Real American Knife Lore

This forum is dedicated to the discussion and display of old knives. The rich history of all the many companies that made them through the early years will be found here as well as many fine examples of the cutlers art. Share pictures of your old knives and your knowledge here!
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Re: Real American Knife Lore

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Miller Bro's wrote: Morris Cutlery Co., Morris, Ill.;
On the Illinois River about 25 miles East of Ottawa, IL. Now there would be one to look for.

Interesting reading.
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Re: Real American Knife Lore

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What great pieces of history, thank s for posting them MB.
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Re: Real American Knife Lore

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Great reading and historical perspective MB ::tu:: ::tu:: ... Thanks for posting these!!!, and glad these came back to the top of this subforum - ... is there more?? :D
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Re: Real American Knife Lore

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.....MB, thanks for posting this!!....this is VERY interesting!!!..... ::tu:: ::tu:: ::tu:: ............
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Re: Real American Knife Lore

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LongBlade wrote:Thanks for posting these!!!, and glad these came back to the top of this subforum - ... is there more??
Yes I believe so, I just don't have the time to look for them at the moment.
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Re: Real American Knife Lore

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Steve and Tommy glad you enjoyed reading them :D
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Re: Real American Knife Lore

Post by carrmillus »

.........miller bros., just ran across this and read all of it, this is very interesting, thanks for posting this!!...... ::tu:: .........
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Re: Real American Knife Lore

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I was in touch with MB (Dimitri) offline and offered to help keep this thread going... I found a few more to add and here is one referring to a couple of the old Conn Cutleries including Waterville.... this interview from the Library of Congress archives was not with a knife maker per se but he did have an interesting perspective...

Peter Odenwald, 66, Clay Street, Thomaston:

“My brother Henry was tellin' me about you, only he said you was writin' up stuff on the clock shop. You want to know about the knife business, too? Oh, I see. Well, of course I ain't a knifemaker, you'll have to go see Charley Klocker or Jim Truelove or some of them fellas if you want to know the ins and outs of knifemakin', but I worked in the knife shops, different times. I worked in Waterville and I worked in Thomaston knife companies.

“I worked in Waterville about thirty five years altogether. Not in the knife business, though. Last job I had, year ago last December I got laid off, was in Waterville. Like I say, I never claimed to be a knifemaker though. I used to do odd jobs, like cleanin', and packin', and like that.

“Knifemakin' was a pretty good trade and it took you quite a while to break in on it. If
 you didn't have friends or relations in the business, you didn't stand much of a chance. They was good money in it, and of course they wanted to keep it among themselves mostly, those English people. Most all English people in the knife business, somehow or other. Charley Klocker was a German, like myself, but they wasn't many Germans in it. Charley's old man learned the business right in the old country and he was as good as any Englishman I ever saw. Why, he made some special knives, little watch charm knives and novelties like that, and some fella took them out 2 to an exposition in Chicago, and they sold like hotcakes. He wrote back to Charley's old man and told him to send all he could rake up, he'd sell 'em for him.

“They made good money, the knifemakers did. Spent it faster's they could make it, though. Funny, you comin' along this afternoon— I was just talkin' to Tod Waters about an old knifemaker from Northfield, used to come down here and get drunk. His name was Fred Russell. Maybe you remember him yourself. You don't? Well, like I say, they always had a pocketful of money when they started out on a spree. I seen this Fred Russell many a time with a roll big enough to choke a cow. He used to come down here to the Hash House and get roarin' drunk. Helpless. He drove a horse and wagon. Tod Waters was in there one night and Russell was there, and he got good and drunk. Got a cryin' jag on. He says to Tod Waters, ‘take me hom, Tod.’ Tod felt sorry for him, so he took him out and helped him into the back of the wagon, and got in the driver's seat and drove up to Russell's house in Northfield. But when he got there, he went around to help Russell out, and the old guy was gone. Tod drove all the way back to Thomaston, lookin' along the road, figgerin', he might have fell out, but he never see hide nor hair of him till he got back to the Hash House. There was Russell up to the bar havin' a drink, and cryin' again. Soon's he saw Tod he says, ‘take me hom, Tod.’ Tod says, ‘I'll be damned if I will!’ I often say that to Tod when I see him an the street, ‘take me home, Tod,’ I say. He always gets a laugh out of it.

“Funny how that business went to hell, ain't it? Well, it ain't no worse than a lot of others, right now at that. I worked down in Waterville, Burbecker and Rowland's for a good many years. Then the Beardsley and Wolcotts got ahold of it and they went under, and then 
this company from Massachusetts took it—they kind of rented the place—and it was all right for a while—and then they moved back to Fairhaven. And I got laid off and I ain't worked since. I coulda gone up there to work, but what the hell, I was only gettin' a couple days a week, and it woulda cost me seventy five or eighty bucks to move and after I got there I probably woulda got laid off again and then where the hell would I be? So I got this unemployment insurance for thirteen weeks, and in the meantime I had an application in for the old age pension and the week after I got my last check, the pension started comin'. Of course it's only seven bucks a week, but I can get by on it, if I's careful. I wish I had a couple bucks more, and then it wouldn't be so close figgerin'. I don't want to be rich, I don't give a damn as long as I can get by. The only thing I's afraid of is some day they'll do away with it. But there ain't no use worryin' about it, is there? Take it as it comes and don't worry about what's gonna happen, that's the way I always figgered.”
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Re: Real American Knife Lore

Post by edge213 »

This just may be my new favorite thread on AAPK!! Keep 'em comin'.
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Re: Real American Knife Lore

Post by LongBlade »

Glad you are enjoying these edge213 ::tu:: ... I do as well ::nod:: ...

I figured this would be a good next installment to the thread given the reference to Charley Klocker in the last one I posted... and in contrast to the many Sheffield workers a German worker's perspective...

