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Several months ago, I met a man and his son who came to me to buy knives and have others sharpened. The man was your typical suburbanite, but his son was a willowy, skiddish young man dressed in cammo with a 'sidewall' haircut, odd for his age.
I got the chance to talk privately with his father, who in some amusement told me how it was to raise the boy.
Turns out the boy was always doing push-ups, always running or jogging, devouring gun and knife magazines, shooting and then asking to strip every firearm an adult would trust him with.
"The kid has wanted to be a Marine since he could walk," the father told me, laughing in spite of himself, "Where he gets it, I have no idea. I told him that I would buy a Darrell Ralph knife from you if he kept his grades up and saw it through to the end."
"Here's the check," he continued, "he leaves next week..."
I bent down over the sharpener this morning, fending off three miffed clients who all have waited too long to get their hunting and filet knives sharpened. I'm going to make a wad of money, but I'm a little cheesed. Then someone cracked my name off so crystal and sharp I thought my Dad had come back from the dead.
"Chico," the voice reiterated, "Just dropped by to say hello."
I looked up at a crisp newly vetted Marine. Spine as ramrod straight as his creases, and an attitude proud and grounded.
"Clint?" I breathed, "I didn't know you were even back..."
"Thought I'd surprise you," he grinned, "Got some time for a wise-mouth kid?"
I stared at his newly minted 'campaign' ribbon, and shiny "expert rifleman" designation. He shook my hand, confident and honest.
"Had to carry in my knife," he mused, "I can't carry anything in my pants."
Then he whispered, "I have my wallet in my sock."
As I put a fresh edge on his knife, we talked and laughed as we previously had, but there was no question that events were now different. There was a gray haze to our glad-handing, and I finally just broke the 'wall.'
"Where are you headed now?"
"Pendleton. A few more classes. Some training."
"And then?"
"I go where I'm sent."
"When...?"
"Two weeks. Wanna see the family. Tie things up right."
"Like to have you over for dinner--if you have time."
"I'd like that."
"I'll call over to your dad's house."
"Gotta fly, Chico, we all sharp?"
"Like a razor."
The Marine faked a half-smile.
"Thanks for the support," he said as he extended his hand.
I quickly wiped the dross off and extended my own. "Be safe."
He nodded, turned and disappeared.
I cannot relate the pain in my heart.
I got the chance to talk privately with his father, who in some amusement told me how it was to raise the boy.
Turns out the boy was always doing push-ups, always running or jogging, devouring gun and knife magazines, shooting and then asking to strip every firearm an adult would trust him with.
"The kid has wanted to be a Marine since he could walk," the father told me, laughing in spite of himself, "Where he gets it, I have no idea. I told him that I would buy a Darrell Ralph knife from you if he kept his grades up and saw it through to the end."
"Here's the check," he continued, "he leaves next week..."
I bent down over the sharpener this morning, fending off three miffed clients who all have waited too long to get their hunting and filet knives sharpened. I'm going to make a wad of money, but I'm a little cheesed. Then someone cracked my name off so crystal and sharp I thought my Dad had come back from the dead.
"Chico," the voice reiterated, "Just dropped by to say hello."
I looked up at a crisp newly vetted Marine. Spine as ramrod straight as his creases, and an attitude proud and grounded.
"Clint?" I breathed, "I didn't know you were even back..."
"Thought I'd surprise you," he grinned, "Got some time for a wise-mouth kid?"
I stared at his newly minted 'campaign' ribbon, and shiny "expert rifleman" designation. He shook my hand, confident and honest.
"Had to carry in my knife," he mused, "I can't carry anything in my pants."
Then he whispered, "I have my wallet in my sock."
As I put a fresh edge on his knife, we talked and laughed as we previously had, but there was no question that events were now different. There was a gray haze to our glad-handing, and I finally just broke the 'wall.'
"Where are you headed now?"
"Pendleton. A few more classes. Some training."
"And then?"
"I go where I'm sent."
"When...?"
"Two weeks. Wanna see the family. Tie things up right."
"Like to have you over for dinner--if you have time."
"I'd like that."
"I'll call over to your dad's house."
"Gotta fly, Chico, we all sharp?"
"Like a razor."
The Marine faked a half-smile.
"Thanks for the support," he said as he extended his hand.
I quickly wiped the dross off and extended my own. "Be safe."
He nodded, turned and disappeared.
I cannot relate the pain in my heart.
