Franco
AH veteran
- Joined
- Sep 6, 2023
- Messages
- 225
- Reaction score
- 853
- Location
- Napa Valley California
- Media
- 30
- Member of
- DSC, SCI
- Hunted
- Tanzania, Botswana, Namibia, Zimbabwe, Zambia
Interesting how the thread has progressed from practicality to sentimentality; and since the high-jacking has occurred, I see little reason to stop.
Doug, you and I grew up in an era where sentiment and tradition had real meaning. Getting a knife was a rite of passage which symbolized a level of trust and responsibility had been reached - don't cut yourself and don't lose it.
My first was a gift from my grandfather, it was one of his old budding knives. Razor sharp with a propensity to not stay closed, it was the perfect accessory to my double-barreled BB gun.
For the record: A sharp knife which fails to remained closed is prone to be unforgiving of any carelessness, incapacity, or neglect. When I got older, I learned this was exactly how the early years of flying were described.
It seemed the blood loss was getting to my mother and the budding knife gave way to one of my dad's folding knives, the BB gun was replaced by a pellet gun.
The cuts became less frequent and I was able to take on more formidable adversaries than garden snails.
Perhaps it was growing up in the country as opposed to the city, but a knife - especially a pocket knife was de rigueur. The Swiss Army knife being the most coveted.
A knife, wire cutters, and a pair of pliers were standard equipment in a tractor tool box.
Knives figured prominently throughout my flying career.
Be it airplane, glider, helicopter, balloon, or airship - I always carried some form of a knife, and there was always misfortune lying in wait.
A knotted tie-down or tow-line, a snagged anchor or mooring line on a sea-plane, snagged landing line on a balloon. My parachute harness had a knife at arm's reach, as do the harnesses in my monster off-road race rig.
Perhaps it is the good fortune of a necessity never having presented itself which reinforces those who seem to so adamantly maintain their conviction a knife is not necessary.
I have not shared in that luck. Cutting my own harness on a roll-over, and that of a driver with a severely injured arm out of his roll-over wreckage are but 2 examples, there are others not so benign.
Not seeing the need is one thing, not carrying one because you believe should the need arise one should be provided for you is another. Either way, I respect your practice and ask only two things - respect mine, and should you find yourself in a situation where someone needs to take action - stay out of the way.
Should you choose instead to ridicule, know you are making light of honor, tradition, and rite-of-passage for others.
I remember fondly my father leading to me a tree where he presented his old folding knife and watched as I carved my initials below his.
The knives I bring to Africa have touched every animal I've taken.
Several years ago, back at the lodge after a successful day of hunting, my wife caught me lost in thought - staring off into the distance. "What are you smiling about", she asked; "Well, I'm picturing Z & P (son and nephew) sitting in this very spot - my doubles at their sides, Cuban cigars in one hand, glass of rum in the other - smiling at each other and raising a toast to dear departed Franco - may he rest in peace".
I see my knives beside them as well.
That old budding knife? It's on my desk.
Doug, you and I grew up in an era where sentiment and tradition had real meaning. Getting a knife was a rite of passage which symbolized a level of trust and responsibility had been reached - don't cut yourself and don't lose it.
My first was a gift from my grandfather, it was one of his old budding knives. Razor sharp with a propensity to not stay closed, it was the perfect accessory to my double-barreled BB gun.
For the record: A sharp knife which fails to remained closed is prone to be unforgiving of any carelessness, incapacity, or neglect. When I got older, I learned this was exactly how the early years of flying were described.
It seemed the blood loss was getting to my mother and the budding knife gave way to one of my dad's folding knives, the BB gun was replaced by a pellet gun.
The cuts became less frequent and I was able to take on more formidable adversaries than garden snails.
Perhaps it was growing up in the country as opposed to the city, but a knife - especially a pocket knife was de rigueur. The Swiss Army knife being the most coveted.
A knife, wire cutters, and a pair of pliers were standard equipment in a tractor tool box.
Knives figured prominently throughout my flying career.
Be it airplane, glider, helicopter, balloon, or airship - I always carried some form of a knife, and there was always misfortune lying in wait.
A knotted tie-down or tow-line, a snagged anchor or mooring line on a sea-plane, snagged landing line on a balloon. My parachute harness had a knife at arm's reach, as do the harnesses in my monster off-road race rig.
Perhaps it is the good fortune of a necessity never having presented itself which reinforces those who seem to so adamantly maintain their conviction a knife is not necessary.
I have not shared in that luck. Cutting my own harness on a roll-over, and that of a driver with a severely injured arm out of his roll-over wreckage are but 2 examples, there are others not so benign.
Not seeing the need is one thing, not carrying one because you believe should the need arise one should be provided for you is another. Either way, I respect your practice and ask only two things - respect mine, and should you find yourself in a situation where someone needs to take action - stay out of the way.
Should you choose instead to ridicule, know you are making light of honor, tradition, and rite-of-passage for others.
I remember fondly my father leading to me a tree where he presented his old folding knife and watched as I carved my initials below his.
The knives I bring to Africa have touched every animal I've taken.
Several years ago, back at the lodge after a successful day of hunting, my wife caught me lost in thought - staring off into the distance. "What are you smiling about", she asked; "Well, I'm picturing Z & P (son and nephew) sitting in this very spot - my doubles at their sides, Cuban cigars in one hand, glass of rum in the other - smiling at each other and raising a toast to dear departed Franco - may he rest in peace".
I see my knives beside them as well.
That old budding knife? It's on my desk.