Charles Klocker - Conn. 1938-9

“They weren't all Englishmen”, says Charles Klocker, of Plymouth Hill. “My father was a German. Learned his knifemaking in the village where he was born in the old country, and he taught it to all us kids whether we liked it or not, soon's we got old enough to work. I had to learn it. Hated the goddamn job, and I hated Northfield. We used to live in Bronxville, New York. That's the first place my father worked when he came to this country. And I was fourteen when we moved to Northfield. After livin' in the city, it was pretty dull. 'soon's I was old enough to be independent, I lit out. Went out west and kept a-travelin'
 for five or six years, workin' at the knifemakin' trade from one shop to another. Worked in shops all through the middle west. That's the way knifemakers used to do, go from one job to another. A pretty restless bunch.

“They stuck close together, too. Had their own union. You couldn't break into the trade unless your old man was a knifemaker. The union had the say, who was going to be taken into the business. I worked up in Northfield time of the strike. We were out for months, I don't remember how long, but it was a long time. I chopped wood for sixty cents a day, to make a little money.

“What was it about? Well, it was the time the government raised the tariff on knives. Prices went up all through the country, and most all the knife companies raised the help five per cent right off the bat, and give 'em another five per cent raise a little later. The Catlins up in Northfield didn't want to give anything. Finally the boys struck. Wanted at least five per cent.

“I can remember the time them fifteen knifemakers came over from England. The one Catlin hired to break the strike. He didn't tell 'em there was a strike goin' on, but they got suspicious.

“Catlin had a boarding house all fixed up for 'em. Had Old Lady Wildgoose come down from Torrington to do the cookin' and everything. Night they came to the 2 village me and Tom Hawley was walkin' down the hill and we met Charley Gustafson and his team, bringin, 'em up.

“‘What you got there, Charley?’ I says. “‘Got some knifemakers,’ says Charley, ‘right from the old country.’

“‘Well, there was a fella named Jim Williams, one of the johnny bulls, he hollers out to me, ‘Is everything all [reet?] up there, lad?’ He talked that low English. I says, ‘No, by God, it isn't. We're on strike,’ I says.

“They went on up the hill to the boardin' house, but not one of 'em went to work the next day. Catlin was madder'n hell, he wouldn't pay their board and they had to get out. But the knifemakers took care of them, every one of them got a job. They took seven over
in Hotchkissville and four down to Cotton Hollow and I think the rest went to work in Southington. You see, the way it was, if you was on strike, like us, you couldn't go out and get a job anywhere else while the strike lasted. None of the other shops would take you. But with those fellas it was different. They hadn't gone to work anywhere.

“My old man made knifemakers out of all of us, me, and my brother Ed and my brother Gus. My brother Gus, if you could talk to him, he was superintendent of the brick shop down on the Waterbury road—Thomaston Knife Company. That's the one Joe Warner owned. But Gus is over in Watertown now. My father worked for Gus at the end. He wouldn't give it up. He was an old man but we couldn't get him to quit. We was always afraid he'd get hurt..

“So Gus tried to discourage him every way he could. He wouldn't give the old man his blades. Let him come to work, and there wouldn't be anything for him to do. His work would lay there on the bench for months, with Gus holdin' it up on him. Finally he see
we got the best of him and he quit. ‘Py God.’ he says, ‘if I was a younger man I'd go someblace else and get a chob. My own son,’ he says, ‘I teach him everything he knows, and now he puts me oudt from the shop.’

“The old man learned his business from those old fellas that did the work in their houses. That's the way they did it over in the old country, you know. I've heard him tell how they used to chisel 'em out with a chisel. The knives you get these days, now. They look fine. But anyone that knows will tell you what they are.

“My father used to make those watch charm knives. Little damn things not more than in inch long. Stoughton took about fifty of them out to the exposition one year and sold them all in less'n a week. Wrote back and asked the old gent for more. Said he could sell all he got.

“I never cared much for the work, but I see a lot of the country because I knew my trade.
I could always move on to another town and get a job. But when I got back home after bummin' around for a few years, I give it up. The boys up in Northfield—they used to save up four-five hundred dollars, and then off they'd go. Wouldn't go back to work till it was gone, the ones that were single, and by that time they'd probably be a good many miles from Northfield and never would come back.

“One thing about it, you could always make good money. You could make three-four dollars a day, if you wanted to work, when two dollars was good pay in most of the shops. You could see the way it was goin' years ago, though. Knife shops closin' up all over the country, and new machinery comin' in. What the hell good was the trade to a man? It don't make no difference any more whether you can make a good knife or not—the cheap ones sell better. Who cares if they're good or not? They ain't got time to fool around with the old fashioned methods. So where would I be if I depended on the knife trade today, to earn a livin'? You said it, m'boy, you said it.”
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Re: Real American Knife Lore

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I agree, fantastic thread, keep 'em coming!
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Re: Real American Knife Lore

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::tu:: Interesting reading!
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Re: Real American Knife Lore

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..........very interesting, love reading this kind of stuff!!!............ ::tu:: ::tu:: ........................
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Re: Real American Knife Lore

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Thanks all - I'll keep on posting what I can find and glad you folks are enjoying ::tu:: ::tu::

James Truelove had an opening introduction as to who he was in the community before his interview that followed - so that is why the first paragraph is in bold... enjoy fellas....

Second Selectman James Truelove of Reynolds Bridge, a dignified, urbane old gentleman referred to eulogistically in our weekly paper as a “pillar of the Republican party” came
 to Thomaston more than thirty years ago from Sheffield, England, Lakeville, Woodbury and other knifemaking towns and established himself immediately among the knifemakers here as a political figure. His obvious educational advantages, an extensive vocabulary from which he selects words of impressive proportions with care and deliberation, and a certain satorial elegance-combined no doubt, to make of the entire knifemaking population an admiring and faithful constituency. Thus Mr. Truelove has represented “The Bridge,” in the political affairs of our town almost, it might be said, since the mind of man runneth not to the contrary, though the knifemakers, as a political bloc to be reckoned with by office holders have virtually vanished. His accent, if he ever had one, is no longer noticeable, he has few remaining ties with his homeland, is staunchly American and just as staunchly Republican. Says he: Conn. 1938-9

“To the best of my knowledge, the first knifemaking operations in this country by the Sheffield men began at Waterville about 1844. And this group was bought out by Holly up on Lakeville, the company for which I worked when I first came to this country. I worked in Woodbury and then I got a job over here in Thomaston. It's been a good many years now since I worked at the trade, though I'm still following along same line you might say. You see, I do all the hardening for 2 the Seth Thomas Clock Company nowadays.

