The way I remember it, things weren't always as high tech as they are today. I remember speeding down Interstate 40 at about 55 mph headed towards Amarillo in my old 69 Chevy pick up. I was real proud of that old truck. Even back in the Winter of '82 it was an old truck, but it was my first and of course my favorite. It was a 3/4 ton, mint green, gas guzzler. I used to figure how many gallons per mile it would get. Back then gas didn't cost what it does today. Even still, I remember wondering many a time whether I'd have enough money to get where I was going and whether I'd be stopping alongside the road making repairs with old parts I'd saved. Back then, Texas oil was still going strong and I could count on at least one old customer spending a little of his oil royalty money on one or two of my very best custom knives.

"How the Hell are ya doin' Dawson? I didn't know whether you'd make it through that snow storm or not! I heard it was pretty nasty." Don remarked as he strode up to my table with a grin from ear to ear. Don was a good friend; he'd invited me to his home for dinner on a couple occasions.

"It was touch and go for a while, but once when I could see, I looked in the rear view mirror and saw a string of lights following me and thought to myself that those poor folks were definitely following the wrong person." I said while stretching out my hand for a good old fashioned handshake.

Don worked in the oil fields and made money the hard way. Back then he always carried a roll of hundreds and would peel off a few when he saw something he liked. People had cash to pay for what they wanted back then, I didn't get too many charges.

"I'm tak'n a group out for deer and I want a skinning knife like that last one you sold me." Don explained as he picked up a gut hook. " That thing works better than a zipper, when it comes to gutt'n those white tails." He happily remarked.

I didn't like making those gut hooks. They were a lot of extra work and more than once one had gotten away from me and nearly turned me into a hen. That's about the time I made myself a new apron from the heaviest elk hide I could lay my hands on. But they were good sellers and the Texas boys swore by them.

Don reached across the 2' x 8' table in one quick motion, like a kid who had finally decided on the candy of his choice and wasn't going to hesitate one second longer. Don was one of those men you could take one look at and tell he had worked hard all his life. He stood about 6' 1" tall, hard boned and tough as nails.

"Dawson, don't you think it's about time you used one of these knives of yours on a nice white tail?" Don said, as he carefully examined every detail of the model 63 he had just picked up.

"Who do you think is going to make these things if I spend all my time partying?" I said with a grin on my face.

"You know how hard I am on knives; Do you have one of these with a linen micarta handle on it?" Don questioned.

"I might have one down here somewhere." I said as I crawled under my table and searched through my suitcase. "Here ya go!" I handed Don a 63M in the leather sheath. "How's Bev?" I asked as Don excitedly tested the edge of the knife on a few hairs of his forearm. Don Mitchell was known to be hard on women and 6 months was about all he had in him for any woman.

"She's pretty as ever and twice as feisty." Don grinned with a sly twinkle in his eye. He dearly loved the girls but when it came to the "M" word he was scarce to be found. "Hell! Dawson, when are you going to find yourself a nice young thing and settle down?"

"Are you going to play with that thing all day or are you going to throw some green down on the table?" I replied, trying hard to ignore him. He could have talked all day without having to mention that. That was a can a worms I'd rather leave on the shelf. Sure I'd had my share of female problems but who hadn't.

As Don walked away with a rolled up paper bag clutched tightly in one hand and a slight bounce to his step, I couldn't help but think back to a raven haired beauty that had once made me a very happy man.

"Wake up Dawson! You here to sell knives or what?" Exclaimed Mike, a long time customer and good friend.

It had been a long couple of days for me. I had to get up early Friday morning to catch the early bird flight from Durango, Colorado to Phoenix, Arizona, from there I caught a connecting flight to Dallas Fort Worth and then on to Atlanta, Georgia for the annual Blade Show. After arriving at the airport I had to rent a car and drive to my hotel. Then I had to go over to the knife show and set up. Knifemakers of all kinds from all over the world were there. At this point all I wanted to do was sack out in my room.

Rudely awakened from my day dream, I replied, a little annoyed, "How's that hand doing? I heard you cut pretty it bad."

"It's alright, I guess. I had to have an operation so I could use it again." Mike smiled weakly, embarrassed that I had heard about his little accident.

"It could happen to anyone." I comforted. "Hell! I wish I had a dollar for every scar I've got from working with knives for 24 years." Holding out my right hand I showed him a long scar across the length of my palm, where a knife had got caught on the buffing wheel and laid open my hand.

