My grandfather gave me my first knife when i signed up for boy scouts. It was an official boy scouts of america utility knife. He taught me safety, sharpening, and how to whittle. I was probably 7 or 8.
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When Did You Get Your First Knife?
- Thread starter Chadao
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- #22
Well yes...but that's Australia.
Ahh. They don't cut wood, peel potatoes, skin fruit, and cut cheese there?
Or any of the more interesting things a boy ought to do with a knife?
I think when I was about 9 from my grandpa
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- #26
Anyone ever play mumbly-peg?
I had to look that up, and the answer is no. I am also certain that our scouts leaders would have killed us. Outside of scouting, my dad would have done the same lol.
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I was 6. I was bequeathed my Great-Grandpa's pocket knife. 40 years later I still have it and plan to give it to my son one day.
Grandpa gave me a Case Butterbean. Passed it down to my oldest.
Yes; In 2nd grade during recess; 1946. Nowadays you'd be expelled or put in handcuffs where they still allow recess.
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- #31
We played it at recess, and after school. My mother hated it, but my father silently encouraged me.
When I joined the Cub Scouts my Dad got me the official Boy Scout knife. I gave it to my nephew years ago.
Here is a little piece I wrote some time back.
In it I tell the story of how I got my first knife.
This is dedicated to all the dads who never left.
Here is a little explanation of why I have always loved Schrade yellow handled trappers.......
I was going through a box of old knives yesterday and pulled out an old Yellow Schrade Walden Trapper. It looks horrible. The scales have shrunk and split and discolored disgracefully. The clip blade has been broken and ground off.
And yet, as I held the old knife, it took me back to a hot July evening thirty odd years ago.
For the first six years of my life, my childhood was idyllic. We lived on the backside of my Grandpa's ranch in Oklahoma. To get to our house, you had to go to the end of the road, cross a cattle guard, and drive down through a cow pasture.
I had a little cow pony named Crackerjacks and a dog named Sonny, and the run of the ranch. My granddad was an old time cowboy with leathery skin, calloused hands, and a tender heart for kids and colts and puppy dogs. He and I were inseperable.
One hot, sultry July evening my dad came home from work, and spoke quietly to my mother, whereupon they disappeared into their bedroom and closed the door. Some time later, they came out. She was crying, and he was looking very somber.
He took my little sister and me on his lap and told us that he would be leaving, and that he wouldn't be living with us anymore.
I bolted and ran outside, crying, trying to make sense of his words. And then I saw the rock pile.
We had picked up lots of rocks out of the corner of cow pasture we had fenced off for a yard, and piled them just outside past the gate. My mother had told me to stay away from the rock pile, because it was the kind of place Copperheads and Timber rattlers liked to hide, but today I didn't care. I was desperate to keep my dad from leaving.
Many of the rocks were big, some so big it was all I could do to carry them, but through my tears I worked frantically, piling them in front of the gate, hoping to keep him from getting out.
I had quite a wall built by the time he came out of the house carrying a suitcase.
I held my breath as I watched him walk up to the gate and stare at my handiwork. A shadow passed over his countenance as he deliberately grasped the gate and shoved it open, sending my rocks and my hopes tumbling down into shambles.
He walked over to where I was standing, and with one hand resting on my shoulder, he fumbled in his front pocket with his other hand and brought out the old Schrade. He handed it to me, and with a husky "Goodbye, Partner," he got in his pickup and drove away.
As he drove out of sight, I clutched that old knife that in happier times had cut chicken livers in pieces on fishing trips and cut switches for me to use on my sometimes unruly cowpony.
I think maybe my love affair with pocketknives was born that day.
To this day I have a thing for old yellow Trappers. I found a vintage Schrade in mint condition just like it a few years ago and paid a big price for it so i would have one to carry. It was in my pocket today.
The old Trapper has seen better days, and my dad crossed the great divide a few years ago...
And now I have two boys that are the apple of my eye. Lots of things have changed over the years and a lot of water has rolled under the bridge, but the old knife still has the ability to take me back in time.
In it I tell the story of how I got my first knife.
This is dedicated to all the dads who never left.
Here is a little explanation of why I have always loved Schrade yellow handled trappers.......
I was going through a box of old knives yesterday and pulled out an old Yellow Schrade Walden Trapper. It looks horrible. The scales have shrunk and split and discolored disgracefully. The clip blade has been broken and ground off.
And yet, as I held the old knife, it took me back to a hot July evening thirty odd years ago.
