"Of Barlow Knives and Cornbread"

 " We sat on the porch as the sun slowly but steadily dipped below the tree line, heralding the end of another early spring day. A gentle breeze was snaking through the pines, a slight chill in it, reminding us that another cool day could still be waiting. The weather in the Old North State was anything but consistent.

My grandfather sat there, his old Barlow knife in hand, whittling away at a small piece of maple. He was not making anything in particular, simply working at that little bit of wood for it's own sake. It was a form of catharsis for him. There was no end goal.

The whittling was in itself, the purpose. 

I looked at his hands, old and scarred from many years of labor, wrinkled and weathered. Yet, they were still strong. 

He said nothing, as he stripped little lengths of bark from the wood. The window to the front room, was up and the curtains swayed as the evening breeze moved through. 

My grandmother called out from the kitchen, 

" Cornbread is out of the oven, come on in here before it gets cold."

My grandfather folded the blade back into the body of the Barlow and looked at me.

"Come on boy. Let's get some cornbread."

I hopped up with him to go inside. It was a unexceptional evening out in the country, and it was dull and not the least bit exciting. 

And that is what made it perfect..."