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Special and Fun holidays to celebrate..............

When : Always August 18th

Bad Poetry Day is a day to create some really bad verse. But, why you ask? Perhaps, the answer is simply "because you can". Maybe, it exists to allow us to better appreciate good poetry. Or, perhaps it is to be written to irritate someone......

My Grandpa’s Pocket Knife

It lies here now before me,        
A whalebone pocket knife, 

Still sharp enough to shave with,   

A cipher of his life. 

The faded stamp of ‘Sheffield’,        

And, ground to faintness: ‘Steel’, 

Good scrimshaw on the handle,      

A perfect heft and feel.  

It speaks to me of Empire, 

Which I was taught to curse, 

Yet who would care to argue   

That there are things far worse...  No matter.  

My old grandpa        Long, long since left this life; 

He served the Royal Navy,         

And this here— is his knife.

An Encomium of the Drop-Knife.

No knife is so slick,
It is quick on its trick
And a joy that will last you through life.
There is none 'neath the sun
Just like it, not one,
It's the Schrade Safety Push-Button Knife.

If the button is pressed
The blade does the rest,
Opens out like a thing all alive;
You break no thumb nail
In your efforts--that fail--
If you're owning this Push-Button Knife.

It's the handiest yet,
It is everyone's pet,
And with all good knife merits it's rife.
Its blades are rare steel,
And really ideal
Is this notable Push-Button Knife.

It's the very quick pick
Of club, class, and clique,
Its equal they cannot contrive;
It's a true treasure trove,
And a thing you will love
Is this wonderful Push-Button Knife.

A. W. BELLAW, DeGroff, Ohio

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How a pocket knife dies

This blade was so sharp, yet now is dull.
Will it ever cut again, only with love and care.
Left alone for such a long time.
Dust gathered upon it and rust seeped it's way in.
The color faded as time ran away.
The knife still yearns for a piece of wood,
To carve a new life if only it could.
Yet no one will hold it and death come to soon.

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Many people have family mementoes that are special to them. For Audie Alexander in Pleasant Plains, it’s an old pocket knife that belonged to his father.

That knife has a story behind it.

It went to the Pacific in World War II with Audie’s brother. Audie took it with him to the Korean War in 1953. When he returned, he gave it back to his father, who kept it until his death in 1981. Audie inherited it and is presenting it to his nephew.

“I’ll give it to somebody who will take care of it and keep it,” says Audie. “I know he will.”

The story of the two-bladed Case pocket knife begins at the end of the 1930s, when Pleasant Plains farmer William Robinson gave it to Audie’s father, Henry Alexander. Henry had worked for Robinson on his 500-acre farm for about 10 years.

“Dad and he got along really well,” says Audie. “I think he wanted to show his appreciation.”

In 1944, Audie’s brother, Haywood, shipped out for the Pacific during World War II. He carried the knife through two beach landings in the Philippines. Haywood and the knife were on their way to Japan when the war ended in 1945.

When Haywood returned to Pleasant Plains, he gave the knife back to his dad.

Henry Alexander kept it until Audie, his youngest son, left for the Korean War. Audie kept it in his pocket during his time in Korea.

“I was a little apprehensive,” says Audie. “I wanted to make sure I didn’t lose it. I hung onto it pretty tight.”

After he came home safely in 1954, Audie also returned the knife to his father.

Henry held onto it for the next 27 years until his death in 1981 at the age of 83. His first wife, Audie and Haywood’s mother, had died. When Henry was about 80, he married an old friend he had known in his younger days in Kentucky. She became Audie’s stepmother.

“After Dad died, she gave the knife back to me,” Audie says.

He has kept it for the past 30 years, but says it is time to pass it on. It will go to his brother Haywood’s son, James Alexander. James is a northern Illinois district commander with the Illinois State Police.

“He should have it,” says Audie. “His dad carried it longer than I did.”

In preparation for the transfer of the knife to his nephew, Audie has written its history, affixed the knife to the history and framed it. As a final touch, he had his account of the knife notarized by a teller at the bank in Pleasant Plains.

