I had to take my wife to the big city (Casper, Wyoming) last week and as a reward she let me go to the big Sportsmen's Warehouse while she went to Sam's Club.
The place was pretty much picked clean of anything I wanted, but on the way out I picked up a couple of rolls of olive drab paracord. I've been meaning to get some to wrap the handle of a tomahawk, and the stuff is just handy to have around.
Yesterday I had some down time and wrapped the tomahawk handle, a Buck hatchet, and the scabbard of a KBar. There was a lot of cord left, and I've been wanting a paracord belt for a while, so I got on You Tube and found several instructional videos.
After a while, I found a video that had a pattern I liked, and after an hour or so, I figured out how it was done. Off I went with a sharp stick and a pair of needle nose pliers. Loop, Loop, Loop, Loop, stuff a Loop, tighten! I was on a roll.
When Mrs. 4Js got home from work, I proudly showed her the fruits of my four hours of labor. A shiny buckle with six inches of belt!
She examined it carefully and said, "It's actually a very good job."
I was glowing with pride.
"Where did you learn to knit?"
I blinked stupidly and said, "What do you mean? I don't know how to knit. Here's how I did it."
I picked up the belt. My tongue stuck out as I concentrated on this manly task, and after five minutes I triumphantly held up the belt to show her I had completed another row of Loops and tightens. "That ain't knitting." I proudly said.
Without saying anything, she went to her sewing room and returned with two large knitting needles. She sat down, picked up a length of paracord, and started knitting. The loose cord on the floor was smoking from friction as it sped across the living room carpet. Her knitting needles, a blur, whistled as they displaced the air. They sounded like Bruce Lee swinging a fighting stick. In about 35 seconds, she had six inches of something that looked exactly like my belt. And I mean exactly.
I stammered, "Bbbbb, bbut, I didn't use needles, so it's not knittling. It's uh, um,Tactical Paracord Looping!" (I was proud I came up with that on the spur of the moment.)
"Needles or not, knitting is knitting."
I sank back in my chair as the enormity of this sudden revelation hit me like a bucket of cold water. I had, through no fault of my own, knitted. 55 years of macho, gone that quick?
I placed my suddenly unclean belt aside. When i went to bed, I stopped at my bookcase and pulled out Dick Marcinko's "Rouge Warrior". Yeah, a macho book like that. That'll make it better. I read two chapters and went to sleep.
When I woke up this morning, Mrs. 4Js had already gone to work. I fixed some coffee, got dressed, and went out to do chores.
Now men, these were macho chores. I fed and watered the horses, and split some firewood. I stepped on horse biscuits, I had wood chips in my hair. The Carhart jacket, heavy leather gloves, the smell of the horses, and the satisfying sound of the sledge hitting wedge made me feel manly again.
Having completed the chores, I went inside, poured another cup of hot, black coffee, went to the living room, put "Hondo" in the player, turned on the TV, and sat in my chair.
There on the floor beside my chair was a wicker basket. In it was my paracord and the six inches of completed belt. Also in the basket, like two extended middle fingers, were two purple knitting needles, and a note from the missus that said, "Have fun knitting."
As I sat there, insulted, with the belt in one hand, the needles in the other, my wife's cat jumped in my lap, curled up and started purring.
What have I become?
The place was pretty much picked clean of anything I wanted, but on the way out I picked up a couple of rolls of olive drab paracord. I've been meaning to get some to wrap the handle of a tomahawk, and the stuff is just handy to have around.
Yesterday I had some down time and wrapped the tomahawk handle, a Buck hatchet, and the scabbard of a KBar. There was a lot of cord left, and I've been wanting a paracord belt for a while, so I got on You Tube and found several instructional videos.
After a while, I found a video that had a pattern I liked, and after an hour or so, I figured out how it was done. Off I went with a sharp stick and a pair of needle nose pliers. Loop, Loop, Loop, Loop, stuff a Loop, tighten! I was on a roll.
When Mrs. 4Js got home from work, I proudly showed her the fruits of my four hours of labor. A shiny buckle with six inches of belt!
She examined it carefully and said, "It's actually a very good job."
I was glowing with pride.
"Where did you learn to knit?"
I blinked stupidly and said, "What do you mean? I don't know how to knit. Here's how I did it."
I picked up the belt. My tongue stuck out as I concentrated on this manly task, and after five minutes I triumphantly held up the belt to show her I had completed another row of Loops and tightens. "That ain't knitting." I proudly said.
Without saying anything, she went to her sewing room and returned with two large knitting needles. She sat down, picked up a length of paracord, and started knitting. The loose cord on the floor was smoking from friction as it sped across the living room carpet. Her knitting needles, a blur, whistled as they displaced the air. They sounded like Bruce Lee swinging a fighting stick. In about 35 seconds, she had six inches of something that looked exactly like my belt. And I mean exactly.
I stammered, "Bbbbb, bbut, I didn't use needles, so it's not knittling. It's uh, um,Tactical Paracord Looping!" (I was proud I came up with that on the spur of the moment.)
"Needles or not, knitting is knitting."
I sank back in my chair as the enormity of this sudden revelation hit me like a bucket of cold water. I had, through no fault of my own, knitted. 55 years of macho, gone that quick?
I placed my suddenly unclean belt aside. When i went to bed, I stopped at my bookcase and pulled out Dick Marcinko's "Rouge Warrior". Yeah, a macho book like that. That'll make it better. I read two chapters and went to sleep.
When I woke up this morning, Mrs. 4Js had already gone to work. I fixed some coffee, got dressed, and went out to do chores.
Now men, these were macho chores. I fed and watered the horses, and split some firewood. I stepped on horse biscuits, I had wood chips in my hair. The Carhart jacket, heavy leather gloves, the smell of the horses, and the satisfying sound of the sledge hitting wedge made me feel manly again.
Having completed the chores, I went inside, poured another cup of hot, black coffee, went to the living room, put "Hondo" in the player, turned on the TV, and sat in my chair.
There on the floor beside my chair was a wicker basket. In it was my paracord and the six inches of completed belt. Also in the basket, like two extended middle fingers, were two purple knitting needles, and a note from the missus that said, "Have fun knitting."
As I sat there, insulted, with the belt in one hand, the needles in the other, my wife's cat jumped in my lap, curled up and started purring.
What have I become?
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