The Knife Sharpening Man

I started cooking again after weeks of eating at restaurants and cafes (heck, the weather is so nice). And thank God it's harvest season again in Ontario. I stated my culinary adventures by visiting the local Korean fruit market and buying up every vegetable in sight. I came home and started chopping up my eggplants, celery, carrots, and peppers to make some veggie chili. As soon as cut into my first onion, an old memory come into my head.

I remember as a kid, I would be lying around my house in the late summer. From the distance I would start to hear the slow clanging of the bell of the knife sharpening man. Each summer, he would haunt our neighbourhood with his handheld bell, the kind you'd hear when the teachers called you in from recess. It was always the same familiar sound: Clang clang, clang clang. Four long pulses for every step he took. He drew behind him a home made contraption that looked like a four-legged stool. It had a large circular grind stone and a pedal that drove the stone into action.

Clang clang, clag clang.
Clang clang, clag clang.
Clang clang, clag clang.
Clang clang, clag clang.

That sound drew closer and closer as he wound through the streets of our fancy neighbourhood. You could tell if he was having a good day if the bell stopped ringing for long periods and a bad day if it rang for a long time. When he reached the corner of every block he would stand and wait for people bearing knifes. He was the man who could turn dullness into sharpness. To make the efficient cut.

Clang clang, clag clang.
Clang clang, clag clang.
Clang clang, clag clang.
Clang clang, clag clang.

When I heard the sound, I would run to the kitchen and slide open the drawer where we kept all our knifes: paring knifes, bread knives, steak knifes, chopping knives. It was drawer you had to dig through carefully if you wanted all your digits intact. I would ask my parents, beg my parents to test the blades to see if they needed to be sharpened. I always wanted to get the knifes sharpened each time he came. There was something about that bell that made me want to bring him every knife we owned. It was such a sad sound, even though the man could have been the happiest person in the world. It was a mournful tone. I felt that if I did not bring him the knives he would starve. Or just go home sad. I insisted and pleaded. And finally, my father would give me the same chopping knife and pressed a five dollar bill in my palm. As the sound came to our street I waited for the man, the blade clutched in my fist. My father would warn me not to run over the lawn: "Walk, never run with knives."

Clang clang, clag clang.
Clang clang, clag clang.

The knife sharpening man rounded the corner and I passed through the shrubs and said hello. He was old, wore the same green workman pants every time. He's stop walking and rested the cart on the sidewalk. I handed him the knife. He inspected the blade. Without a word, he placed his black shoe on the pedal and got the whetstone moving. The contraption creaked with every pump of the pedal. With both hands holding the knife like a china plate, he held the blade against the spinning stone. Spark spat out the side. There was that sound of metal on stone, grinding. He had big hands and warped nail. He drew the blade back and forth several times and stopped. Finally, he wiped the blade with an old cloth, held it up to the sun, inspecting his work. Before he handed back the knife, he smiled, reached into his pocket and retrieved an old paper bus transfer. He cut the transfer in two with the blade and gave another smile. He handed me the knife; I gave over the five dollar bill. I did not accept the change. I felt the blade, lightly with my finger. It had been transformed into a weapon, a killer of vegetables and meat.

I always admired the knife sharpening man: someone dedicated to one simple task, earning a small living from people with big collections of fancy knifes. He never spoke and had a lonely air. I always wondered where he came from, where he was going to sleep tonight. My parents said he probably didn't have a home.

I returned home and put the knife back into the drawer. I listened to him disappear.

Clang clang, clag clang.
Clang clang, clag clang.
Clang clang, clag clang.

Many years later, the knife sharpening man stopped coming to the neighbourhood. No more bells, no more sharpening. My parents finally invested in a serrated knife set so we didn't need the man and his machine anymore.

But as I cut into my carrots to make my chili, I wish that bell would come ringing around my home now.

Sammy

Call me biased. But my nephew Sammy aka "Timbit" is the cutest child on earth. 

A letter from Chinnaworn

Dear Mike my friend,

I wonder how your life is going in Ontario. Here in Thailand we are well. I am at peace to live at my Wat and working with the International Second Home Project to take care of young people, bith Thai and foreigners. I teach them how to live a simple life and be in peace in the present day. And I am also learning. In the day time I like to spend the time in the garden. And I learn Buddhism in the evening or at night. To see inside my heart. Inside the human heart is a big world. There are many things to learn inside our heart. I call it "the inside world."

I learn how to be at peace and free on earth. I find the way because I feel free, peace in my daily life. And I can share my happiness with the ones around me. I pray and sit meditation in the evening.

Sometimes I think of many children in some countries who have not enough food to eat. Our world is so big, and life is more different [for them]. I think that my life is lucky, that my hometown is safe, peaceful and has no war. We have the land where we can plant food. If we are not too lazy we are not poor. We can plant many things to eat. In my opinion, planting is the greatest work; we can make the world green. So, every month I plant trees to save the earth. And also safe for human life. We should take care of human life, we should take care for Mother Earth. The forests and trees are our good friends.