***********************************************************************************************************

Whittling

The front porch was a very important part of Grand-dad Will's home. The house itself was rather small, and the front room – the living room – was used only during the coldest months or on very rainy days. Otherwise, if you were not in the kitchen then you were out on the porch.

On hot summer evenings, we often ate our supper on the porch. From it, we could look out over the cornfields and down the driveway to spot a visitor as they first turned into the drive. Visitors were always a welcome sight. Many a long summer evening was spent story telling and gossiping with friends and family who came to visit.

No matter how early I would awaken and run down the stairs, I would find Grand-dad Will sitting at the kitchen table or out on the front porch having his morning cup of coffee, always with a big smile and a "Did you sleep well, little sister?" greeting. If I found him on the front porch, there would usually be a surprise waiting for me, something he had whittled while waiting for me to wake up. These intricately carved animals, birds and reptiles were some of my most treasured possessions. I remember once finding a little turtle that he had carved and then attached a little head so that it moved back and forth when touched – a bobble head of that era. I was delighted with the turtle and can recall to this day how precious it was to me.

Grand-dad Will and I spent many wonderful hours on the porch, story-telling and whittling the hours away. One day I had a 'great idea' and approached Grand-dad Will about it. I was about nine or ten years old at the time. I had concluded that I must learn how to do this marvelous carving. After telling Grand-dad Will that this was what I wanted to do, he said: "Well, if you are going to learn to carve then you must have a carving knife."

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Sooooooo.........I found all these fun poems and stories surfing the net.....Does anyone have any to add ?

The Old Pocket Knife

It was 1910 in the train station in Cheyenne
An old cowboy sitting with pocket knife in hand
Just an old knife he said had it for years
Seen plenty of laughs and many tears

I was thirty in eighteen sixty three
Rode with old Stonewall to see General Lee
Fought for the South to the end
Didn't want to give up but knew we couldn't win

Rode west in seventy two
Spent time with some Lakota Sioux
Traveled down to Texas but didn't stay
Not liking the way the land lay

I broke horses and herded some steers
Drank my share of warm stale beers
But I'll tell friend it's now my trails end
Truth being I have slipped a time or two to sin

I have strived to live my life
Like I keep this old knife
If you neglect it, it becomes useless and dull
And the blade becomes hard to pull

Keep it clean and always sharp
Then maybe you can collect a heavenly harp
The old Cowboy stood and gave me a grin
Saying here take this knife my young friend

As I sat looking at it laying in my hand
Thinking who is this grand old man
As I looked up he was no where in sight
With the gift he left he had shown me the light

Now too my years have flown by
Knowing I have found grace in God's eye
With the old Cowboys advice I kept it maintained
Now as he did I sit here waiting on my final train

                                      Edwin J. Smith
                                    The Old Cowboy Poet
                                      Mar. 29th, 2008

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Comment by Sue OldsWidow on August 19, 2012 at 17:57: When : Always August 20th

National Radio Day celebrates a great invention and communications medium.

The invention of the radio dates back to the late 1800s. A number of inventors played a role in creating this important medium. A number of inventions and discoveries were required to make the radio a reality. This included both transmission and reception methods and technology. The radio somewhat evolved from the telegraph and the telephone, with wireless telegraph directly contributing to its invention.

Celebrating National Radio Day is easy listening. Simply tune into your favorite radio stations(s). You could also give your local radio personalities a little recognition.

The Origin of National Radio Day:

We found some evidence on blogs and radio station websites suggesting that this is a more recently established holiday, dating only to the 1990s. Radio station personnel, in a number of radio stations, began talking about creating their own holiday. After all, they frequently promoted bizarre and unique holidays of all kinds. From these conversations, this special day took on life.

Our research did not find a identify an individual or group having created this day.

Comment by Sue OldsWidow on August 18, 2012 at 21:28: When : Always August 19th

National Aviation Day is in honor of the birthday of aviator Orville Wright.

