The Barlow That She Carried

     When I was but a boy, my mother would walk me to school. The two of us would walk about a mile up the hill to the local Catholic School. We took a short cut though a section of woods. I always enjoyed this part of the walk. Going into the unknown, we were off the streets and following a narrow path that in the springtime was partially covered by spreading bushes and in the winters, with ice and snow. These walks helped me appreciate the wonders that the world has to offer and I’m sure, helped nudge me towards the camping and hiking in my future.

    When I was born, we lived on a farm. It wasn’t a large place, about 20 acres or so but it filled a desire that my father had. He was always interested in nature and plants. The idea of living on your own, growing crops to help feed you, having a greenhouse and a few chickens and a couple geese to provide eggs was something both of my parents thought was important. In the end, financial matters got the better of them and we moved to a neighborhood surrounded by houses. Perhaps it was the fact that there was now a new child in the family and the idea of being closer to stores and eventually schools drew them to our new home.

    While we were living on the farm, my mother would bake bread and take it to the near-by town to sell at a small grocery store.  After the move she continued to bake bread. I remember those days fondly, watching her kneading the dough, flour coating her arms and the counter tops. Waiting as the dough slowly rose with white kitchen towels placed across it. Then came the best part, all the smells coming out of the kitchen as the loaves baked! There were always a couple small loafs made and if I was good, I’d get one for myself. Butter melting into the still hot, white crumb, oh, it was pure heaven to a young boy!

    My mother did the daily cooking but my father was the gourmet. When friends came over or family arrived for a holiday get-together, he was the one in the kitchen. These were the days when Julia Child was a big influence. There are still cookbooks in the house dedicated to the fine art of French cooking. I don’t remember any special dinners he made but I know he experimented a lot. His notes in the margins of the cookbooks tell his story. His cooking history is described by how many he fed and whether or not the recipe was worth having again. Stains of ingredients on the pages help tell the story also. 

    Cooking… this brings me back to my original story and the walk to school with my mother. In the springtime, as we were preparing for our walk, my mother would always put a paper lunch bag in her purse. Arriving at the entrance to the short-cut, if the conditions were right, she would open her purse, remove the bag and then dig a bit deeper and pull out a small Barlow pocketknife. The knife was used to cut dandelions, digging down below the fresh leaves and cutting off the roots. The dirt would be shaken off and they would be put in the bag. She looked for young plants, leaving the older and bigger plants behind, saying they were bitter. It didn’t take long until the bag was filled and she would fold over the top, put it in her purse along with the folded knife and we’d continue our walk through the woods, up the hill to the school.

    In the evening, for dinner we would be served a fresh dandelion salad with hot bacon dressing. Seriously, I really think my true appreciation of this salad was the bacon, not the fresh leaves! It was a salad that we had many times, not only tasty but economic!

    The idea that she had a knife in her purse always intrigued me. I was never allowed to hold or play with it, in fact it was never even thought of except when she was trimming the fronds of the dandelions for that nights dinner. She had other knives also, including a slender Case knife with a deer antler handle, stored in a belt sheath. When going through her belongings after she passed, I came across them and had to keep them, both are now in my collection.

    I recently was looking at my knives and wiping the dust off of them, oiling and sharpening a couple, when I picked up her Barlow knife. A bit worn but still tight, the blade shows signs of being re-sharpened many times. Holding it in my hands brought back those walks we took almost 60 years ago. The walks and the taste of her salads, but best of all, it brought back memories of times spent with Mom. 

    All this from just holding the Barlow she carried.