“I was a hand forger. That was my job. Learned under my father, and he got it from his father, and so on. For four generations. We were hand forgers for four generations. I had five brothers, and out of the five, four of them learned hand forging too. The other enlisted in the army, but entered the knife business when he came back to civilian life. That was the rule in Sheffield in the knifemaking trade. You learned from your father, and what he way was , you were also.

“Yes, it was a difficult job hand forging. Not everyone could learn it. It required quickness— you had to work fast before the steel went below a workable heat—and a certain amount of strength, and good eyesight. The steel wasn't the same as it is now. I think it's safe to say there's been over a hundred different brands of steel developed during the last thirty years, roughly the period I've been in this country.

“I came here when I was thirty years old, already married, brought my family with me. I got tired of the way of life in the old country. There was my father. He lived about a mile and
a half from his work. Every day he walked the same old route, along the same old streets, never saw anything different, never got out into the country, came back again at night, went to bed—-his father did it before him—his father before him. I said by God I was going to see a little bit more of life than that.

“Sheffield was a big city. Close to three quarters of a million population I believe. Like any manufacturing city, smoky, dirty. I said I was going to see a little country for 3 a change.. There were sixty to eighty different knive companies there. Picture that. Any wonder they could send so many knifemakers over here and not miss them? Jealous[!?] Why, those men were so jealous of the reputations of the companies they worked for, they used to have stand up and drag-out fights every day in the week because of arguments over who made the best knives.

“I didn't go into the shops till I was more than eighteen. Had quite a bit of schooling. But
I decided I could do as well at knifemaking as at anything else, so I went in the company where my father worked. Wasn't long—a few years later—I had my own little business. I forged nothing but surgeon's knives—particularly high grade work. Those shops such as I had—where the work was brought to you on contract—were called ‘little masters' shops’. And by the way—I've seen that sort of work, surgeon's scalpels, offered for sale in the cheaper stores recently for less than I could buy the material for in the old country.

“Worst feature of the knife business was the prohibitive tariffs. There was one company— employed six to eight hundred hands. Ninety per cent of the knives were exported to the United States. And then, I think it was before Cleveland was elected, they put on the big tariff. They reduced the production right away in Sheffield, crippled the industry. The way they did it was to limit the amount of pay a man could make. Not like here. They didn't tell you how many hours you were to work. They told you how much money you could get for a certain amount of work and the hours were up to you. Called it 4 'stinting.’ Single men were stinted to $ 50 ? weekly and married men to five dollars, where some were making as much as ten previously.

“Then Mr. Payne, the president of one of the big companies went to America to study the situation. He said the trend was Democratic and that the tariff would be changed with the next election, but in the meantime they had a to reduce production ten per cent. Called the help in and explained the situation, but he promised them that with the election of a new president in the United States business would pick up. Well, his judgment proved excellent. Inside of six months after the election they returned a twenty per cent cut to the help and were working five and a half days a week. They draw a 10 per cent dividend the second year after the election. That determined my politics right there. I said if I ever came to America I'd be for a protective tariff. That's why I became a Republican.

“But the big competitor with this country was Germany, not England. The Germans produced a knife that was puer pure counterfeit. In plain words it was positively no damn good. They're sold in the quarter and dime stores to this day. I was in Waterbury not long ago and I saw a tray of them. Two men were examining them and one of them got hold of a knife that wouldn't open. After he broke a fingernail on it the girl came over to the counter and asked him what the trouble was. She finally had to take a pair of pliers and open the blade. Well, he bought it. Thgouht it had a wonderful spring, I suppose. I felt like asking him why he didn't buy the pliers too.

“But even when I came here the trade was changing. There were only three companies using hand forged blades then. There 5 was the Holly Mfg. Co. in Lakeville, where I first went to work; and Humason and Beckly in New Britain, and the company at Little Valley. I remember up in Lakeville they had a bell they used to ring when it was time to go to work. I had the damndest time trying to get used to it. Never had anything like that in the old country, you see. I was talking in with a lad named Joe Lucas one day and it rang. I said, ‘By God I don't like the idea of that bell.’ He said, ‘I've noticed you don't.’ I said, ‘I don't like it at all—so much so, in fact, that I think I'll just take the day off and go fishing.’ And I did.

“They didn't say anything, at the shop. They were used to Englishmen's ways. You couldn't get away with anything of the sort these days. A workman hasn't any independence any more, nor any pride in his work. I told an official up at the factory just the other day, I said, you give me any kind of steel you want, poorest quality there is, I said, and I'll turn you out a better blade by hand forging than anything on the market today. Of course he was a clock man, he didn't know anything about the knife business, and he said: ‘What are you talking about. Hand forging. Why that's a thing of the past. The next generation won't know what you're talking about.’ Now that was an intelligent argument, wasn't it? The fact remains, pure and simple, that the machine made product is inferior. Here I'll show you —"Mr. Truelove goes out of the room, returns with the inevitable collection of knives.

“Here, he says, ‘“Here's one of the surgeon's knives I told you about. Made it in the old country.” The blade is about six inches in length, shaped and tempered, but not edged. “This one is kind of a keep sake, one of the first I made. Here's one they called a spear jack, and this one here was called a sleeve board. See the way it's shaped? Just like one of those tailor's boards they used to put in the sleeve of a coat. This one's an ‘equal end.’ Derivation of the name is obvious. And this one's a sportsman's knife. My father carried it for years, and it was on him, in fact, when he died. Everything in it was handforged, lining and all. See these instruments? One for taking out slivers—here's a pair of tweezers, another one for taking stones out of a horse's hoof—a corkscrew—a screw driver—a button hook. Lot of those articles you'd never need today.