The Wright brothers, Orville and Wilbur, were pioneer aviators in the United States. Orville was the first person to successfully fly an airplane. His first flight was December 17, 1903 at Kitty Hawk, North Carolina. This inaugural flight was soon to change the skies forever.

It's heavier than air, and it flies! National Aviation Day honors the accomplishments of Orville and Wilbur Wright. It is sometimes called Wright Brother's Day. To a lesser degree, National Aviation Day sometimes honors other early aviation and space pioneers. This day was selected, as it is Orville Wrights's birthday. (August 19, 1871)

Origin of National Aviation Day:

This special day was created by a presidential proclamation by U.S. President Franklin D. Roosevelt in 1939.

Comment by Sue OldsWidow on August 17, 2012 at 22:04: Thanks JJ....those are wonderful stories too!

Comment by J.J. Smith III on August 17, 2012 at 21:33: Woodcarver’s Daughter

By Dolores S. Perez

I am a woodcarver’s daughter.

I wonder what his disfigured hands looked like
before arthritis and the scars of hard labor set in.
I hear his stories about his travels during days of war,
when he was pulled away from the only town he knew as home.
His memory is long, but so is the night.

I am a woodcarver’s daughter.

I want to know what he thinks about while he is carving,
but he likes his solitude, so I leave him alone.
I see the smile on his face when he hands me one of his creations,
especially one he’s made just for me.
I think about the hundreds of hours he’s dedicated to it.
The patience, the discipline.

I am a woodcarver’s daughter.

I pretend I am as good an artist as he.
I feel the sharp edges of the blades on his tools when he’s not looking.
“Careful, cuidado! Deja alli,” he says when he catches me.
So I put them back in their rightful place.
He laughs when he sees my attempt to carve a monkey out of a peach pit;
A little trick he showed me long ago.
He pretends not to watch.
But I know he’s got his eyes on me.

I am a woodcarver’s daughter.

I worry about the day when he is too tired or sick to carve.
We talk very little,
But I know he hears my thoughts.

I am a woodcarver’s daughter.

Comment by J.J. Smith III on August 17, 2012 at 21:30: PEACH PIT BASKET

My Grand father made one of these for Cory Su and I wanted to share the story of what they are:
Back when the white man first came he began to garden and plant trees and things they brought from there mother land. Natives were used to gathering and did not understand the owning of land or nature. The Indian men want out to gather meat to smoke for the winter, It was fall, The women and children started gathering grain and such for the winter. The women and children came upon a peach orchard and gathered the fruit. They brought it back to the village. The white men came and killed all the women and children. When the Indian men came home they found there families dead and peach pits around. This is what started what they call the peach pit war. In remembrance of the dead the men carved baskets from the peach pits they figured there family had eaten. Each man kept a pit basket to represent each family member killed.

When growing up my Grandfathers grandfather used to carve them for the children at get togethers. And now so does he. Ok now I’m getting emotional thinking of Pop Pop Who by the was is a Word war II Vet. He received 2 purple hearts too. One for being shot with shrapnel and one for trench foot. I promised I would tell you the story with the pit so I’m good with him now..

Comment by J.J. Smith III on August 17, 2012 at 21:24: Grandpa's Pocketknife

Oh, how I recall the days I sat at Grandpa's knee, watching
As he whittled, while the shavings fell on me.

His gnarled hands moved gently, swiftly, full of ageless
Skill; with a sense of deftness that I know mine never will.

As he worked his magic for my childish eyes to view, he'd
Begin to tell again things I already knew.

But I relished every tale Grandpa told of life with his
Cherished, weathered tool, his trusty pocketknife.

It was passed to him one day when he was just a boy;
By his daddy , with the warning it was not a toy.

Filled with pride the youngster tucked his treasured gift away
Safely in his overalls, where it would always stay.

What adventures these two shared, my Grandpa and his knife,
Just like true companions are joined by a special life.

These pals solved the problems they encountered day by day,
Whether it be in their work or in pure childish play.

