Knives Out

I have a long history of wielding knives. As a young boy I ended up, as young boys do, with a pocket knife. It had a faux deep wood grain and a single non-locking blade; back in the day we called these jackknives, a word that also happens to be the name of a dive into water, a term coined in the 1920s. The height of diving-board prowess between two wars.

Knives that don't lock are a recipe for cut fingers and thumbs, particularly if you grew up on the edge of a forest and found yourself sitting on rocks overlooking the creek whittling a spear so you could pretend to hunt dangerous animals. One wrong whittle and the knife would jack itself right onto your finger.

The first time I ever cut myself and saw my own blood was a jackknifing accident. It wasn't bad – I still have all my fingers – but I remember the moment before the blood. Slow motion as the knife un-snicked and bit into my thumb, then blood, followed by pain.

When I was a kid I really wanted a switchblade, and by the time I was 14 I had one – a switchblade comb that I bought at Don's Hobby Shop here in Calgary. I was probably the coolest person on the block that summer. Leaving the outdoor pool, walking to the bike rack, hair still wet from doing jackknife dives off the highboard – snick – out came the ol' switchblade comb. I probably squinted into the sun as I pulled it through my long sun-bleached locks. Coolest kid in Silver Springs, I tell you.

Fast forward to today. I have a selection of what we in the biz call Everyday Carry knives, or EDC for short. Each is a lockblade, and each has a different method of being opened: from a gravity-wrist flick to a weighted thumb-snick. I don't carry the switchblade comb anymore, mostly due to lack of hair in my advancing years, but you will almost always find a good looking and well maintained knife clipped to a pocket so as not to conceal it. I'm a law-abiding citizen after all. I use it daily. Boxes, wrappers, cabling, leveraging stuff, and pretty much anything except whittling. I gave that up after the thumb incident.

All of this to get to my point. I just received a set of Japanese whetstones for sharpening knives from a company called Santoku. The set of stones took a month to get here, so when they arrived today I had to sharpen all our knives immediately. In my mind's eye I saw myself in a field with a stream running through it, my hair in a topknot, a thick bandana keeping the sweat from my eyes as I dutifully, slowly, dare I say expertly, sharpened my knives in long drawn motions against the whetstone. Every stroke sounded like it ripped through the centuries from when my people, the Celts, hung around streams, drank scotch straight from the peat bog, sharpened their blades, and spoke of war and sheep.

Sometimes, in the same breath, we'd share a tale of herding and Maggie the Great Ewe, who once saved an entire village from a group of highwaymen, but that is a story for another time. Reports vary, as does the authenticity.

Today I'm sharpening my blade. I have discipline. And just enough knowledge to hone my blade to where it can mostly cut an onion partway through.

My ancestors would be proud.