Reflections from the River

Boys and their swords

September 27, 2020 Bill Enyart
Reflections from the River
Boys and their swords
Show Notes Transcript

Yardsticks and broken maple limbs  are the pirate swords of boys' dreams.  Hammered Toledo steel brings back a warrior's faded memory.

Boys and their swords.

 

When I was a kid every fallen stick from the maple trees in the front yard could be grabbed, broken to proper length and thus became a sword. Zorro, a weekly Western drama, on our used black and white RCA Victor television set, about a Spanish aristocrat turned Robin Hood, who battled the despotic enforcers of the Spanish king’s rule in old California scored slashing victory after victory against the forces of evil as his blade emblazoned a “Z” on the peoples’ enemies chests, was a favorite.

          Pirates, needless to say, were armed with swords, cutlasses and dirks. As were the knights of the Round Table. Jim Bowie’s knife, like the Winchester rifle, won the West. Luckily for the desperadoes, my grandmother had multiple yardsticks. Yardsticks from the funeral home, from the dry goods store, from the farm implement dealer. Yardsticks in the early and mid-twentieth century were the advertising equivalent of reusable shopping bags today. 

          Multi-purpose, they were useful for measuring bolts of material in preparation for sewing, determining the growth of children and grandchildren from year to year, not mention whacking said grandchildren across the rear-end for errant ways.

          Yardsticks, those varnished slats of wood, thirty-six inches long, an inch and a half wide, bearing the names of insurance agencies, millenary stores and lumber yards, lasted forever, unless broken across the buttocks of a particularly egregious youth.          

          Ahh, but the swashbuckling soldiers of fortune, armored in cutoff blue jeans and perspiration salt-rimmed baseball caps put the wooden weapons to their highest and best use as dueling blades. The duels seldom lasted long as a voice would soon come, “Stop that, you’re going to break my good yard stick!” Or: “Stop that you’re going to break something!” Or the ubiquitous voice that came whenever playing with sticks, throwing rocks, aiming BB guns, or throwing rocks: “Stop that! You’re going to put somebody’s eye out.” 

          To my knowledge, no one’s eye was ever put out. Although I did once come close in first grade, when running with a rubber tipped arrow and diving on the floor to slam the rubber tip on the floor so it would stick straight up for easy grabbing to launch from the bow at the cardboard target, I managed to fall on the fletched end, puncturing the lower eyelid and just missing my right eyeball.  The wound necessitated one of our frequent trips to the doctor for assorted childhood injuries.  Three stiches later I was back in action as an Apache warrior.

          Like most youngsters, my fascination with swords evolved to other implements of youthful destruction- girls, cars, and beer. Even those fascinations faded with career, kids and devotion to “getting ahead”.  My youthful obsession with sharp bladed weapons but occasionally reared its head once I was well into adulthood. Usually it occurred at one of the annual military balls which were a mandatory “must appear” for an Army National Guard officer. No one wore a sword to these full-dress affairs, but I always thought it would be a terrific showing to do so. After all the arch of swords over a bride and groom at military weddings made a memorable photo.

          So, every couple of years I’d pull out the Cavalry Store catalog and peruse officer’s sword, scabbard and belt. Reality soon set in. The damn thing cost a month’s National Guard drill pay, which was better spent on other hobbies.  I’d only wear it, at best once a year or so. It would just get in the way when trying to sit. It would look ostentatious, if no one else had one on. And the greatest hindrance of all: I didn’t even know how to wear one.

          Today, I own three swords. I still have never worn one, but I own them. I display one at my office and two at home.  One, a short sword. A Christmas gift from younger son, who is likewise fascinated with swords, knives and other cutting implements of war. It’s a double-bladed, steel replica of a nineteenth century foot artillery sword. Another, an engraved Polish cavalry sabre presentation sword.  Given me by a Polish senator in remembrance of my time serving with our NATO allies, the Polish military.  Interesting pieces, but the third is the one. The one which demands full attention.

          I cannot pull that sword from its wooden display rack without reliving its acquisition.  Toledo, Spain. 2005. Younger son, Alex, studying abroad at the University of Barcelona. Wife, Annette, and I decide to visit him in conjunction with an Illinois State Bar Association tour of Spain. He joins us on the tour. 

          Toledo has been making swords since 500 B.C. Roman legions were armed with Toledo swards. Charlemagne was armed with a Toledo sword. Even Japanese samurai warriors sought Toledo swords.

The art and passion of Toledo swords is woven into the history of Spain. The salty tang of blood tasted by Toledo steel is known to legionnaires, Moors and conquistadores. 

          A clanging ring of blacksmith’s hammer beating glowing shape echoed in our ears as we disembarked the dark coolness of the tour bus into the blazing Spanish sun.  The outdoor market, on the outskirts of Toldeo, featured stalls lined with trinkets, olives, clothing. But then there were the blades. The shops with hand-hammered, glistening, cold steel warmed by the bleaching sun. 

          We wandered through glancing at the wares. Annette stepped in to a stall lined with colorful woven pieces. I walked a few paces into an open fronted shed. 

          I’ve never been a fan of scimitars, the curved sword, dating back to the ninth-century, and favored by Arabs and Turks, yet I picked one up.

          As I grasped the hilt in right hand, reality shifted. The salty taste of blood spilled through my mouth. I was no longer an American tourist in twenty-first century Europe, but a Moor swinging the sword against infidels, while consumed with battle lust. To hold that sword was to enter a mind meld with centuries and battles past. Shaken by the experience, I slowly placed the scimitar down. I knew I could not possess that sword for it would possess me. My soul would no longer be mine. It would return to the past of beating sun, smell of horse sweat soaked leather and the forever taste of blood.

          The hard-won centuries of Christianity disappeared in a single instant-return to a past life. With the scimitar out of my hand I slowly edged back into the present. Although I longed for the feel of that steel blade in my grasp, I feared it. It was far too dangerous.  The grip of the past far too strong.  The life lived too close. Too magnetic.  The draw too strong. 

          As I looked at the array of weaponry, I selected a Spanish infantry officer sword. I needed a bulwark standing against the lure of the scimitar. The lure of the desert sand.  The lure of the life once lived.  The red cross of Christianity embossed into the hilt stands guard against the Moor. 

 

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 (c) William L. Enyart