After a lazy morning yesterday, I decided to spend the afternoon in one of my favorite places here in the High Country: Valle Crucis. Settled in a quiet valley (hence the valle part), this little community has its natural beauty intact, free from any type of commercial development. It is also home to the original Mast General Store; the rustic charm and vivid history of that place is a reminder of a simpler (and perhaps nobler) America of yesteryear. I particularly enjoy the Mast Store on the weekends due to the fine pickin' (i.e.-bluegrass music) that takes place on the back porch.
I went into the Store to buy my drink of choice( a bottled RC Cola, of course) and happened to notice a grandfather and grandson at the nearby pocketknife display case. The grandson's eyes were wide open, gazing upon those knives with such a sense of desire and adoration. I could overhear the grandfather telling the young boy about the importance of a good pocketknife and the responsibility that comes with owning one (a responsibility the grandfather said would come in "due time"). They continued looking for a little while longer and then moved on to other merchandise in the store. After exiting myself, I couldn't help but think about the correlations to my own life. Growing up, no one enjoyed a good pocketknife more than me. Whether it was carving, cutting, or whittling, I looked for any excuse to brandish the knife I was most likely carrying. I remember the joy of buying an older looking knife at a Civil War reenactment (thinking it to be an impressive piece for my collection) and the disappointment I felt upon finding that said knife was made in Pakistan. While lacking in comparison to other "firsts" in life (girlfriend,dance, car, and so on), it seems receiving your first pocketknife leaves some indelible mark on boys in the South and signifies an important step in the maturation process. I wonder how much longer it will be before that grandson experiences that feeling....
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