Most boys in Piedmont learned to whittle the ordinary way, which is to say, they picked up a pocketknife too soon, shaved half their thumb off, bled on the porch boards, and got sentenced to a week of hand-me-down Band-Aids and stern looks from their mamas.

But not Jimmy Matthew.

No sir.
Jimmy was not content with ordinary mistakes.
He chased after higher achievements in foolishness.

He aimed straight for legendary.

The day he decided to learn whittlin’, the sun was high, the humidity was thick, and the pine needles in PawPaw’s yard were crunchin’ under his bare feet like he was steppin’ on tiny dry bones. PawPaw sat in his porch swing, hat low, boots planted, a sliver of cedar curlin’ off his pocketknife like smoke from a locomotive.

Uncle Aaron leaned on the porch rail, smokin’ a cigarette and lookin’ like a man who had been born tired.

Jimmy Matthew approached them with the solemnity of a child fixin’ to do somethin’ he had no business doin’.

“PawPaw,” he said, “I’m ready to learn the art of whittlin’.”

PawPaw did not look up.
He just kept on shaving cedar curls so thin they floated in the air like little wooden feathers.

“Boy,” PawPaw said, “you ain’t ready to sharpen a crayon.”

Uncle Aaron snorted hard enough that ash fell off his cigarette.

Jimmy stood straighter.

“Well, I reckon I am ready. The Lord put hands on me and a mind in my head.”

Uncle Aaron muttered, “The Lord might want that mind back for repairs.”

Jimmy glared at him, then planted himself firmly in front of PawPaw.

“I claim my right as a Wright male to learn the whittlin’ ways of my ancestors.”

PawPaw finally glanced up. One eyebrow rose.

“Your ancestors mostly whittled their fingers.”

Jimmy beamed.

“Then I’ll honor their tradition.”

PawPaw sighed with his whole soul, reached into his overalls, and handed Jimmy a pocketknife.

But not before sayin’ the three laws of knife ownership, laid down the very day Noah planted grapevines.

“Number one,” PawPaw said, holding up a thick finger, “always whittle away from yourself. You got organs. They don’t need no carving.”

“Number two,” Uncle Aaron chimed in, “if you drop that knife, let it fall. Don’t grab. You will be pickin’ pieces of yourself up off the ground.”

“And number three,” PawPaw added, “you respect that blade like it was your mama with a hickory switch. You don’t run with it, play with it, or try to impress girls with it. Girls don’t care if you can carve a stick. They care if you keep all ten fingers.”

Jimmy nodded solemnly, as if he was bein’ sworn into office.

Then PawPaw handed him a pine stick.

Jimmy sat on the porch swing, next to PawPaw, flipped open the knife, and set to work.

For exactly four seconds.

Then he hollered loud enough to wake the dead.

“Lord have mercy I done carved a piece off myself,” he cried, holdin’ up his thumb as if presenting a small but meaningful sacrifice.

It was barely a scrape.

But Jimmy behaved as if he needed last rites.

PawPaw looked at it, unimpressed.

“That ain’t even a cut. That is a suggestion of a cut.”

Uncle Aaron grinned.

“Boy, I’ve had bigger cuts than that on my damned eye! You got to bleed at least three drops before the knife officially welcomes you to manhood. That’s the rule.”

Jimmy straightened.

“Three drops?”

“Three,” Uncle Aaron confirmed.

Jimmy then applied the blade again.

This time it was a real cut.

He held up his hand, delighted.

“One! Look, PawPaw! One drop!”

PawPaw sighed.

“Boy, you are the only child I know who works toward injury like it’s a war medal.”

Jimmy, proud as a rooster, decided he would not stop until he achieved the holy trinity of whittlin’ bloodshed.

He got his second drop almost immediately.

The third took a little work.

By the time he achieved it, he was pale, but beamin’ like he had just won a Purple Heart medal.

PawPaw wrapped his thumb gently.

“You got your three drops,” PawPaw said. “Now you can learn proper whittlin’.”

Jimmy nodded.

“Did I earn the right to carve somethin’ grand?”

PawPaw handed him another stick.

“You earned the right to practice until you quit bleedin’ on my porch.”

Jimmy sat back down, hummin’ like a happy little fool, and whittled away, proud as any man could be.

And funny thing is, by the end of that summer, he had indeed carved somethin’ grand.

A whistle.

A crooked whistle.
A lopsided whistle.
A whistle that sounded like a sick duck dyin’ in a ditch.

But a whistle nonetheless.

And PawPaw declared that anyone who sacrificed three drops of blood to learn a craft had officially earned a place in the long and mostly unfortunate line of Wright Whittlers.

Jimmy Matthew Wright, nicknamed Jimmy Hardhead, wore that title with pride.

And every time he lifted that crooked whistle to his lips and blew that awful sound across the yard, PawPaw would shake his head slow and say,

“Lord help us. The boy learned.”

*****

New Yesterdays can be found at: Books-A-Million, Barnes & Noble, and Amazon, as well as your favorite bookshops. The Audiobook is available from Libro.fm, as well as Amazon.