The Return of the Knife
My grandfather made many knives. Southern Sami knives to be more spesific. This is a story about how one of these knifes wandered off to Sweden where it spent over 15 years with one of my favorite musicians before it finally came back home.
Growing up, I remember knifes being a big part of our conversational topic. My grandfathers house was full of trinkets and materials he had harvested from the woods, the mountains and the landfill. Something was always in the making.
Once he looted an air plane wreck from the second world war and used the pieces to make shafts for his knives.
“Pretty cool”, 11 year old me said while getting an exclusive “look but don’t touch” at one of his creations.
His workshop was packed with tools - old, new, handmade and invented. If something came home with him it didn’t leave his house unless it was transformed into something both practical and beautiful.
A huge knife. Shaft made from reindeer horns and pieces from a German air plane.
The festival where Garmarna played
The year was 2004 and 17 year old me was on her way to attend a music festival in the remote forest of Norway.
On my way out I grabbed a knife from my parents mantelpiece.
You always bring a knife to a festival: for making a fire, putting the tent up, cutting the meat an so forth.
Tent packed, beer bought and knife in belt I was ready to rock.
I would also hear Garmarna live for the first time. And during their breathtaking show I gifted the knife to Emma, the lead singer.
She totally deserved it.
Emma was truly happy about recieving such a remarkable gift. She even took the time to thank me properly from stage. It was a quick moment, but a good one.
My festival life moved on. My life moved on.
A couple of year later I decided to learn how to make these knives. I applied for funding from a regional trust, got the money, acquired the necessary materials and equipment and convinced my grandfather to teach me how to.
I made my very first knife that same year and quickly understood the amount of work, passion and love that goes into this particular craft.
Where’s the knife gone?
Years pass by.
One day my father asks me if I know where “the knife has gone”.
You know, the knife with the bent sheath, the one with great material - the one without bone marrow, the one with fine ornaments. The knife my grandfather spent such a long time making. That special knife upon the mantlepiece.
Oh fuck.
“Nope, have no clue” I replied.
“Hm. Must have been stolen”, he said.
Of course i knew what knife he was talking about, but I honestly had no clue that one was more special than another. No perception that I had initially done something wrong. To me there were “knifes all over the place”. A cloud of shame was cast upon me.
And worst of all, I knew the knife was lost. Forever. It was in the unreachable hands of a world famous singer.
I agreed that the knife must have been stolen. Probably by "one of those friends I shouldn’t hang out with”.
One of my grandfathers trinkets, a killer whale tooth.
Reaching out to Emma
My grandfather pass away in 2011.
The knife that went missing becomes even more important to my father who - over the years - ask about it over and over again. He even looks for it, in the basement, in the attic, at the cabin…
I keep lying.
Then, as I slowly enter the world of folk music I run into Emma in 2018.
“You’re the one that gifted me that knife” she said. I’m flattered she even remembers.
Our worlds further intertwine with music and friendships and in 2021 I finally work up the nerve to ask if I could please have the knife back.
In an honest e-mail to Emma I explain the whole story.
She thanks me for letting her “borrow” the knife for all these years and sends it back to me with a kiss and an hug.
I can’t belive it was that easy.
But then came the hard part.
The knife in question, the knife I so carelessly grabbed from the shelf that caused me about 15 years of shame.
The return of the knife
As I waited for the knife to arrive by snail-mail I was trying to figure out what to say to my dad.
What story to tell?
I could still blame “that friend I should not have hung out with” or invent some Indiana Jones story - how I tracked it down following vague clues - make myself the hero of it all. Or I could just leave it in their mail box - no note, noting. Or, I could just simply tell the truth?
As soon as the knife landed in our mailbox I drove over to my parents place and handed the knife to my dad.
“What’s this?” he said. “How? What? How did you…?” he continued.
Silence. I was lost for words. I didn’t know what story to tell. The claws of shame were still deep in my back.
So, I fumbled - ending up telling a semi-tru story about my x-boyfriend. However, I did include Emma and the show and that the knife had spent the last 15 years in Emmas home in Sweden. How she has loved the knife. That she had been taking good care of it.
In the end my dad said: “Poor Emma, we should send her a knife, just not this one”.
Old friends who fought together during the war. To the right my grandfather and to the left Major William Egan Colby director of the CIA in USA.
It’s been 10 years since my grandfather died.
Little did he know he would have 12 great grandchildren.
And I promise to teach at least three of them how to make knives and to appreciate the value of them.
And I might also manage to teach at least three of them not to steal.
Or at least not to lie about stealing.
My grandfater. Artwork by Knut Sveen.
XoXo Ingrid Galadriel