I remember that particular incident very painfully. I had been working late getting ready for the Houston Gun Show at the Astro Dome put on by the club, and was tired. I was 35 miles from the nearest emergency room and it was one in the morning. I grabbed the first dirty rag I could find and shoved it in the gaping wound and squeezed hard. The blood slowed to a trickle. I walked quickly to the house about 50 yards away and grabbed a bottle of peroxide and washed the wound thoroughly. Next I poured the herbal powder I had ready for just such emergencies liberally into the wound. The bleeding stopped immediately. I then wrapped up my hand and finished up my work in the shop and got a couple of hours sleep before catching my flight to the show.

I had got the Cayenne, Goldenseal and Comfrey formula from an old Navajo herbalist that I had known for years. He told me it was just what I needed for my line of work, and he was right.

Mike Smith was a knife purveyor. He sold other makers custom knives for a living and had made a few himself. He was in his early thirties about 6' 1" with dark brown hair and a north eastern accent. He owned his own store and was a good business man.

"I was checking out one of those darn automatics and ...well I guess the blade just came out the wrong end." Mike explained. "It came right out the end and into my hand. The doctor said it severed an artery and the nerve to my hand. It's sore as hell but the Doc said it should be O.K.."

"It's a damn good thing you didn't bleed to death. I told you these knives have their own personalities and some of them can be down right nasty. " I kidded with a wry smile on my face.

I've been thinking about taking out a life insurance policy on you anyway. Tell me the next time your thinking about fooling around with those automatics." I said with a chuckle.

"If you're through having fun now, maybe you can show me that Waki you were supposed to have for me at this show." Mike said with a smile on his face. I reached under the table and came up with the 18" bladed Warrior Wakizashi sword.

"If you didn't sell them as fast as I can make 'em you wouldn't always need another one." I said joking.

"And if you didn't make the best sword in the world, I wouldn't always be ordering another one." Mike countered.

I slowly unrolled the sword from the large cloth it was wrapped in. Mike reached across the table and carefully picked up the Waki and slowly withdrew it from it's sheath. He examined the sword and then gently felt its keen edge with his thumb.

"I can see how this could slice a side of beef in half with one whack." He remarked, referring to a cutting test sponsored by Fighting Knives magazine some years back. "I never will forget the time I was in your shop while you were working on that Traditional Katana for me." Mike said as he shook his head slowly.

I couldn't help but remember with a slight smile that day also. Mike had made the mistake of mentioning an article he had just read about sword testing in Japan. I calmly walked over to where his heat treated Katana blade lie on the work bench and proceeded to tighten the end of the blade in the vice. His jaw must have dropped two inches when I began to bend the blade back. I could feel his chest tighten as I grunted against the strength of the blade. About the time he yelled, "What the Hell!!". I slowly released the blade, removed it quickly from the vice and handed it to him with an amused grin on my face. I calmly told him to look carefully down the length of the blade. "I'll be damned"! Mike exclaimed. "It's as straight as an arrow".

I had just bent over to pick up a six foot bar of 1/4" x 2", 440C steel when out of the clear blue I get this shooting pain all the way up my back and I can hardly move. The back problems come and go and the older I get the more they come. An old injury from another world long ago............

"Hey Dawson! You'd better watch out for that missing rung!" Seaman 1st Class John Lopez had shouted to me from the hold far below me. I was hurriedly fetching the pump strainer so we could pump out the remaining water in the hold in order to refloat the Korean freighter. It seems some ambitious gooks had exploded charges they had set while the ship was docked. I had been working 18 hour shifts in Qui Nhon Harbor on the coast of Nam in June of '70. It was 105 degrees with 90% humidity on the deck whenever I could get up there to enjoy it. I was tired and hadn't had a shower in days. I was so ripe I couldn't stand to be around myself. War is Hell! Forget about the last time I had the company of a sympathetic female. During my last R&R in Longapo the Philippines, Air Force Chief Master Sergeant Johnson had informed me of his many female problems over a few beers. I remember remarking that I'd trade places with him anytime and that female problems were something you never had working salvage.

"Oh, Shit!" I remember thinking as I reached for that missing rung in the ladder on my way back down. I had the pump strainer in one hand and air in the other. Time had slowed down like a slow motion stunt shot in Die Hard. Only I wasn't Bruce Willis and there wasn't an air mattress waiting below to cushion my rapid descent to the steel hold seven decks below. I looked over at the Korean laborer pointing in slow motion as I fell backwards into nothingness. I saw him slowly mouthing incomprehensible syllables as others turned slowly in my direction. The last thing I remembered was a Korean curiously lifting my right foot several times to its proper position and then having it flop over at a grotesque angle. A young Army grunt shooed away the Korean and assured me help was on it its way and that I'd be just fine. That was comforting to a man that thought for sure he must be dead.

