet metal seams, drilled holes for the rivets, popped a rivet
in each hole, set the rivet with a tamp of a hammer, and then peened over
the head of the rivets--so that's what a ball'peen' hammer is for. HA.
Unknown to my dad, he had revealed to me the great Secret of the Rivets.
That whole summer I was busy on my knives whenever my dad was not around.
First I made a bench knife with a blade from a scrap of the stovepipe
sheetmetal and split pine handles fastened with copper rivets from the cigar
box. But, I couldn't really get the stone to sharpen the edge. I had the
knee, the spit, but I could not get the touch right. Then it struck me, the
neighbor was part of the magic formula. I call him over by the tree for a
little visit. As I did the knee, the spit and the touch he could see I was
not getting an edge so he suggested, just rub it back and forth. Ah, ha!
Grey metal into bright steely edge--I was in business! I got it sharp enough
to whittle out the hickory handle for my next knife, a true clasping pocket
knife, made with an old pocket knife blade I found in the kitchen junk
drawer, and a little leaf spring from an old broken clock, which kept the
blade locked open. Once it was all riveted together I sanded the hickory
handles and rubbed them on my nose to brighten up the grain. Excited, I ran
out front to the stone which began to work its magic and I was getting a
nice bright steely edge. I glanced over and saw my dad's shoe laying there
by the tree and thought that it was odd he would leave his shoes laying
around in the front yard. Then it moved-YIKES, my dad was attached to that
shoe, my dad saw the knife, my goose was cooked. I crouched there, kept my
eyes on the stone as my trembling hand offered the knife up to my dad. My
eye's watered up, knowing they would never see that knife again, tan hickory
and bright steely edge, never again. Dad said, "Look here," my eyes met his
and tears rolled out making little dark spots on the stone below. With a
grin he said, "this is a fine knife. You can't keep a secret, but you can
keep this pocket knife." Then he showed me one last pocket knife
secret--"always keep the edge moving away from you and you will never cut
yourself." He closed the knife and placed it in my hand. With a deep breath
I slipped the knife into my pocket and gave it a pat. As we turned together
I noticed the neighbor over on his porch and all three of us grinning.
John (with pocket knife scar on right index finger) Leeke
copyright 2002 John C. Leeke
--
To terminate puerile preservation prattling among pals and the
uncoffee-ed, or to change your settings, go to:
<http://maelstrom.stjohns.edu/archives/bullamanka-pinheads.html>
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