Peeling apples, digging worms or cutting canes to fish, these
Great partners seemed able to solve their every wish.

As a teen they carved two hearts upon an old oak tree;
Skinned a rabbit, trimmed horse hoofs, cut sassafras for tea.

Fashioned a crude bow and arrow to pursue a prey, built a
Kite, carved stocks for slings, slashed baling twine from hay.

Day soon came when manhood changed the pace of Grandpa's
Life; for he fell in love and wanted Grandma for his wife.

Now the skill of years gone by were truly put to test,
For of all these two had done, this must be very best !

Full of gentleness and love the strong, young hands began,
With a steady rhythm so well shared by knife and man.

Days turned into weeks, a common goal was brought to life;
As they worked in unison, my Grandpa and his knife.

Once again the trusty friend was safely tucked away.
It had met the task at hand, as in each passing day.

Standing before the young woman chosen as his bride,
Grandpa's heart was overflowing with both love and pride.

Grandma's clear eyes brimmed with tears, she knew he'd
Done his best.

Thrusting forth her loving arms she grasped her new hope chest.

Comment by J.J. Smith III on August 17, 2012 at 21:12: Grandpa's Knife

By Gary E. Anderson

From the book Spider’s Big Catch

Sometimes, when I’m stressed or feel the need to refocus, I find myself thinking about my grandpa’s knife. There are people in the world who drink or take pills in an attempt to manage stress, and some folks handle their rosary beads.

My grandpa whittled.

My brothers and I could always tell when there was something weighing on Grandpa’s mind. He’d pick up several short sticks, sit on the porch swing, and begin to whittle. We could judge the size of the problem he was grappling with by the size of the pile of shavings at the old man’s feet.

As far as I knew, he never whittled anything useful. That was never his purpose. He just took any old stick and began whittling it into a point. Then he’d keep whittling until the stick was too short for him to hold, set it down, and start on another one. I marveled at his ability to focus so intensely, just sitting there, gently rocking the porch swing, quietly whittling a problem down to size. Then, as if being guided by some inner signal known only to him, we’d see Grandpa suddenly stand up, and we knew he’d reached a decision. He’d pick up a small whisk broom that always stood beside the swing, clean up the shavings, and walk away in silence.

There were also times when Grandpa’s knife helped teach us other lessons—lessons that were more difficult to face. No matter what our indiscretion may have been, we boys knew that there would come a time after we’d received our punishment when Grandpa would call us to come and sit with him on the porch steps. Holding several sticks in his left hand, he’d reach into his overalls with his right hand and pull out his old knife. Then he’d sit on the swing and begin to whittle, slowly and deliberately, never looking at us, never saying a word.

Finally, after what seemed a very long time, he’d begin to talk, softly but firmly, about whatever it was we’d done, why it was wrong, and how disappointed he was that we were having to have this talk. All the while, thin slivers of wood gently floated to the floor as his knife deftly cut into the stick he was whittling.

By keeping his eyes fixed on his whittling, Grandpa made certain he never saw the tears rolling down our faces as the consequences of our actions washed over us. He never tried to drive home any big point. He always spoke in gentle tones and when he was finished, he stood, snapped his old knife shut, put it back in his pocket, and turned to walk away, never quite looking at us directly.

“Clean up the shavings, will you, boys?” he’d say as he slowly walked off the porch. The lesson had been learned, and there was nothing left to say.

You know, people don’t seem to whittle like they used to, at least, not the way Grandpa used to, or for the same reasons. I don’t even carry a knife, and neither do most folks I know. But there are times when I’m working at the lathe in my shop—when a long piece of wood curls up from the knife and floats down to the floor—when I’m suddenly eight years old again, watching my grandpa sitting on the porch swing, whittling.

I reach down, pick up the shaving and watch it curl around my finger. Then I just stand for a long moment, remembering, until a thought crosses my mind. Maybe I will get myself a small pocket knife, after all. You never know when the urge to whittle might overtake me.