Just a Stone

I’ve always carried a knife. Ever since I was a kid it was expected of me, boys in my house carried knives. I was the oldest, but all my brothers carry knives, all of them. My grandpa too. I was given my first knife when I was five. Cut my hand open. Carved a dinosaure track in the mud with it and my mom and the postman believed me. Dupes. It was the work of a pocketknife. The one my dad gave me. We were expected to have them. If you ask my dad, “Do you have your knife on you?” his response was always, “Do I have my pants on?” which was the answer yes, couched in a kind of manly bravado which means – “If my pants are on, I have my knife.”

Now, you might assume that I grew up on the streets, where a knife meant survival. I guess there are really two kinds of people who grow up being expected to carry a knife – those who look to their knives as a form of defense and a survival – What if someone attacks me? And those who look at their knives as a tool used in everyday life, our work requires a knife – What if there’s cord that needs cuttin’ or a fish that needs guttin’?. I’m that second guy. Grew up in a small town in Utah, surrounded by fields of alfalfa, corn and cows. I wasn’t a farm boy myself, but growing up in a small town like that certainly has its own peculiarities. I was raised with country music and old time rock and roll, going to church every Sunday and wearing cowboy boots wasn’t out of the ordinary. I never considered myself a cowboy, I wasn’t required to do a ton of chores down on the farm, but I was definitely a country boy.

Being raised in an avid hunting, fishing and camping family meant being a full time knife carrier. You never knew when you were gonna need one. And part of carrying a knife meant keeping it clean and sharp. There was nothing worse than a dull knife; it kinda reflected on the person carrying it. If your knife was dull and unused then you were the same way. If your knife was sharp and clean then that spoke to the kind of person you were as well. And our dad expected us to have sharp, clean knives. Not just kind of sharp, not just kind of clean, but incredibly sharp and clean. It speaks to the kind of people he expected us to be. The Boy Scout motto was our motto – Be Prepared. This was drilled into us over and over again. Wherever you are be ready for whatever might come; and having a good, clean, sharp knife was always part of being prepared for anything.

Sharpening your knife meant using the kit. The kit was special and it belonged to my dad. The kit was magical – like it had been a part of the world forever, like it had come across the plains with our people, like it had been forged by our blacksmith ancestors; it was special. It was a religious sort of ritual that was done the same time, and with a bit of reverence and awe. Your knife reflected you. The kit belonged to my dad and was kept in a special place. It was housed in an old metal box which somehow made it more valuable and not less. Inside was an array of important things, many of which I never really understood. They were arranged neatly, like a soldiers rifle gear I always imagined. Inside were several sharpening stones, each with a different hardness that could hone the blade of your knife to increasingly dangerous edges. There was a small bottle of oil that was used for the surface of the stone, allowing the knife to glide along the surface of the stone, carefully honing its edge.

On a normal day, with a normal knife, there was a specific order to sharpening the knife. It was like the Japanese tea ceremony; devilishly simple in its concept, but a lifetime of learning locked in its simplicity. Old men couldn’t sharpen their knife like my dad, it took talent and intent and practice and soberness. The biggest stone was large and gray, a couple inches wide and eight inches long. It was heavy and sat in its own metal frame, keeping it sturdy and protected. Once the stone was out, and set perpendicular to your body the oil was dropped onto its surface. Three small drops, one at the end, one in the middle, and one at the end. And then the sharpening began.

The knife was sharpened in a specific way using the big gray stone. The knife was drawn from right to left, as if cutting a slice out of the stone. The blade was held at a fifteen degree angle to the stone, just enough to give it a good tapered edge, but not so high was to make the edge sharp but easily blunted. The action was then repeated with the knife being drawn from left to right. Blades were never circled on the stone. This only dulled them, said my dad. Sometimes the blade was drawn three times from right to left, and then three times from left to right. You would do this, drawing the knife across the stone over and over, with machine like precision, until the blade was perfect. The knife is sharp when it will shave the hair off your arm, or catches easily on a fingernail. But most often you could just feel the sharpness with your fingertips.

Once the knife was sharp the ritual wasn’t over. The knife was then cleaned with the rag. The blade was polished and all debris was cleaned out of it. Once done the knife was closed or put back in its sheath. Then the stone was completely cleaned with the rag by wiping off all the excess oil. The stone was put away and the oil was put back in, the rag was folded up and laid on top of the stone to protect it. The case was closed and carefully put back in its place.

For many years my dad would do sharpen my knives for me. It was magical to watch him; there is something primal about a son watching his father sharpen a blade. It’s a practice that is thousands of years old. It’s special. But there came a time when I was old enough to do it. The kit wasn’t given to me, but I was allowed to use it when necessary. My dad said I was ready. It was a big deal. I would take the old stone out of the metal box, take the rag out and lay it next to the stone, take the oil vial out and stand it up next to the stone and then take my knife out. From there I would begin to sharpen with seriousness and attention. Sharpening a knife was serious. It wasn’t to be fooled with or joked about. The stone was my dads; the blade was mine.

I don’t remember how the stone broke. I only remember it falling. I remember it tumbling to the ground, the stone reaching the ground before its metal tray. But worst of all I remember the stone breaking. I remember the three large pieces laying there like my heart. I had broken the family sharpening stone. I had broken my fathers stone. Something that had been passed to him and would have been passed to one of us had it not broken. I stood there completely stunned and mortified. I knew what had to be done; I had been raised to be honest, but this is one of the times when I knew something special had been broken, something really special.

I drew myself up and waited for my dad to come home. I couldn’t stand the thought of disappointing him, of him looking at me with sadness. I came to him with a completely sober expression. He must have known right away that something was wrong. I drew in a breath and then told him. I was sharpening my knife and the stone was broken. Broken bad. Beyond repair. And then I waited. I waited for the inevitable disappointment and anger; I waited for a curse or threat or tirade. But I got none of that. Once again my dad proved he was better than that. He was clean and sharp; his point was perfect.

I remember he smiled; it wasn’t a big smile but he smiled and looked at me with incredible love and forgiveness. He must have known the storm that was raging inside me at that moment; he knew that I knew how important that stone was. He just shrugged and said, “It’s just a stone.” And then smiled again. I knew it wasn’t true. I knew it wasn’t JUST a stone. It was important, irreplaceable and priceless to him and to the family. I knew I had broken something important. But he showed me one of the most valuable lessons I’ve ever learned – possessions are just objects we’ve placed value on. People are more important than possessions. It was just a stone, but I was his son and knives could be sharpened on other stones, but relationships blunted on the force of personality could never be repaired.