I crave knowledge. I need to know, to uncover, to understand more at the end of a day than I did when the sun came up. For me, the learning always begins with the experience — my senses punch the ticket on my journey to knowing. My brain, fueled by innate curiosity, does the rest.
The quest for experience is why I creep along our road at 10mph (or slower). It’s why Deb and I still marvel at our surroundings, why we take so many pictures. It’s the difference between looking and seeing.
It’s why we gaze up and down the Mighty White every time we cross it and count — out loud — the number of fishing boats on the water.
It’s why we pick up our phones whenever the trailcam near the summit alerts us to activity.
It’s why I listened intently this morning to the impressive repertoire of a northern mockingbird, perched on a rooftop near the laundromat. I launched the Merlin app on my phone to see if this master of mimicry could fool it.
Yes and no — despite there being only one bird singing, Merlin identified not only the mockingbird but also house sparrow, Carolina wren, killdeer, eastern phoebe, American robin and house wren.
Speaking of birds, the call of the eastern whippoorwill dominates the soundtrack at daybreak on The Mountain. Often it’s joined by a similar species — the chuck-will’s-widow, also a member of the nightjar family (Caprimulgidae). Today I decided to do some research and find out more.
I learned a new word — crepuscular, meaning that nightjars can be heard (because they’re active) at twilight.
I learned two colloquial names for this family of birds — bugeaters and goatsuckers.
I learned that Nebraska once was called “The Bugeater State” before dropping that monicker in favor of “cornhuskers.” On the bright side, Nebraskans never were known as “goatsuckers.”
Y’know, you’d think that by now my head would be full, or that maybe I’d grow tired of knowing today what I didn’t know yesterday. And I’m here to tell you that I never do and, as long as I breathe, I never will.
I wake up. I face the dawn. I learn — every damned day.
Yesterday’s post wasn’t a tick-tock of what Deb and I did yesterday. If it had been, you would’ve seen that we bounced around a lot more than I made it seem. I left a good bit of stuff out of the account.
Notably, while marking time waiting for our curbside-pickup window at Walmart, we backtracked east to a Flippin antiques shop we’d been meaning to investigate. We browsed awhile and had a great conversation with the husband-and-wife proprietors. And I bought a knife.
But not just any knife — a meat cleaver.
It spoke to me the moment I picked it up. When I turned the tag over and saw the price — $30 — I knew I’d be taking it home.
The thing is an absolute beast. It’s 15 inches long overall, and the blade itself measures nine inches. I’d put the weight at something over two pounds. As you’d expect, it’s decidedly front-heavy.
Full-tang construction. The stock is a quarter-inch thick. Hardwood handle, held in place by three brass rivets.
The convexed edge is in good shape — no chips and no evidence that it’s been reprofiled. The blade has a wonderful patina, its scratches and stains testifying to hard use.
Though no maker’s marks survive on this cleaver, it does appear to be a production piece (as opposed to handmade). I did a little research (there’s that learning thing again) and can make an informed guess that it was manufactured in Buffalo, New York by the L. & I. J. White Company. Founded in 1837 by brothers Leonard and Ichabod Jewett White, the enterprise specialized in producing edged tools for consumers and the trades — planes, chisels, hatchets, cleavers, hammers and drawknives — and machine knives for industry.
White merged with a Dayton company in 1928 and ceased using its original name.
Based on all that, I’m going to say that my cleaver is a hundred years old. It could be even older than that, or a very few years younger.
Is it perfect? Not at all. The spine was roughly and crudely ground at some point, probably because repeated hammering or batoning had mushroomed it. One of the handle slabs is cracked and, presumably related to the rivets’ heads being missing on that side, it was sloppily glued back on.
I could have it re-handled and the spine re-ground. I may try replacing the rivets myself. But the bottom line is that this cleaver is just fine just the way it is.
It’s a tool. Even better, it’s an old tool with a story to tell and plenty of life left in it.
I couldn’t be happier.
One of The Mountain’s coyotes made a rare daytime appearance near the summit today.
Take care of yourselves, Patriots. Stay calm. Stay sharp. Stay free.
#WiseUp #LibertyOrDeath #Ungovernable
#LetsGoBrandon #FJB
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