For the first six years of my life, my childhood was idyllic. We lived on the backside of my Grandpa's ranch in Oklahoma. To get to our house, you had to go to the end of the road, cross a cattle guard, and drive down through a cow pasture.
I had a little cow pony named Crackerjacks and a dog named Sonny, and the run of the ranch. My granddad was an old time cowboy with leathery skin, calloused hands, and a tender heart for kids and colts and puppy dogs. He and I were inseperable.
One hot, sultry July evening my dad came home from work, and spoke quietly to my mother, whereupon they disappeared into their bedroom and closed the door. Some time later, they came out. She was crying, and he was looking very somber.
He took my little sister and me on his lap and told us that he would be leaving, and that he wouldn't be living with us anymore.
I bolted and ran outside, crying, trying to make sense of his words. And then I saw the rock pile.
We had picked up lots of rocks out of the corner of cow pasture we had fenced off for a yard, and piled them just outside past the gate. My mother had told me to stay away from the rock pile, because it was the kind of place Copperheads and Timber rattlers liked to hide, but today I didn't care. I was desperate to keep my dad from leaving.
Many of the rocks were big, some so big it was all I could do to carry them, but through my tears I worked frantically, piling them in front of the gate, hoping to keep him from getting out.
I had quite a wall built by the time he came out of the house carrying a suitcase.
I held my breath as I watched him walk up to the gate and stare at my handiwork. A shadow passed over his countenance as he deliberately grasped the gate and shoved it open, sending my rocks and my hopes tumbling down into shambles.
He walked over to where I was standing, and with one hand resting on my shoulder, he fumbled in his front pocket with his other hand and brought out the old Schrade. He handed it to me, and with a husky "Goodbye, Partner," he got in his pickup and drove away.
As he drove out of sight, I clutched that old knife that in happier times had cut chicken livers in pieces on fishing trips and cut switches for me to use on my sometimes unruly cowpony.
I think maybe my love affair with pocketknives was born that day.
To this day I have a thing for old yellow Trappers. I found a vintage Schrade in mint condition just like it a few years ago and paid a big price for it so i would have one to carry. It was in my pocket today.
The old Trapper has seen better days, and my dad crossed the great divide a few years ago...
And now I have two boys that are the apple of my eye. Lots of things have changed over the years and a lot of water has rolled under the bridge, but the old knife still has the ability to take me back in time.
- Thread starter
- #34
Coonskinner, moments like this make me so happy to be a member of Badger and Blade, and proud to have you as a Blade Brother. Many thanks for sharing your memories. 
Pierce
Pierce
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I got my first knife when I was six and went to school. It was a Mikov fish pocket knife and I believe it has been lost/misplaced. I have fond memories about that knife that I used through primary and secondary school, almost daily, and never left my pockets.
It depends on many factors, but the reality is that today's generation is different than ours. Just different.
I gave my oldest a Swiss at 10 and to the youngest a Leatherman Micra at 7. The Leatherman gets used quite often.
Now, iPads and other gadgets... they have been through several and need upgrading three times a year.
- Thread starter
- #37
Good point.
I grew up in the 50's which was still mainly rural in the US. It was always the duty of us kids to pluck the chicken for dinner.
Even though we lived in a "city," we could hear a mountain lion at night.
The boy I am giving the knife to is home schooled, and his father is teaching him to shoot. So I'm giving the Opinel to his aunt and let the family sort it out.
I grew up in the 50's which was still mainly rural in the US. It was always the duty of us kids to pluck the chicken for dinner.
Even though we lived in a "city," we could hear a mountain lion at night.
The boy I am giving the knife to is home schooled, and his father is teaching him to shoot. So I'm giving the Opinel to his aunt and let the family sort it out.
Got my first when I was a Cub Scout...great Swiss Army knife, still have it.
I had my first german folder when I was six, it's still around somewhere 
My son received his first and second this year at eight, a very small blade and file SAK and later an Opinel #5. We've been through safety, sharpening, etc and of course that the knife only goes camping or is used around the house; never taken down the street or to school.
My son received his first and second this year at eight, a very small blade and file SAK and later an Opinel #5. We've been through safety, sharpening, etc and of course that the knife only goes camping or is used around the house; never taken down the street or to school.
I had a number of inexpensive "jack" knives when I was on the farm in the summer as a kid younger than ten, no idea what kind they were, mostly they were used to cut bail twine of bales of hay. The knife I remember and still have was a Schrade "Old Timer" (Sharpfinger model) that I got from my uncle for deer hunting. It was/is wicked sharp, even though I've moved on to a folder (Gerber gator) for my deer hunting needs, I still love the minimalism that knife represented.
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