“Everybody used to carry knives. I do myself, to this day, I never go out without one.
My old grandfather used to say if he went out without a knife in his pocket he felt half undressed. He was over eighty years old and still workin' at his trade. He had a little anvil out in a vacant lot and he'd forge stone cutters' tools for them. He'd go to work at two or three in the afternoon and work till supper time. They used to leave the work for him in the morning and came back and get it next morning.

“A venerable appearing old man, my grandfather was. Had long white whiskers and
a ruddy face. I remember one time we were finished with a meal and my brother—he
was always drawing 7 and sketching—he got out a sheet of paper and he drew my grandfather's head with pencil, from memory mind you, for the old gentleman wasn't there at the time. And everybody said it was a wonderful likeness, which it was. You've heard that knifemakers were artistic, no doubt. That shows there's some truth in it, doesn't it?

“My father's hobby was taxidermy, and he passed it on to me. I work at it to this day, just for pastime, because God knows there isn't much money in it. Some folks bring animals here and never even call for them. Others'll take the finished product and forget to pay. Come in the other room and I'll show you some of my work.”
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Re: Real American Knife Lore

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MB, LB, Thank you both so much. This is now my favorite thread as well! Their is nothing better then primary source material. Could you tell me how you go about getting this, is it that it is already transcribed in a written format? I figure maybe we can get a few more eyes combing the material to see what other gems there are. Many, many thanks once again.
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Re: Real American Knife Lore

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Beechtree ::tu:: ::tu:: Please do join the fun ::nod:: To me these are first hand perspectives on the history of the cutlery industry here - no doubt a different angle on the history than any book one may read - first hand knowledge :)

Beechtree and for anyone else interested: I went with MB's lead and searched the Folklore project referred to in MB's opening thread... which lead me to the Library of Congress: https://www.loc.gov/collection/federal- ... ollection/

From there I tried a few search terms (e.g., knife) and started getting hits... personally I started saving the transcripts found just as in the Library of Congress to a folder and than cut and paste them into AAPK threads with some minor editing of only formatting... I think as MB had noted lots of these had grammatical and spelling mistakes but left all that be as originally transcribed... I have a few others to post but been trying to spread them out abit in time - so we can savior them one at a time :D

I think there is lots more to be found but haven't tried as of yet - this folklore project was only the years 1936-40 if I understand correctly so I want to try earlier as well and other search terms....

Hope this helps!
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Re: Real American Knife Lore

Post by Miller Bro's »

Excellent additions Lee!

Thanks for taking the time to find them :D ::handshake::
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Re: Real American Knife Lore

Post by bighomer »

Great stuff gentlemen I have enjoyed this immensely ,thanks for sharing your time and expertise. ::tu:: ::tu:: ::tu::
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Re: Real American Knife Lore

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My pleasure ::tu:: ::tu::

Next - a good follow-up after Truelove as he is noted in this interview.... and some of the spelling is quite amusing... one word in particular but I won't point it out - hard not to see it when you read it but has to do with knife shop in Winsted :lol: ...

Albert Beaujon, 75 Park Street, Thomaston:

“I worked up in Lakeville, worked in Northfield, worked in Thomaston, worked down in Bridgeport, makin' knives, and made good money.
Business got bad and I went to work in the clock shop. Now I's seventy five years old and nobody wants as any more. I work on the WPA, but they wanta have me quit that. Say I's gettin' too old. Say I oughta apply for old age pension. Seven bucks a week. My old lady's sixty.
She can't get any, unless they change the law. She says if they change the law, fine, get through, we'll get along okay if we both draw pensions, but otherwise how're we gonna do it?

“I pay sixteen dollars rent. Then there's light and gas and fuel in the winter time. How's I gonna do all that on seven bucks a week? I got a boy works up here in the tavern. Know how much they pay him? Eight dollars a week. He can't help me much. He hasta work twelve-thirteen hours a day for it, too. And then they tell me I oughta quit work.

“I can still do a day's work. I don't look my age do I? You'd never think I was seventy
five, would you? I been all over lookin' for a job. What I'd like to get is to take care of somebody's place for 'em. You know, mow the lawn and like that. But I looked all over hell. Even went up to that knife shop in Winsted. Some Eyetalians run it. They ain't doin' much, though.

“It ain't nothin' like it used to be. I started workin' up in Lakeville at the knife trade. Worked there when Jim Truelove came to this country. He come up there to work, and I remember him well, a cocky little Johnny bull. His kids were all small then.

“My brother-in-law taught me the trade. He was a cutler, right from the old country. And
a good man, too. They put him in charge of a room. I s'pose you've heard a good many stories about how careful them English knifemakers was. This'll 2 show you. I was polishin' some bolsters one day and my brother-in-law come along. He looked at 'em and he says, ‘You'll have to do better than that, Al.’ I says, ‘What's the matter with 'em?’ ‘scratched’, he says. ‘I don't see no scratches,’ I says, ‘Go on out and get a cheap pair of glasses, Al,’ he says and come back. I did, and when I looked at them bolsters with the glasses, I could see scratches. ‘You better wear 'em when you're workin' after this,’ he says. I thought my eyes was all right, up to then.

“Lakeville was a good place to work. Well, they was all pretty good, in them days, except the cities. I went down to Bridgeport, and I was like a fish out of water. I couldn't get on to it at all, the way they did it. Up in Lakeville, the fellas used to like to go fish in'. Lake was right near.by nearby , of course. They was about fifty of them workin', mostly English, and independent as hell. Old Man Holly used to get worried, along in the fishin' season, whether he was gonna get any work done or not. He used to come into the factory and say, ‘sow look, boys, this order has got to be done this week. Please try and stick it out unti Saturday.’ All the johnnies had their own boats, you know, and when the mood struck 'em they'd walk out and go fish in'.

“Shop's shut down now, ain't doin' anything. Knife business has gone to hell, but nobody seems to care. There ain't the demand for 'em there used to be, I guess. I worked on what they called the sportsman's knife. Had a half dozen different articles in it, like a screw driver, and a little pick for takin' the stones out of a horse's hoof and such. It was kind of difficult work, because you hadda fit the right sections together in every knife, see what I mean? I mean, you couldn't mix up the parts. Parts that were made for one knife, wouldn't fit another, see? But nobody wants knives like that any more. They make what they call 'skeleton knives' up in Winsted. Hell, a good knifemaker wouldn't even bother with 'em.