I woke up in a Med Evac Unit in Qui Nhon starring into the eyes of a beautiful angel with strawberry blond hair telling me I had better lie flat on my back and not move if I didn't want to be paralyzed for the rest of my life. I had a temporary cast put on my right leg and was told they would fix me up once I arrived in Japan. I was flown out the next day with a bunch of other unfortunate "warriors" to Yokohama, Japan.

"Wake up Dawson! That commode isn't going to clean itself". The medical assistant E-1 yelled with a cruel smile on his lips.

I was off all the pain killers now and leaning precariously on crutches against the latrine wall at the Naval hospital in Norfolk, Virginia. Realty had come crashing down around me and I was back in the states with an E-1 ordering a pathetic sergeant around like he was some raw recruit at boot camp. Just so you don't think I'm a complete wimp, I did tell the SOB off, but only to have several Doctors with eagles on their shoulders telling me all the bad things that would happen to me if I didn't do everything that piss-ant E-1 was telling me to do for "my own good". I'm not sure if it had anything to do with the latrine physical therapy, but I improved at a near miraculous rate.

"Uncle, I'm going back to the van for the rest of your things. I'll be back in a little while."

Nick Conner had reported on his way out to the parking lot.

"Damn it all! My back is killing me." I thought to myself as I tried unsuccessfully to rub the soreness out of my back. What would I do without Nick ?

I used to buy exotic handle materials from Larry Gray at the knife shows until he opened up a Trading Post in Beatty, Nevada. Since then he's developed quite a liking for the Tourist's which flock to Nevada each year. If I need to contact Larry I can have my girl friend Jackie E-mail him or his lovely wife Vonnie.

I certainly wouldn't describe myself as a techie or nerd. The first time I remember getting close to a computer of any kind was way back in the eighties. My older and wiser brother brought home a Commodore 128.

Till then I had amused myself with the now infamous tennis game which was played on your TV screen. Two people would manipulate the controls on two small white lines about 1/2" in length to whack a cyber ball back and forth across the screen. The object being to make your opponent miss the ball and thereby score. I just thought that was the greatest thing going. We would sit for hours whacking that ball back and forth. Some might compare this game to yesteryears innovation of "tidily winks". Forget all that, I was now a player in the high tech world of computers.

I know, I can hear the snickers, many of you today probably wouldn't even consider a Commodore 128 a "real computer". But back then I was on the cutting edge of technology. It took me half the day to unpack everything and set it all up. Finally, I got up the courage and turned it on. I was afraid I was going to hit the wrong button and the whole thing was going to blow up in my face, like I'd seen in the movies. After several weeks of practice and study, I was able to walk right into the office and turn that computer on just as easy as you please. I was so darn proud of myself. It was all down hill from there. I never could figure out just exactly what I wanted to do with it. It took me so long to do anything on it, I finally just gave up and went back to pencil and paper.

I guess if you had to define computer illiterate today, a Polaroid of myself would suffice. The glory has faded but the memory lingers on. For one brief moment in my life, I had the illusion of great technological skill. Nowadays, Jackie handles any office chores that involve the use of electricity in any amount, however small.

All this talk about high tech stuff has reminded me of Alabama and my very first grinder. You might call me a tinkerer. Ever since I can remember, I liked to fiddle around with things. I guess in today's work vernacular, you could say I engineered a lot of stuff. Anyway, I had a route in Enterprise of all the best dumpsters. The various businesses and industries threw out some really cool stuff. I would only pickup the quality junk of course. In one of the dumpsters I discovered an old wheel from a discarded shoping cart. That was the contact wheel for my first grinder. Now, all you knifemakers out there, don't start getting jealous of my first custom grinder. Some of you might be wondering why I would want to build a grinder in the first place.

I had built myself a hen house and was very proud of it. I had about fifty hens of every description. Word had got out that if you had any unwanted hens, Barry Dawson would give them a fine home. One of the local chicken farmers had a soft heart and would continully bring me chickens who didn't look like they were going to make it to the slaughter house.

Some of my relatives were visiting and I had asked them to chicken dinner. I didn't have the chickens just for eggs, a man has to have some meat in his diet. I had a bad case of urban crowding in my hen house and was in dire need of a sizable chicken dinner. The problem was, I didn't own a cleaver and couldn't afford a store bought one. I was never one to let something like that stand in my way.

While plowing up a new patch of ground for a garden, I had unearthed some nice pieces of steel from an old plow. I had already built a blacksmith's furnace and a kiln, so all I really needed was something to put the finishing touches on the knife with. To make a long story short, everyone had a fine chicken dinner that evening. The best I can say about the cleaver I built was that it was heavy and sharp and did the job just fine.

To be continued......between sword orders

Barry