The Jack Knife
By Paul McAllister

"Knife, Pappy, open," says my two and a half year old grandson, Jared Fraser, as he comes over with another Christmas present that he has stripped all the pretty paper from. Now all he needs is Pappy to cut the scotch tape that is holding the box together. It is with great delight to me, Pappy, that my grandson calls on me to do the final chore and to share with him the surprise inside the box. So, I make the most of the moment, first raising the kid and the box to his knees. Next I pull the pocket knife out of my pocket and open it, and proceed around the edges of the box slowly to sever all the tape, all the while impressing the kid with the wonder of the pocket knife.

Now Grammie has had all the pleasure of shopping, making the right decision on the need, size and colour and finally boxing and wrapping with the proper paper and ribbons, but I always seem to have the final pleasure of helping the kid open the box. Come to think of it, I wonder if that is why she always tapes them up so good. I have been doing this for years, first with my own children and now my grandchildren. It is as traditional as the Christmas tree.

As a child I was blessed with having all four grandparents, whom we often visited and became very fond of. My mother's parents lived in Nelson. Grandad Blackmore was a blacksmith and his shop was on the bank of the river. And a very industrious place it was. He was always shoeing horses, and making and sharpening tools for customers. Sometimes I would get the chance to turn the crank to force air into the forge, and Grandad would poke a piece of metal into the flaming red hot coal. When the metal became white hot he would remove it, beat it into the shape he wanted, then quench it in a tub of water. I can still remember the smell of coal, horse hooves and manure. Other than our short visits to the shop we never did anything together, but I will always savor the time I spent turning the crank for him.

But it was Pop McAllister who first impressed me of the advantages of owning a Jack knife.

Pop McAllister lived in Sunny Corner on the top of the hill, overlooking Red Bank, and the famous 6 span covered bridge with a covered sidewalk on its south side. "Pop" as he was referred to by all who knew him, was a small man with a fringe of grey hair and mustache, and a leather patch over his left eye. He had the step of a teenager even in his eighties. He loved to have visitors and had lots of time to sit and talk. Often he would pick up a stick and whittle away as he would tell fishing tales or stories about working in the woods and the lumber drives of the yesteryear.

Our father would often drop my brother and me at Pop's, if he was doing business over that way. The day would generally begin with a walk across the bridge to Stanford McKibbon's store, a famous general store. Pop would greet everyone he met on the way and he would purchase a little bag of peppermints, a few oranges and a little wedge of cheese. On our return from the store we would study the river, looking out at the water wondering if there was a trout run on. Pop would generally pull out an orange, peel it with his jack knife, give us the peel to hold while he divided the orange, and then we would test the water, tossing small pieces of peel over the railing into the water, as we sucked on our piece of orange. We always expected a big fish would swirl and swallow the peel but it never happened. This would only sharpen our appetites to go fishing and after returning to Pop's, he would generally give in to taking us fishing after lunch. We would dig up half of the garden patch collecting angle worms and get the tackle ready.

After lunch the three of us would strut up the road about a mile to the ox-bow, "the best place in the world for trout." We never had rods, only a tin can with the worms, and a spool of fishing twine and hooks. On arrival, Pop would cut a couple of long timber alder rods with his jack knife and tie on the tackle. The rest of the afternoon was spent with Pop supervising two keen, barefooted, young lads jumping from one spot to another, hoping to catch the big one. We generally returned empty handed, but a day was well spent.

We would parade down the road blowing on our alder whistles that Pop had whittled for us while he was supervising the fishing. The shrill sounds would cause all the dogs in the neighborhood to start barking.

Pop used to come over to our home in Bryenton to help get our garden planted. He would work the ground with a horse, cut the seed potatoes with his knife, and make the garden drills. We helped with the planting and too soon he would be done and be on his way home.

One time as he was leaving after planting he handed me his jack knife. "Every young lad needs a jack knife," he said, "here, take it and see how long you can keep it. I've had it since I was a young lad." Nothing could have pleased me any more, than to receive a knife and especially his old one. Sorry to say I lost it within a few weeks.

