There are few things in the world that I can say I truly hate. Having worked in the medical field and watched a beloved friend stricken, I know hate is the word to describe my feelings. The affliction I speak of is cancer, it has touched the lives of nearly all of us, and will continue to until a cure is found.
To lose a friend or close family member to anything is a nearly indescribable pain. Quick deaths like car accidents or heart attacks leave you saddened, but don't carry the same weight as watching someone go downhill and pass due to cancer. The hole left in your heart by such a traumatic experience tends to be filled with an utter hate and disdain for the disease. I have personally watched my grandmother and a close friend stricken down by cancer. After posting a comment on Facebook about my experience losing my teacher to cancer, a close family friend, Lynn Kampe, recommended I write this week’s column based on my comments.
My experience with cancer started at a young age. My grandmother, Kathleen Cummings, passed away after a long hard battle. I hardly remember the details, but remember the feeling well. My hate for the disease was kindled through this experience. I then went into the medical field where you have to see people fighting it, nearly every day. Just more logs on the fire. Upon losing my close friend and teacher, David Zeb Lewis, my hate became a full fledged four-alarm blaze. Lynn asked me to try and see the bright side and document our shared experiences. In reflection, it's hard to believe that so many good memories had been suppressed due to the negative interpretation of the situation.
My adventure in native tool reproduction began many years ago and has taken me all over the state. You would think that my fondest memory would be based on a successful finding or seminar that I had performed. The truth is a chance meeting with an amazing craftsman not even related to my field would be the most memorable.
I had been producing stone arrow points and knives for long enough that I had worn through the leather pad used to protect your leg from sharp sherds of stone hammered off during the reduction process. The only place in town that I could think of to find a replacement pad was the Village Cobbler. I met up with John, the owner, and explained what I needed. He was happy to help in that he was a collector of artifacts. He dug out some old leather that he had no use for, and accepted a trade of a stone knife for it. About that time, a man strolled in, John spoke up and stated that the man standing in front of me was also a knife maker. What happened next changed my life forever. The man introduced himself as Zeb, and he immediately asked to see the knife that I had made. He then reached into his pocket and pulled out a knife, the likes of which I had never seen before. I couldn't believe such an amazing piece could be produced without modern computerized equipment. I was awestruck. Zeb commented that the deer antlers I used for stone knife handles were useless to him and that he had a bunch to give me.