“I worked over in New Britain for a while, too. They went/ in for high pressure production over there. But brother, I's tellin' you their knives wasn't any damn good. Used to come back by the dozens. Blades would bend and break and chip. They didn't know how to temper 'em right, you see. That's an art in itself, hardenin' is. Ask Jim Truelove.

“Man used to get a good reputation at some particular job, he could go to work most anywhere. Like Jim Truelove. He was a good blade forger and hardener, and the clock shop down here is glad to have him workin' for 'em today, with all their high pressure production. Ever hear of the Holmes boys? They used to work around here, I think. They were good grinders. It stands to reason a machine ground knife ain't done as good as what those hand grinders could do.

“Well, I don't know. I s'pose even if I got a job in a knife shop tomorrow I wouldn't be able to remember half of it. Like to try it again, though. Even on piecework I could probably make more's I's makin' now. Thirteen months I was on the town, before I got on the WPA. You don't get any too much from the town, either. I thought I'd go crazy hangin' around. Work a couple days a week. I'da worked six, just to have somethin' to do, but they wouldn't let me. They didn't hare much to do.

“Just like now. What're they gonna do when they get all these roads fixed up? What're they gonna do when the work gives out? They must be pretty near caught up now. They don't wanta lot people start hangin' around, or they'll have a lot of crazy folks on their hands. Drives a man crazy, or drives him to drink, hangin' around. s'pose everybody'll be back on the town. But what're the towns gonna do? They can't stand it.

“Hell, they don't half feed a man. I was talkin' to Mike McDonald today. He gets a couple of days work from the town. He says he don't get enough to stick to his ribs. Says he don't know what the hell meat tastes like. He's livin' over there on School Street in Tommy Colwell's old place. Mike says he thinks there's a curse on it. Even a cat or a dog won't come near it, Mike says. Said he had the notion to try dog meat one—a these days, but nary a dog could he ketch.”
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Re: Real American Knife Lore

Post by carrmillus »

........very interesting!!.....love reading these!!!......... ::tu:: ::tu:: ::tu:: ...................................
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Re: Real American Knife Lore

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Given the recent discussion on Henry Gill in the thread below on jigged bone, and as Henry Gill was noted by Beechtree as the possible maker of his knife - I thought this would be an appropriate next installment to this thread ::nod:: This is only the first of a few interviews regarding Henry Gill noted in the Folklore Project:

Mr. Henry Gill #1

Almost at the top of the long hill lined on either side with old fashioned frame dwellings
in good and bad repair that constitutes Northfield's Main Street is the home of Henry Gill, who conducts as a one man industry the once flourishing Northfield Knife Company. Mr. Gill's big white house bears evidence of care and attention. Its paint is new, roof tightly shingled, front and side verandahs neat and shining. Over the front door is the date of erection, “1836”. Flanking the house is a two car garage on one side and on the other the shop itself, a long, narrow, one storied wooden building, white painted, many windowed.

Mr. Gill is not at home, but Mrs. Gill is sure he'll be back shortly “if you care to wait,”
and not long afterwards he enters the yard of the premises, surprisingly enough, as
a passenger on a fire truck. This venerable vehicle, it turns out, has been purchased
only recently by the citizenry after virtually 150 years of indifferent fire protection, and
the village as a whole and members of the newly organized department in particular experience a glow of pardonable pride every time it chugs up Main Street. The body and hood of the truck have been newly painted in brilliant scarlet, and in large gilt lettering over the engine is the legend, “Northfield Fire Department Number One.” (Number Two, it should be explained, is at this stage purely a matter of wishful thinking.)

Mr. Gill alights from his porch which in considerably higher than is considered fashionable these days—the truck being a Maxim of obvious maturity despite its brave new color—and opens the garage doors while the driver, a plump young man, hatless and curly haired, steers carefully inside. The tires need air, it appears, and Mr. Gill has an electric pump which is at the disposal of the department.

“How many you think she'll take, Herby?” asks Mr. Gill as the driver unscrews the valve. “About 45,” says Herby, applying the pump. Mr. Gill turns to me inquiringly 2 and I make known my business.

“Well,” he says, “if I had the time today, I could got you some data. I got some stuff in the ' ouse there. I got all the medals that were won at the World's Fairs, seven of 'em in all, and I got records down at the old shop. You see I kind of take care of that for the state, now. And all the records are there. But I couldn't get at 'em today.

“Would you like to see the little shop?” I answer affirmatively and Mr. Gill leads the way, talking fluently. His aitches are noticeably absent and he tells me that his father was one of the old “Sheffield Knifemakers” and that he himself was taken to Sheffield as a small boy by his father, both returning later to this country.

“My father said he wanted to take me over there so he could properly show me the knife trade, but I think to tell you the truth he just wanted an excuse to go back.” We enter the little shop, the interior of which is literally cluttered with old machinery, presses, drop hammers, forges, benches, wheels, boxes of stock, drawers, cupboards, belts, arranged in what is apparently a semblance of order to Mr. Gill, but confusing to the layman.

An ancient hand forge has been placed near the entrance and upon it is a most curious hammer, the haft polished smooth with long usage, the head—massive though it is, worn rough with the striking of countless blows. But its peculiarity lies in its shape, the head bent sharply downwards and in towards the haft instead of in the contentional fashion.

“That,” says Mr. Gill, “is a knifemaker's hammer, and the things they could do with that tool you probably wouldn't believe unless you saw them. It's old, at least a 'undred years and maybe more, that hammer is. Like all the stuff I got 'ere. I got the remnants of four knife companies 'ere. Four of the best companies in Connecticut, employin' between 'em nearly two thousand 'ands. And 3 this,” (Mr. Grill looks around the little room with a kind of melancholy pride,) “is all that's left.”

