My love for knives goes back to the first knife pressed into my hand by my Grandfather. I don't remember how old I was exactly, but I can still see his face as he passed it over to me. He had taken me fishing, "Don't you have your own knife? Here, use this one, and then put it in your pocket. A boy as careful as you with a knife should have his own."


My love affair with knives just kept growing from there. (Of course now that I'm a Grandfather, I know how much goes on behind the scene with getting permission to say those few words to your Grandsons!)
I forge my knives at the foot of White Oak Mountain in Eastern Tennessee, the prettiest spot I have ever found in my life. The ring of the anvil never fails to stir my heart, especially when it's my anvil! When the brook is splashing, the Red Tailed Hawks are shrieking, and the smell of coal is in the air, I am especially reminded of how blessed we are here.