RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,300
(patron saint of nothing, pt. TWO)
I probably stayed too long. He
got up and came back with a tray
or a drawer of hunting knives. Least
of them was still a beauty. Best of
them was exceptional - blades,
honing, sizes and heft, all just
right. He said, 'You like these?'
I just kept looking down at the
assortment. I finally said something
dumb enough, about the handles
and the carvings and all on them.
I managed to utter 'Scrimshaw?'
he scoffed. 'Scrimshaw? Scrimshaw's
for seaside pussies. This is real bone,
carved and detailed, by me! I wouldn't
paste a penny onto scrimshaw and
call it a value. This is much better,
and they each take time too.
The shaft has to be nearly perfect,
before it's ground and sharpened. I
never use them, I just make 'em.
Take one! Go on! Take any one
you like; it's a gift!' I was confused;
did he mean it? I chose one and,
yes, he'd meant it.
-
He seemed pretty satisfied at my
taking - I figured, if he really was
lonely and all, it probably meant
something big-deal to him to have
someone take something from him
like that, I was appreciative, and it
really is a nice knife. I let him talk
on - he was going on about the
various blade-steels, how things
get tempered and sharpened, how
the knife-blade was secured into
the handle or hasp or whatever he
called it. There was a bit of some
fine machining involved too, so
I figured he must have had a little
workshop or garage out back in one
of the other small buildings I saw
scattered about.
-
One of my favorite things about
deep-country living has always been
just that - the way buildings and
sheds are scattered about. There's
no rhyme or reason to the positions
of any of this - maybe 50 years ago
a path through the barnyard led to
this shed or that lean to or garage.
But for most practical purposes, the
old wooden structures left standing
just end of drying out and dropping
in place in the exact locations along
the old work-paths and barnyards that
once were. The sure giveaway is to
see 'today's' metal sheds and pole
buildings etc., - a proof-positive
of the new having overtaken the
old. Not here, however. He had
the standing buildings of, probably
75-years previous; and still with
hinged doors and hasps and locks.
It was pretty perfect, and right
up my alley. And I told him so,
talking about what a great spot he
had here for the keeping, etc. To me,
it's always nicest when things are
left alone. Plain and simple. The
always-forward onrush of new stuff
just always seems to end up as dismal
trash, quickly dated and laughable.
What counts for legacy and legend
are the true and the old - wood that
ages into a rock-hardness that will
hardly take a nail or a drill. Twisted
lengths of lumber that belie that
'twisting' by remaining standing
and acquiring instead a graceful
arc, of the sort that one could never
duplicate outside of a master-artist's
hand. He just smiled and said, 'Well,
yep, you might have something there.
It ain't like the people of today t'notice
something like that; it's a 'quality' that
don't have a word for itself yet. Mebbe.'
-
He seemed, again, pleased. I began
to wonder what sort of can (of worms?)
I'd opened. Was I really to be fodder
for friendship, one privy to secrets, one
able now to enter the antechamber of
this odd fellow's life? Like an astronomer
first discovering Neptune, I became
wary of what I'd exposed. At one length
it seemed too good; at another filled
with a strange trepidation of not wanting
to tread where the path was leading me.
-
He had three vehicles out back. Only
one workable and of the present day. I
could not even be sure how often he got
'out' from here in whatever vehicle of
those three he used (obviously, the one
with current markings, I guessed). He
needed gasoline. Oil. Insurance, title,
and license too - se he couldn't be that
far off from normal things. Food had to
brought in, errands run. I eased up a
bit on myself over those counts. The
dogs around were just staring at me,
with here and there a dog noise or a
resting dog-grunt in a turnover. Those
became comforting sounds to me, and
I soon began to feel better; hoping of
course a third beer wasn't to be necessary.
-
He sat back some and started on: 'You
know, it's a funny thing, about making
knives. I know what they're made for,
even as I make them, and I do think
about killing, and what knives do. But
it passes, and I know I can never act
on whatever that urge is. So I just do
my stuff, but then really, how many
knives does any one man need? In
spite of all else, I ain't no knife magician,
nor a knife-thrower slinging them at
pretty girls in front of an audience
(here he chuckled). It passes muster
that one at a time is about all a person
can have use for. But, people collect,
right? They collect stories, cars, knives,
tools, old things, what's called 'antiques.'
And some fools even collect money,
whatever un-natural good that could do
them.' I glanced around, and then I
said it was soon time for me to leave,
but I also volunteered a re-visit.
I was satisfied, and I did keep to
my promise. More on that...
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