“If I 'ad the time I'd make up a knife for you right from the beginning, just to show you how it's done. I don't know whether I was fortunate or not, but I was of an inquiring turn of mind when I was a youngster and I wasn't satisfied till I learned all there was to know about the trade. There was about five principal operations to the knifemaking business. Bladers, forgers, grinders, cutlers, and finishers.

“Now this 'ammer 'ere. It was made this way so as to push the metal, instead of flatten it. And look 'ere,” indicating the forge, “the metal is sweating. That's a sign of rain. A barometer. “Beads of moisture are noticeable on the forge, and on some of the other old machinery. “Don't ask me to explain it,” says Mr. Gill.

“I bought out this stuff in 1930 and moved it up 'ere. I don't do much, and it gets less every year. You might say it's more of a hobby with me. The most business I've done in any one year was about eleven hundred dollars. Last year I did something like two 'undred and seventy five. And after I'd paid my 'elp and paid my taxes and so forth I 'ad just five dollars left to show for my year's work. So you see I don't got nothing out of it. I got old George Wright up at the top of the ['ill?] 'ere when I've any work. He's one of the old knifemakers. One of the few that's left around 'ere.

“This 'ere building is the original knife shop that was established in 1858. The lumber that's in this building is the lumber that was in the old knife shop; and the windows and doors and all.

“I was superintendent of the old placewhen the Clark Brothers owned it, and for a while after it went into receivership, and then when they discontinued the operations there the state took it over and they sort of had me look after it. But in 1930 I put up this building here and moved up the machinery and stock. All this 4 stuff that's in 'ere at one time would'ave brought eighty thousand dollars. That's what it was valued at. Remnants of four knife shops.

“Look 'ere,” Mr. Gill reaches under a bench, brings out a small, but heavy die. “Now it used to take a man all day to make up one of these. And 'e might 'ave to do two or three of them for one knife. I could make you a knife if you was to draw a design on paper for me. Just from lookin' at it. And so could any good knifemaker.

“Come 'ere, I want to show you what old man Wright does.” Mr. Gill takes out of a box one of the smallest of knife blades, the type used in knives of the watch charm variety, “He grinds these with his fingers, old man Wright does. Does it all by guesswork. Would you believe that? And it comes out perfect. And he fashions them with that big hammer there by the door, these little blades! See that swage there? Done with the hammer. And these and all the others made 'ere are from rod steel from England. I got a couple of tons of it down in my cellar.

“There's six thousand dozen blades 'ere, all shapes and sizes. If I say it myself, the knives I make are knives. They'll cut. You buy these things they sell in a ten cent store and see how good they are.

“The knife business was ruined by the machine age. The machine age and borrowing money. Those are the two evils of the times. They got hammering them out in mass production, and cheapening them more and more, and they forced all the little fellows out, like our little company.

“Machines, machines, machines, and more production, and no equalization, so that
the ones that want to buy can't buy—you've got a terrible problem there. All these little businesses, that started up in through 'ere, like this one, what's become of them? They've gone down, like this one, or they've grown out of proportion and are a dead weight. Top heavy. Like the automobile industry.

“There's a business that's got away from them and they can't control it. It's 5 responsible for a lot of bad things, say what you've a mind to. And the airplane. This world would be better off if the Wright brothers had never drawn breath of life. A toy, you might say, in the hands of children. Vicious children.

“I've lived my life, most of it, and I don't give a damn, in a way, but I 'ate to think of what's in store for my children and my grandchildren. Things can't go on this way. There's goin' to be some kind of an up'eaval, everything points to it.

“I honestly believe, young man, that I lived through the best period this country ever saw, or ever will see. There'll never be a return to it, without some vast change. There'll be
a lowerin' of the standard of livin', maybe. A return to where it used to be. 'Ow can this country continue to compete with countries like Japan, where they pay about seven cents a day for labor? Or Germany and Italy where it ain't much better.

“I can remember when things were much simpler 'ere, and it seems to me people were 'appy. They were secure, at least, and they know if they lost a job they could get another somewhere, if they were willing to work. Not that way today.

“'Ow much do you think those 'ouses cost across the street there, when they was put up, back in the sixties? The company 'ouses? Exactly four 'undred dollars apiece. They didn't 'ave the porches on like they 'ave now, nor anything fancy, but they were good solid little 'ouses. They rented for about six dollars a month. You 'ave to pay about two thousand for a 'ouse like that today.

“It was a 'ard life, maybe, in lots of ways, but it was 'ealthy, too. My father walked, one time, from Canton, o'io, to Southington. What do you think of that? There wasn't any 'itch 'ikin'. He walked all the way.

“They didn't make much in the shop, but they got by on it. Families with two or three or four or five children. I've seen women working in this 'ere knife factory 6 for four cents an hour. Setting edges and cleaning knives and that.

“The old time knifemakers worked on piecework, and they made pretty good money, as pay went in those days, but the important thing was their trade. The state was full of knife factories, and they could always get a job. That gave 'em security. And they'd work till they were so old they had to be helped down to the factory and set in their chairs. They took pride in their work, and the consequences was they did wonderful work. Do you see that today? A man can't take pride in it, if everything is done by machinery.

“So they saved and they scrimped and some of them bought farms and their own houses. They know how to do without things, which is something the young folks don't know today. You went up to see old man Wright, you say? Well, you didn't see any electric lights up there did you? Or any vacuum cleaners or things like that? No / sir, the Wrights burn oil lamps. But they're not on relief. They know how to live within their means. They never will be on relief.

“Look at the road out there. I can remember when it was so deep in mud this time the year, you'd go over your ankles. But now it's macadam surface, and if there's three inches of snow on it, the state plow 'as to clear it off. We've got to pay for that, 'aven't we, one way or the other. Things are getting away from us.

“I couldn't keep this business goin', if I was to depend on it for a livin'. Fortunately, I'm independent of it. It's a lobby with me, more than anything else. Well, if you come around some other day, I'll try and 'ave some data for you.”
____________________________________________________________________________
Lee
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Re: Real American Knife Lore

Post by danno50 »

Thanks for bumping up this thread, Dimitri, I don't recall seeing it when it first started. Very interesting and informative reading. Thanks also to Lee for digging up further information and adding it.
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Re: Real American Knife Lore

Post by LongBlade »

Time to kick this back into gear :D ... This was another interview with Henry Gill and George Wright....

