Since it was too hot to work outside this morning I decided to sort some boxes in the shed.
After clearing of the dust and putting the chase on a spider I flipped open the cardboard lid.
The first thing my eye spotted was my 鈥榣ost鈥� Boy-Scout-million-and-one-gadget-knife.
I haven鈥檛 seen it for at least 40 years. Simply holding it transported me back to a special place in time.
鈥淛ust what in the name of the Lord do you think you are doing with that,鈥� the weathered, gnarled face, framed by an exaggerated set of ears, bellowed.
鈥淢y saints and Aunt Hanna boy, that is not how you carry a knife.鈥�
The sinewy man was no more than five foot-eight inches, but his sleek frame promised a powerful strength and toughness coiled within.
Great creases and scars crossed his forehead like trenches dug across a battlefield. Straight, jet-black hair combed flat back only added contrast to his large, bulbous, red nose and flaming red face. He was imposing.
鈥淚, I, I, was j-j-just walking with it and鈥�,鈥� I replied
鈥淲hat ya was 鈥� was not thinking. You were stupid. Stupid dies. Knives aren鈥檛 toys 鈥� they鈥檙e meant to do one thing and one thing only, cut. They do it very well, especially if the person with the knife is very good, or very stupid. You are being stupid. Put the knife in its sheathe, now!鈥�
My childish frame shuddered fearfully as I whisked the knife into its cumbersome pouch.
It was the first time in my life Robert Nelson Stevens barked and I jumped.
That one-sided conversation was the start of a wonderful friendship. I was nine years old; Old Steve was 50-something.
Still at cub camp the next day, held at the Okanagan Anglican Church Camp on the shores of Okanagan Lake, 鈥極ld Steve鈥� taught me how to clean a Rainbow trout.
The grizzled ole camp caretaker was a master when it came to using a knife.
The varied lessons never really ended from that day on.
For the better part of the following 30 years Steve remained one of the major influences in my life.
In many ways, Steve was my second father, giving me many valued lessons and memories, and a glimpse into several worlds I would have never known otherwise.
鈥楽teve鈥� was one of 10 children, born to a B.C. miner-blacksmith and his wife, near the turn of the century.
When he was seven his mother died, so along with several siblings, he was sent to an orphanage. Such facilities were not pleasant spots and school lessons came hard.
Steve suffered numerous strappings and rods for failing to memorize an entire page of scripture by day鈥檚 end.
On his 13th birthday he was turned out onto the streets of Vancouver, no longer considered a 鈥榗hild鈥�, nor the responsibility of anyone.
He found work at a ranch busting horses, but a horse busted him instead, crushing in his skull with a hoof. He survived the kick but suffered bouts of epilepsy the rest of his life.
Healed of horses, Steve went to work at a mill for a few years, learning a trade in carpentry.
However, the depression years hit hard and closed much work down.
For over a year Steve rode the rails as a hobo looking for work throughout the nation. Like thousands with him he discovered work was scarce and times harsh.
Eventually, he sought a wilder yet safer world, and headed into the Cariboo, then northern B.C., Alaska, the Yukon and the Northwest Territories looking for gold, trapping fur, and leading pack-trains.
Several years later, filled with frozen fingers and battles with bears and wolverines, Steve wandered his way back down into Alberta.
The call for able men had reached even the north, and Steve was finally needed.
However, even the army turned Steve away. His epilepsy denied him entry.
Instead, he was given work building military facilities. Trained carpenters were valued and drafted to work for needs of the cause.
Steve moved from one work yard to another 鈥� Penhold, Esquimalt 鈥� wherever orders were given.
When war ended he continued working as a shipwright, despite breaking his back falling from a scaffold. He met a young lady, married, and started a family.
Within a few years Steve was offered a position building boats in Victoria, but his wife wanted no part of the move.
Steve took the job saying he would return home on weekends. When he came back the following weekend, his wife was gone. So were his kids.
Steve began drinking that day and never stopped for 13 years.
Most of that wasted time was spent on Vancouver鈥檚 Skid Row, though again he rode the rails of Canada numerous times. He frequented numerous drunk tanks and jail cells across the land.
Then, one day he simply decided he had had enough, and quit drinking.
Soon after leaving booze, doctors told Steve he had leukemia and would not live long.
Refusing to be hospitalized, he bought himself a pack board and literally walked into the interior of the province, over the Rockies鈥� Coastal Mountain Range.
Five months, three broken ribs, 14-pounds lost, and a rattlesnake bite later, Robert Stevens arrived in 麻豆精选 fit and lean.
Within a few weeks he had procured the job as caretaker of the Anglican Church Camp facility. His leukemia was miraculously gone!
Soon after, Steve became a regular member of our household, a frequent for Sunday dinners, always at Christmas, and even occasional visits to the rink to watch me play hockey.
Most often we spent our time fishing, or alone in the hills where he and I were both happiest. He taught me how to track almost everything.
We hunted, occasionally, but he knew that it was never really in my heart. Mostly we just watched, and listened, and grinned.
Many an hour was spent in his rustic cabin; wood stove roaring up a pot of thick gruel he would insist was coffee.
A million and a half butts from his hand-rolled tobacco filled the ashtrays, and the stories went on and on.
For a man of little education, he had read libraries of books. A book a day was possible for him to consume and comprehend.
His language could peel bark off a tree, and no greater temper had a grizzly bear. He was a cantankerous old codger, even in his mid-life, and I loved him dearly.
Steve taught me to see things through the eyes of the hurt and lost.
Steve lost a lot of things in life: parents, family, youth, innocence and trust. He lost a wife, kids, job, control, self-respect, and 13 years.
He lost a finger to a saw blade, and a hunk of another over a bottle of wine. However, Old Steve found in me the kids he lost, the mistakes he made, and a chance to somehow try and do better.
Life lessons came hard for Steve, yet he was too wise to be stupid forever.
He also saved my life, a couple of times.
On Christmas Eve 15 years ago, 鈥極ld Steve鈥� who鈥檇 lived to be old after all, died. I miss him but those memories of my time with him and this old knife still remain with me.
