The Dart

Another Tale of Appalachia

When my brother and I were small, there were fewer distractions muddling the lives of children. Toys were not easily obtained and those we did receive tended to reflect a much simpler lifestyle—the lifestyle of a people who did not take well to complexities and who did not suffer inordinate foolishness, in themselves or in others. Money was also a problem, but I do not believe we ever actually knew that until we left rural (Chesapeake) Ohio and arrived in “the big  city.” (Columbus)  But, we had this Grandfather who was “handy” and knew how to make and do many things. He was able to teach some of his skills to Larry, when he could persuade him to pay attention and take his time. Granddad was kind, in his way, yet scary if you did not know and understand his ways.

A man who could hit a workhorse between the eyes with his fist, hard enough to drop him to his knees was not someone to be trifled with. Yes, Emmitt Van Pelt was a man of some integrity and principle, but he did not dwell on this fact. Life was too short to be bothered with any but the most important details. One of the things Granddad did was whittle wood. This was generally done in his spare time (when he had any), and he could make toys and other items, some of which seemed to defy the laws of Physics. In those rural times and places, a pocket knife was a rite of passage for a young boy. Especially a pocket knife bestowed by a father or grandfather.

I do not know when Larry first became interested in Granddad’s hobby or when he was first recipient of a pocket knife, but he became a whittler and soon was making all sorts of carved crafts from box elder whistles, to throwing sticks and numerous other sundry items. Some kinds of wood were better suited to the whittler’s trade. Harder woods such as Oak or Walnut were not easily shaped with a hand tool such as a pocket knife—oh, it could be done, of course, at the cost of a blistered hand. But there was one softer, lighter wood which was prized for its workability: Poplar. Easily carved, it could be fashioned into figures of animals and almost anything else a carver could envision.

One summer, my brother began carving a piece of this wood and I,  curious, and nosy, wanted to know what he was making. He, being the confounding big brother, would not tell me—“Wait and see”, was all he would say—this a habit I am pretty sure he acquired from Granddad, along with taking one’s time and paying attention.

             Starting with a short plank, he began whittling down the wood until he had a shaft a little over a foot long. At one end, he sharpened it to a point. At the other, a paddle shaped end section was formed which tapered into the shaft itself and this paddle portion was shaved until it was fairly thin, a bit like a boat oar in appearance. Or an extremely short wooden tipped arrow, only partially fletched.

Near the pointed end of the object, he carved a notch. After doing this, he tested the balance of the item and carved a little more wood away to refine that balance. When he was satisfied with all of that, he took another stick of wood and tied a knotted string to one end. He fitted the knotted end into the notch at the  sharp end of his masterpiece. Satisfied that he had done all needed, he set off  for a large field at the back of Granddad’s property. I tagged along, finally seeing what my brother had been planning and executing: a throwing dart. Something our Cree ancestors might have made or thought of making, had they the tools with which to make it. It would function much like their ancient spear throwing device, the atl-atl. So, Larry believed. We reached the field, at the end of which lay forest. My brother notched the dart to the knotted string, and took a running start into the throw, whipping the stick-and-string launcher forward at the same  time. The dart sailed perfectly across the open field, perhaps a hundred yards, and into the woods at the other end.

He looked at me and shrugged. It was likely we would never find it, so we turned and returned to the house. I don’t recall him ever making another dart. It did not matter. He knew he could, if he wanted to.                                                                                                                                                 PD Van Pelt January 2008