Mr. Henry Gill # 2

The busy chug-chug of the small gasoline engine serves notice this afternoon that Mr. Gill, last of the Northfield knifemakers, (his old helper excepted) is at work in his little factory. I find him sitting on a sawed off piano stool, a power driven grindstone between his knees, expertly turning the blade of a jackknife. He explains that he is “doing a few repairs,” and will be free shortly. I watch him at work; the ease with which he moves from grindstone to grindstone to buffer, polishing, turning, sharpening with the skill born of years of practice is fascinating.

“Not much money in this,” he says. “Put on a new blade, all I got in half a dollar.” Two or three of the old knives on which he is working have been used for many years, and are treasured by their owners through long association, Mr. Gill believes. Finished with his task he lays them aside. “You want to see those medals I was telling you about,” he says. “Wait 'ere a second and I'll bring them out.”

While he is gone I examine a framed picture near the door of that famous case of 800 knives, still referred to with pride by older residents of the village, which was sent to the Centennial in Philadelphia, Mr. Gill returns to find me looking at the picture.

“One of them knives was three feet long,” he says; “and another had twenty four blades; and still another was thin enough to go down a pipe stem. Old Sam Mason made it. He let his finger nail grow till it could just cover it. Just a curiosity.”

“'Ere's the medals.” Mr. Gill dumps them unceremoniously on a bench. “This one's gold.” The inscription reads, ‘New Hampshire Mechanic and Artist Association, First Exhibition, Concord, October 1868.’

“'Ere's the first one they got,” Mr. Gill holds out a tarnished silver medallion, inscribed: ‘Connecticut State Agricultural Society, Awarded John S. Barnes, Northfield, Best Pocket Cutlery, 1858’. A large copper medal in a leather case is Mr. Gill's 2 particular pride, First Award of the ‘republique Francaise,’ at the International Exposition of 1872. There is another award from the United States Centennial commission, 1876; and a silver medal for first place in the Columbian Exposition at Chicago. “That's the last of 'em,” says Mr. Gill. “I thought there was more than that around.”

“I haven't got around to writin' out that 'istory for you. Thought I might do it this mornin', but I 'ad these things to take care of.” The bell of the adjacent schoolhouse tolls recess and Mr. Gill goes to the window. “Look at them kids, would you,” he observes. “The school yard ain't big enough for them, they have to run all over the back lot. 'Ere comes old George Wright down the 'ill. 'E may be able to give you some information.” Mr. Wright' enters presently, an old gentleman garbed in somber black, with drooping gray mustache, cap, dark colored spectacles. Mr. Gill explains that I am interested in knife shop history and Mr. Wright recalls that I have been to see him several weeks ago.

“I just came in for my unbrell',” he explains. “Look's though we might have rain. “Funny thing about an umbrell. If it's goodlooking you can't keep it long, but if it's a disreputable looking piece of furniture like this'n you can always find it again. Nobody 'd carry this but me, probably.”

Mr. Gill: “Your dad was one of the old timers, George. You ought to remember something about the old shops. You're in the business longer than me.”

Mr. Wright: “Oh, I don't know. It was quite a business, in my dad's day. There were small shops all over the state. One up in Litchfield, in 1859; one in Southington, Hotchkissville, Campville at one time; one below the Wigwam reservoir one at Reynolds Bridge—all small places. And our shop in Northfield here. That was about as prosperous as any of them when it was owned by the old fellas. It paid a hundred per cent dividend one year they say.”

Mr. Gill: “They had a thirty thousand dollar sinking fund when the Catlins 3 took it over, and when they got through with it there was a forty thousand dollar chattel mortgage on it.”

Mr. Wright: “That's so. But still I think it was the Civil War that pulled the old timers through. They weren't business men, those old johnnies weren't. They wouldn't have lasted as long as they did, if it hadn't been for the Civil War. They made an army knife that sold very well. A spoon, fork and blade combination. But they didn't have much business ability. Every man had an equal vote in the affairs of the company, regardless of the amount of stock he held. That wasn't business-like.”

Mr. Gill: “Yes, I suppose if the Catlins hadn't taken over the place some of these other Yankees would. They were shrewder than the johnnies.”

Mr. Wright: “Well, they were, and they weren't. Some people outsmart themselves, don't they? I know I have had dealings with some like that. And afterwards, I've let them severely alone. Decided they were a little too smart for me.”

Mr. Gill: “You know, of course this doesn't want to go in the paper, but in the old days, you could get whiskey and cider right over the counter in the grocery stores. They never had any license. And the old johnnies were nearly all hard drinkers. That's how they come to lose their stock. They'd get drunk and want more liquor and didn't have any money, and they'd give the stock to Catlin in exchange.

Mr. Wright: “Well, they say Mason building this big house up here had something to do with it too. Mason was president, and some of the rest of them thought it was going to his head. He built the house, and his wife started wearing silk dresses and so forth, and the others thought perhaps he was getting a little too much out of it, so they traded off their stock. That's one story.”

Mr. Gill: “They didn't make a great deal of money, to start with, anyway. And they had funny methods. I remember my father saying there was some that bought 4 stock without putting any money down. They worked for nothing until they paid for their shares.”

Mr. Wright: “Rastus French. He was one of the old Yankee stock. Not very competent, not a very good worker. All he got was twenty five cents a day. I remember my father wondering how he lived on it. But he had a little farm, and a few cows, and he raised vegetables and so forth.”

Mr. Gill: “Well, they worked piece work. It was up to them how much they made.”

