Please excuse the multi-language title, as I merely wanted to avoid any confusion involving internet searches and key words.
Early in the week, I was outside having a few beers and just observing people as they went about their lives. I particularly enjoyed seeing some of the families riding by on their bicycles. Our neighborhood has a fair amount of young kids, and it is always fascinating to see a new group of little ones out on their bikes, getting familiar with how to ride in busy areas.
Like any city, you always have to watch out for the various types of traffic: cars, obviously, but also cyclists, pedestrians, and most recently, e-scooters.
There is a little stretch of sidewalk that passes right through the middle of the pub's terrace, and this can be a pretty lively spot for traffic congestion. First of all, if all the outside tables are full of guests, which is normally the case on pleasant weather days, you have a fair amount of movement as the staff serve the tables their drinks and food. Meanwhile, people are walking by on their way to or from somewhere.
The particular corner of the neighborhood has a kind of three way intersection, but all the streets are one-way. For the purposes of this post, I mention it only because parents and children who are cycling together have to sort of split up, as technically cyclists are not allowed to ride on the sidewalk.
This rule does not tend to apply to younger cyclists, for a variety of reasons.
What this means, however, is that I tend to get a regular load of entertainment as parents continue riding on the street, trying to watch out for traffic themselves. These parents are also nervously monitoring their children's process of riding through a busy pedestrian walkway. It is only for a few seconds, really only about 30 meters, but there have been a fair amount of close calls, where a child has almost lost control or careened into a waitress with a full tray of beers. (Keep in mind my post from a couple of weeks ago when all the dogs decided to kick off together; it can be a real rodeo in the neighborhood.)
What strikes me the most is how the parents have prepared their kids for this kind of thing. City families have to go through a different learning process, particularly when considering traffic and strangers. Those of us who grew up in suburban neighborhoods did not have this experience. Instead, we knew all the neighbors and the safety of our street.
I write all of this just to get to the point that I notice that the kids in the neighborhood are able to navigate busy sidewalks and what have you just because they know their parents are close by.
Despite the safer environment for my own "learning to ride a bike" experience, I distinctly remember learning to pedal with the comfort that mom or dad was close behind me on their own bike. The confidence came from knowing that mom and dad were right there, even as I rode along wobbily. Just like the kids in Bornheim.
As I observed all of this the other evening, my thoughts wandered on to other childhood memories. Our family did a fair amount of camping when my sister and I were really young, and we learned a lot about nature, being outside, how to make campfires, and other lovely things.
During summer vacations, we visited many state and national parks. Sometimes in the evening we would gather around the bonfire with other campers and listen to a park ranger tell stories or explain the history of the area, or whatever. My dad would use these opportunities to do some whittling. He always had a knife with him, and was always on the lookout for a good piece of wood to whittle.
Heck yeah, I wanted to whittle just as soon I was allowed to, old enough to.
I think my father was keen to get me started with whittling, too. And, in 1976, not too terribly long after I learned to ride a bike without training wheels, he returned from his first trip to Europe and gave me my very first Swiss Army Knife.
The knife was red, but instead of plastic (like most of the Swiss knives I see today) it was metal. I loved the way it felt in my hand, and I was a proud six year old.
Ready to whittle.
Unbeknownst to me, my parents had a lively discussion somewhere in Switzerland at the knife shop. My mother was of the opinion that I was way too young for such a knife. My father won the argument in the end, likely convincing my mom that his own childhood started out similarly (his dad and grandfather were big outdoorsmen) and not least of all, my father would only allow me to use the knife under his supervision.
One Saturday afternoon about a week after my folks from returned from their European trip, I decided to sit on the porch with my father and whittle.
We selected a suitable piece of wood, and my father again showed me all the ways to be careful when handling a sharp knife. Then, he went back to doing his yard work while I sat on the porch and started carving.
The first two or three cuts into the wood went really smoothly. But with the fourth or fifth, the knife slipped right off the wood and directly into my left index finger.
Well, that certainly surprised me, and when I saw the blood, I became alarmed. And then I felt the pain.
My dad had casually glanced over when he heard my yelp, and quickly jumped up and escorted me inside. The finger was bleeding profusely, and I was leaving quite a little trail through the foyer and den as we got to the kitchen, where my mom was preparing dinner.
Suddenly, my mom is shrieking, my finger is under the faucet with cold water running, and all the while my father was saying, "He is okay, he is okay, he is okay."
It took longer for my mom to calm down then it did for my finger to stop bleeding.
It all happened rather quickly, but suddenly I had a band aid on my finger and the crisis was over.
It was a simple accident, but certainly helped to remind me about being cautious with knives, hard wood, and whittling in general.
But my folks were there, and it was okay. It helped particularly that my dad did not overreact. After all, to borrow a line from Monty Python, "it was just a flesh wound."
The incident did not stop us from continuing to handle knives.
Maybe a year or two later, my dad introduced me to game one afternoon. The game is Mumblety-peg, and in the version he taught me to play, we stood across from each other outside in the front yard with our legs shoulder width apart.
The object of the game is to flick the knife a few inches away from the opponent's foot. If the knife stuck blade in, you had to move your foot to where the knife was, then try and and flick your knife next to their foot. The first one to fall over because they had to stretch too far was the loser. The loser then had to pull a peg of wood out of the ground with their teeth.
My dad had learned the game as a boy scout, and I never really even questioned the danger with the game. How my mom allowed us to play it is a question I will never have an answer for.
I was never really able to get the hang of flicking or throwing a knife, so I hardly ever won against my father. Unlike my father's generation, those of us growing up in 1970s were not really allowed to go off and play such games on the school playground; some very clued in school board member must have realized that a bunch of 8 year olds throwing knives at each others feet was just a disaster waiting to happen, so wisely nipped that in the bud.
But playing mublety-peg with Dad? No problem at all.
When Dad is there, how dangerous can it be?
I celebrated the memory of my first Swiss Army Knife by purchasing a new suitcase (which I have needed for some time) from the same manufacturer.
The new suitcase arrived yesterday, and to differentiate it from others at the baggage carousel (whenever the hell I travel again), I am considering pasting a sticker on the side of the case.
"I know how to play Mumblety-peg. Thanks, Dad."
see you out there, but leave your pocket knives at home.
Bryan
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