I've had a succession of jack knives since then, never been without one, only for a short time, after the loss of such a useful possession. As a young lad, the more blades the better. The scout knife was the grand-daddy of them all. It had five blades, a large blade, a small one, a bottle opener and screw driver, and a leather punch. It was a must for any young lad who was going to do any camping or roughing it in the woods. It must have weighed a half a pound and would wear a hole in the pocket liner in less than a month, often parting company with the owner. I used to have to make sure the hole was plugged with my handkerchief. My jack knife usually kept company with a few cigarette butts, a few three inch wooden matches, a little bit of change and a few souvenirs, like a skipping stone or bottle cap and generally an apple or a ball, and of course the handkerchief, which revealed all if pulled out too fast.

In those days it was the custom to carve your initials everywhere you went. The little blade was the best for that, it wasn't used much other than for carving or punching hole in a Carnation milk can or sometimes opening a can of sardines. I know my initials could be found in the bottom corner of my school desk, not as bold as some of the boys, but all too visible on Arbor Day. The shingles on the far side of the old woodshed at school had everyone's initials carved inside a heart shape along with the initials of a supposedly sweetheart. More hearts were added as new secret romances were developed. Oftentimes the girls never knew who they were being matched up with on the old shingles. My initials could also be found on the side of our house and the headboard of my bed.

Most of the old timers, especially teamsters, chewed fig tobacco. They would take out a little fig bar of tobacco and slice off a piece for themselves and then another piece for their horse. They also used their jack knife to trim the horses' mane and tail, repair harness on the spot, or pick a small stone or splinter out of the horse's foot.

One of my neighbours, an older gentleman, would meet any visitor on the door step. He would pick up a nice straight, dry piece of cedar kindling and would whittle all the time they talked. He never seemed to have any object in mind, he just made long even strokes that turned into long ringlets of golden shavings. One might want to save them up to start the fire if he hadn't spat tobacco juice all over them. He always carried a pocket stone in a leather case, and often hones a good cutting edge on my knife for me.

I never was much of a carver myself, but I always found whittling a good way to pass a little time. The best thing to whittle, I found, was a cedar shingle. I guess I did turn out a few sail boats and six shooters in my day.

One of the first games in the spring, when a few patches of earth would start to appear in some sheltered area, was Jackknife. It was a game boys played with their knives. They would start by giving their opened knife a spin off the toe of their boot, it had to end up with the blade sticking in the ground. If you achieved that you would progress to the knee, then the palm of the hand, then the chin and finally off the tip of the nose. The first who could achieve all this was the winner.

Another game was to spin the knife, half opened, so that it would stand by itself when it landed on a board. You recorded points by counting one point for each finger you could fit between the handle and the board.

It is alright to loan one's knife as long as the borrower gave it back the same way he got it. For example, it is bad luck to take the knife back, if the blade is closed, so, you had to hand it over with the blade open. No one I knew would accept a knife back other than the same way they loan it, and they would be quick to tell you that it is bad luck. I don't know how bad, but I don't want to find out either.

The boy scout motto is "be prepared" and as an old scout, one thing I do remember, and that is to carry a sharp pocket knife. I use it every day, to cut a fingernail, peel an orange, open a letter or sharpen a pencil. Not only do I use it, I loan it a lot, everyone that knows me, knows I have a knife, I guess that is why they don't have their own.

One thing for sure, as soon as that grandson of mine becomes of a responsible age I am going to get him a fine pocket knife and teach him how to use it. If I should die before that time I am going to instruct my survivors to see that Jared gets my most valued possession, my "Jack Knife."

Paul McAllister lives in Bryenton. He is many things: he is a carpenter, he is an apple grower, he is a woodsman, and he is a prospector. He is also a writer, though modest as he is, he might never admit it.

When I Was a Young Lad wants to tell your story. We hope to create a living history, a tribute to days gone by on the Miramichi. Whether you jot down your memories yourself or have someone else record them for you, Bread 'n Molasses wants to hear from you. E-mail your submissions to editor@breadnmolasses.com