Knife Fight

. . at the OHS corral – (they made a movie about this* )

The ole man bequeathed me a knife quite recently. Well, in the last ten or fifteen years or so. He told a story in a very rare letter to his darling son, written on the back of a Maxprop invoice and folded into the special PUMA green and yellow case:

‘Let me tell you about this knife,‘ he writes. ‘I first saw it in Rosenthals, a big safari shop in Windhoek more than 30 years ago.‘ This on one of his family holidays he took in the family car. Without the family.

When friends of ours, the Maeders, went to Germany on holiday, he asked them to get the knife for him ‘in Austria, where it is made, by one man, whose name appears in the brochure‘ – a small 50-page brochure that comes with each knife.

I think that middle picture shows you how not to cut a friend’s finger off – see later…

The letter continues: ‘Anyway, the knife arrives by post in Harrismith. Uproar!! Urgent meeting: Me, the police and the postmaster – in his office. I had imported a dangerous weapon – the blade was more than 4″ long – illegal!‘

‘The postmaster unlocks his safe in the presence of all concerned, removes the knife, makes a tracing of the blade. This is to be sent to the SA Police in Pretoria. Meantime, the dangerous weapon goes back into the safe.‘

‘I told them not to be bloody silly; I could walk over to the OK Bazaars right now and buy a butchers knife with a 12″ blade!‘

‘After all the dust had settled and all charges had been paid, the knife cost me R64.00.’

The ‘over the counter’ price at Rosenthals in Windhoek – which he refused to pay, knowing he could save money by ‘getting it direct’ – had been R63.00!

‘And I’m always trying to get a better price, to save money! Love Dad‘

I read the fifty-page brochure in my Austrian cousin’s accent. I sought they were probably sinking: ‘Ve know vot to do wis zis sing, but it might be sold to a blutty savitch! Better ve write some instructions… ‘

~o0o~

Writing this cutlery story reminded me that as a kid way back in the sixties, I took over my Dad’s much bigger dagger; also with a bone handle and a leather sheath. I probably would have benefited from an instruction booklet …

One day the duP’s came to visit and Pierre and I were playing with it, stabbing it into the hard Vrystaat ground on our lawn on the aviary side of the house, seeing how deeply we could bury the blade. I plunged it down with all my might, not seeing Pierre was still tamping down the ground and lawn from his attempt! I just about cut his finger off! Typically, stoic Pierre said Shh! and kept it quiet, so as not to attract the attention of the supervising adults nearby, who were tending noukeurig to their dop and tjop and the fire n stuff. He walked off, dripping blood, to our kitchen to show his Ma Joan, who cleaned and bandaged it without fuss! I must ask him for a pic of the scar, sixty years on.

~o0o~

tending noukeurig – supervising the kids – not – while the Moms were doing the actual work in the kitchen.

~o0o~

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