Oh Mike, I hope I will go to Europe sometime in the future, maybe I will visit you. But I am not sure I can go. There are some friends who want to buy me an airline ticket to Germany and Belgium. Also I have good friends in France and The Netherlands. I'd like to visit them too. First I must make my passport. But it is not easy for a monk. But I would like to go around the world. But I will try to get a passport so I can see the outside world.

Please let me know some news about you; I am always waiting to hear from you. You are like a brother of Second Home. You always have a home here in Northern Thailand. It is waiting for you.

Kinds Regards,

Chinnaworn.

The Monk and the Prisoner

My two friends Amadou, now serving a life sentence in a Thai jail, and Chinnaworn, a 40-year-old monk in Northern Thailand are now penpals. One lives behind bars in a room with twelve men, the other in the mountains surrounded by forest. They've never met before. Here is an experpt from Amadou's most recent letter:

In other news, I have to thank you for your friend here in Thailand, a Buddhist monk who writes to me from Second Home. His name is Chinnaworn Jarin. Mike I want you to communicate to him, please give him my regards and gratitude which I don't know how to express during my reply to this letter. He also sent me a parcel recently which I recieved here in good order, the contents in the parcel are helpful. Some washing detergent, tooth paste, tooth brush, and hair gel...

I now believe in the natural goodwill of people.

The light in august

There's something about the light in August. I left work today and noticed the shadows were longer. I get the same feeling every August, when, almost suddenly, the molten light of summer mellows down to the soft shades of orange, red and purple. Before the sun sets, it swells like an orange; the clouds are grey and lined in pink, orange, gold. The tops of building and windows facing west light up in the same warm tones. The air is cold at night. There is that sense that summer is coming to an end, the great season is at its ripest peak. Like the tomatoes on the vine in my backyard. This feeling is at one moment calming; and at other times mournful and melancholy. You can look back on the long summer and to the quickly approaching fall and winter. Maybe it's just a Canadian thing.

It's like growing old and looking back on your life in the time span of a sunset.

Barrie, pit stop

On Thursday, I went out for celebratory (mandatory) drinks. On Friday, I woke up with a spectacular hangover.

Although I could have stayed in bed for hours, I had duties to attend to. In a few hours I was due in Wasaga Beach where I was to be part of a wedding party for one of my good friends. I reluctantly tried to eat something.

And I drank several tubs of cold water to rehydrate my brain that felt a few sizes too small.

With a pounding head, and fears that I would have a stroke, I picked up my rental car, picked up my rental tux, and snatched a few CDs for the 2 hour drive north. My final stop was two bottles of water and Gatorade.

The traffic was light leaving the city. Despite the pain, I was happy to be leaving the city after so many weeks confined to my neighbourhood. My window was open, the engine of my Toyota Echo hummed like the wings humming bird. Free at last!

Traffic jam. Cars lined side by side. Heat. Exhaust. Exhaustion. I'm looking at the cars, reaching into Barrie Ontario. Headache. Heart pumping. Trucks. SUVs with trailers. Kids waving to me from the back seats. The hay and corn in the fields lining the highway look so calm. I just want to lie down over there, anywhere. My water bottles are empty.

My bladder is full. Very full.

I loosen my seatbelt. I turn off the music. Breathe. One two three. Ok, I'm fine. I'll be fine. Just don't think.

Thirty minutes I've gone thirty kilometers. I consider jumping out. This is as close to child birth as a man will ever come.

Finally, the off ramp. I speed to a side road with several fast food joints. I choose the Tim Horton's because I'll need a coffee to stay awake, and they keep their facilities clean.

I park the car at an angle. I even consider the handicapped spot. I run in. The sign on the bathroom door says: CLOSED FOR CLEANING. I open the door anyway. A girl is standing by the urinal with a mop in hand and the fear of god in her eye.

"Can I just go? It's pretty urgent," I squelch.
"Um.."
"Just a minute, that's it."
"I'll be done in five minutes, can you wait?"

I'm running awkwardly back to my Echo. I jam it into gear and come to a halt behind a nearby furniture shop. There is an old tractor trailer parked up on blocks. I jump out of the car, run behind the trailer and...

I return to the Echo. The air is chilly. I decide, while in the privacy of a back alley, to change into some long trousers. I pop the trunk, dig through my bag. With two quick glances to the left and right, I drop my draws and slip on the jeans.

I hear the sound of tires crunching on gravel. I see a man in a bulletproof jacket step out of a black SUV. He's wearing sunglasses. Oh shit.

"Where you going?" he says.
"Wasaga"
"Where you from"
"Toronto"
"Why Wasaga?"
"Wedding."

He's looking in my trunk. Now my back seat. I do up my belt. I don't want to be arrested in Barrie for pissing on a broken down truck. I'd plea insanity.

"What you doing back here?"
"Changing. I was cold."
"Who do you work for"

I tell him.

"Ok."
"Did someone call you about me...?"

I fear the furniture folks have ratted the cityboy out.

"No no, I see a guy with a rental car, the trunk open with his pants off... it looks a bit suspicious."

Dragons Done

After 25, 14-hour days without a break our show has finished taping. Being my first day off, I'm not quite sure what to do with myself. I feel very twitchy without 10 things going on at once.