Mr. Wright: “Yes, it was nice. It wasn't like factory work today. The pace was slower. They used to argue and talk for hours on end, some times. And they had ‘tobacco time’ twice a day, at ten in the morning and four in the afternoon, they'd all go downstairs for a smoke. I remember coming in the factory when I was eight years old and my father would hoist me up on a bench and set me to flashing blades. And Mr. Foster, his boy Robert tended to the stock early in the morning and did the chores around the house and then went to school and after school he'd come down to the factory and his father would always have some little job for him to do. That was the way the trade was learned. In those days children were supposed to help, and a good thing it was too. Kept them out of mischief and I don't know's it did any of them any harm. My old Grandmother used to come to see us; she'd always say to us children: ‘Come, come, make yourself useful, make yourself useful.’

Mr. Gill: “Yes, that's a fact.”

Mr. Wright: There was Mr. Martin, always said , by George his boy Calvin was never goin' to work in the factory. And look at the way he turned out. The old man must have often wished he'd put him to work. You take these children today, most of them never do a lick of work till they're past eighteen. And then they don't want to do anything, do they?”

Mr. Gill: “That's the truth.”

Mr. Wright: “I remember one time—the queerest arguments they used to have. They got fightin, over which was right pronunciation—'eether, or eyether.’ Finally old Uncle Sammy Mason got tired of it. He says, ‘Eether, eyether—Neether, nyether, 't'ain't any of 'em roight, go back to work ye bloody fools.’

Mr. Gill: (enthusiastically) “Didn't they 'ave some great sayin's though? Average man couldn't understand 'em. I remember my father talkin' to one of the old Yankees 'ereabouts, 'e says to 'im, ‘Now see if you can tell what ah say: Take potter out of ash nook and put it in coke oil.’ Old Yankee couldn't get it. The potter was the poker. And the ash nook was the coal pit. And coke oil was the oil barrel.”

Mr. Wright: “My father used to say, ‘I'm ban aboon.’ That meant, ‘I'm going above.’ But the best one I ever heard was the one about Uncle Sammy and the bellows boy. The youngster never came to work on time and the old man threatened to discharge him. The next day the boy came bright and early and the old man says: ‘Ah see tha's come first at last; tha's always be'ind before.’

Mr. Gill: “They were a 'appy go lucky tribe. Just like gypsies. My father used to tell about a couple 'e knew up in Waldron. They were goin' to work one noon, and one says, ‘What d'ye sye Jock, we go ‘one ‘ome ?’ ‘All roight,’ says the other, and without another word they went back to the lodging house and packed up and started for the Old Country.”

Mr. Wright: “Do you remember the time the fifteen came up here, the time of the strike? And when they found out what the situation was they scattered the next day. Not one of 'em stayed.”

Mr. Gill: “They could always get jobs. They'd go on a spree and perhaps never come back to work. I got a set of toos tools 'ere now belongs to a chap that left 'em 'ere and never came back after 'em. I sometimes think if they 'adn't been so independent the business would 'ave been better off. I 'eard my father say 'e's seen a blade forger brought in to work on a wheelbarrow and sobered up so the rest 6 of them could get started. They 'ad to wait for the blade / forgers, you know. Well, that kind of thing 'appened too often, and they began to cast around for some kind of machinery so's they wouldn't 'ave to depend on those chaps, and then your drop forges came in. Same with the grinders. They were always on strike. Pretty soon they got grindin' machines.”

Mr. Wright: “They used to tell about Dr. Ferguson that ran the knife shop down in Reynolds Bridge for a while. One of these men from the grinders' union came to see him and asked for more money for the men. Ferguson said if the men couldn't come to him themselves, he'd shut the place up. And that's just what he did. It was kind of hard to get more money here too, sometimes. I know one time I was talking to one of the men from the Bridge and I found out he was getting two cents a dozen more than I was on the same knife. I told Mr. Catlin about it and he said, surely, I could have the same price. But he never gave me any more of those knives to do.”

Mr. Gill: “They had a good many tricks like that.”

Mr. Wright: “Well, I've got to be getting on to the store. Must be near about supper time. I've got my umbrell, anyway, in case it rains.” He leaves.

Mr. Gill: “George is the only knifemaker left around 'ere, besides my self. There isn't any of the old bunch left. My mother's the last of them, that I can think of. Where'd' they go? They're dead, most of them. Some left the village. It's like I said, they were like gypsies. Come and go all the time. My father was over 'ere three times before 'e brought us over to stay. Some went out west with the Mormons, years ago. Some went from 'ere, did you know that? And there's a company out in Boulder, Colorado that was started by a boy who learned 'is trade right in Northfield, Faym Platts.

“They were a great bunch. Rough and ready. No table manners, most of them, and most of them drank more than was good for them, but they were artists. Why, 6 they used to do etching, years ago. Not one of them but what 'ad an 'obby. And the knives they made were knives, not cheap junk.

“After I go there'll be nobody bother with it, I s'pose. You can see I don't make anything on it. It's just a hobby with me. Well, I'll try to get out that 'istory for you one of these days.”
____________________________________________________________________________
Lee
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Re: Real American Knife Lore

Post by FRJ »

LongBlade wrote:Time to kick this back into gear :D “'Ere's the medals.” Mr. Gill dumps them unceremoniously on a bench.

A great read in Mr. Henry Gill #2 Lee. Thanks for bringing this back.
I have handled some of these medals. Equally unceremoniously shown to me. :o


Mr. Gill: “They could always get jobs. They'd go on a spree and perhaps never come back to work. I got a set of toos tools 'ere now belongs to a chap that left 'em 'ere and never came back after 'em. I sometimes think if they 'adn't been so independent the business would 'ave been better off. I 'eard my father say 'e's seen a blade forger brought in to work on a wheelbarrow and sobered up so the rest 6 of them could get started. They 'ad to wait for the blade / forgers, you know. Well, that kind of thing 'appened too often, and they began to cast around for some kind of machinery so's they wouldn't 'ave to depend on those chaps, and then your drop forges came in. Same with the grinders. They were always on strike. Pretty soon they got grindin' machines.”
A telling story from Mr. Gill.
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Re: Real American Knife Lore

Post by Beechtree »

These are sure fun reads. It makes me feel as though I'm there.
"A tool is but an extension of a man's hand." -Henry Ward Beecher
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