'Rehabilitation' has developed certain connotations and when it comes to the business of repairing a dagger or doll, the process usually is called 'Restoration'. Be that as it may, it is a sublimely satisfying activity for me. I always loved polishing silver and my best friend, who was cousin to a King, albeit one from a 'third World' country', always polished her own shoes and taught me how fulfilling THAT could be as well.
So we come to my dagger, a good blade that was badly damaged either in an attack when armour or some other protective device not only deflected it but destroyed the point. It is an old blade made of very fine steel. In fact, it bears the maker's mark still although rust has eaten away most of it as well as much more of the dagger than I would like.
I have owned it for a long time, perhaps two decades but sadly not spent as much time repairing it as I should have done. I kept it by my bed, used it frequently to open DVDs and boxes but did not repair the point and although I cleaned it a few times, I did not work hard at it.
It was only today that I decided enough was enough, that it deserved far better from me. I have few tools at my disposal at present, but sandpaper is fairly close to the material used by the ancients and indeed much of the world until fairly recently. It was sand that was used to polish armour and weapons and sandpaper really is nothing more than sand attached to stiff paper for convenience of use.
This is History at its best, History held in the hands, and as I worked on restoring the point, I wondered about the cause of its destruction. Although it could have been the act of a stupid child or youth in attempting to throw the knife and failing somehow to do anything but ruin the point, I think it saw combat more than once. It is quite old, probably at least three hundred years old. It was made for a rich man or woman, I believe. The steel as I said is of very fine quality. The design is sophisticated and quite beautiful. The handle is of hand-carved wood. I shall have to find my loupe to decipher the maker's mark once again. It either was German or Italian, but probably German.
Whether the original owner used it on a daily basis or had a slew of knives at his or her disposal from which to choose, this one saw a great deal of use. It is pitted and nicked, not just from rust but from interactions with the world. In former eras, knives often were used as cutlery as well as weapons, as household tools as well as protection. In the same way that I slit open boxes with it, it may have been used to cut meat and rope, as well as being used for the unsuccessful attack that ruined it as a stabbing weapon.
As some one who is physically disabled, I now appreciate the value of rehabilitation more than I did in my youth when my body was undamaged. I doubt there is any real restoration in store for me, but I can find some satisfaction in restoring the point of this dagger, in removing all the rust and in keeping it sharp and ready for any intruder or potential source of threat. More than that, though, there is the beauty of the form and materials of which it was fashioned. Every edged weapon has a soul of its own. In this I firmly believe and the character of each is unique. I bond with my weapons over the years. In some cases, the rapport is instantaneous. In other cases, I become more and more attached to the blade as time passes.
I always liked this dagger but it was not the crown of my collection by any means. The bent point disturbed me as did the crack in the handle. There is little I can do about the crack int he wood unless I were to fill it with some substance, which could be a possibility. It is the point, though, that I have almost completely repaired by sanding it again and again and again.
I know a very stupid woman who claims she tossed her mother's set of sterling into the rubbish because 'it was too much trouble to polish'. She claimed she hated silver and threw out a set of considerable weight and value for that reason. I don't believe a word of it, of course. She is filled with pronouncements that are as absurd as they are annoying. She is Pretension personified and Hypocrisy is a huge part of it all. Although her brother takes a large variety of narcotics for unspecified and undiagnosed ailments, she is quick to condemn the 'junkies' that come into the chemist's shop where she works and claims that she turns them away, jubilant in being able to deny them the medicine they need.... What is the difference between those poor souls and her brother? Then she speaks of the poor people who are given food subsidies from the government, and how it makes her ill to see them buying good steaks with the credits they are given. 'They shouldn't be allowed to buy steak!' she cries... No, poor people should not be allowed to choose a small amount of good meat over cheap stuff... they should be constantly made aware that the quality of their lives is less than that of 'honest, working' individuals like this insufferable creature.
In any case, she obviously never experienced the satisfaction of polishing metal that had turned black to transform it to shining, mirror-like splendour. Of making something old look new again. Silver, like edged blades, has a soul. The word 'patina' refers to the character of silver that has been touched and used over the course of time. It creates its own history and its own unique appearance.
So here am I, unable to walk properly or enjoy many of the physical pleasures of the past, and yet, this still is given to me, to be able to work magic on old, damaged items, bringing back their glory. In the hours of great pain, it is SOMETHING and it does give me a sort of grim hope in life.
