Sticks

Remnants of an earlier time

For many years I have longed for a true Irish Blackthorn Walking Stick. Living in the United States, I’ve found such a stick both incredibly easy to acquire, and nearly impossible to acquire.

Photo by Tommy Bond on Unsplash

Incredibly easy because like everything else in our world, one can just make his purchase online and have it shipped halfway around the world.

Nearly impossible because a stick one intends to carry is an intensely personal thing, and every Blackthorn is completely unique from every other. I presume that if one were to purchase one hundred such sticks, he would perhaps find ten to be suitable to his needs and character.

Instead of making a purchase online, I’ve haunted shops, generally Irish themed shops that stock them. Alas, I’ve never found one suitable. Too big, too small, too heavy, too light, or a dreaded crack in the knob.

I presume that as with one of the other things I truly love, Tequila, the best sticks remain in Ireland, with the remainder being offered here. I do take great pleasure in sipping a wonderful Tequila, and one can buy very good Tequila in the United States, if he knows what he is doing, but the very best must be purchased in Mexico and carried home by hand.

So despite years of looking, I’ve never found an Irish Blackthorn suitable for myself. Now, within my grandfather’s collection there is a suitably wonderful example, and perhaps someday it will be mine, but that could not negate my search.

My search has however never been one of desperation. I’m just a middle aged guy, and while undeniably fat, certainly not infirm. I don’t need the perfect Irish Blackthorn, I wanted it.

I should mention that some years ago I did purchase a truly wonderful stick. Just not a blackthorn. I was browsing in an art gallery when my eyes fell upon what I think could well be one of the most beautiful walking sticks ever crafted. Made of Amaranth, more commonly known as Purple Heart, it had been turned to the most delightful proportions. A quick swipe of the credit card and it was mine.

My search for a stick could have been over, but it is a stick a couple of inches taller, and quite a lot heavier, than those elegant and thin sticks appropriate for the city. It is a stick specifically crafted for walks in the woods. I was still without a stick for the sidewalks.

Last week it happened. Quite unexpectedly.

I was retrieving, with a friend, some boxes of records from a now defunct, but very old concern, and intermingled with the boxes was some junk. There it was. A perfect for me blackthorn. It was obviously very old, extremely neglected, and the large chip in the knob told of abuse it had endured.

But, I knew that I could save this wonderful old stick. I worked out a fair price with the organization that was to receive the records (and the junk) and it was mine. I spent a few days working on the stick. Oiling it, carefully filling the chip, installing a replacement foot as its had disappeared long ago, and finally waxing and polishing it to a sheen.

I told my six year old granddaughter that “It’s a beatin’ stick,” something she certainly approves of, and something certainly true, it is after all, a very knotty and gnarly shillelagh. An effective weapon, used as such by the Irish for centuries. So, she of course has spent a fair amount of time over the past few days, threatening to whack me with it.

But all of this brings forth a thought.

There was a time, not that long ago, just a bit over a century ago, when no well dressed gentleman in the city would go out without wearing (what they called carrying) a stick. He had different sticks appropriate to any occasion, from something rough and rugged for a morning walk, to thin and fine for a formal evening out, and everything in between. Including a heavier, and a bit longer stick for those walks in nature. A great many ladies of the time carried their sticks as well.

These sticks weren’t carried because the holder was old or infirm, the idea that only the elderly or damaged use canes is a modern one, rather they were carried by all, old and young, as fashion and as a practical tool. Often the tips of a gentleman’s or lady’s canes never actually touched the ground. There was, as with all things, proper etiquette to consider.

But an out of control dog, a bit of filth on the sidewalk, or a potentially menacing stranger could all be dispatched with ease, simply, with the stick one held in his or her hand. The stick wasn’t a sign of weakness as it is today, rather a sign of strength and an ability to hold space between oneself and whatever unpleasantness might appear.

I wonder, is this not an old custom that we should re-adopt?

Many of our cities here on the West Coast of the United States have been allowed to be overrun with large groups of people doing illicit drugs (and much worse things) right on our sidewalks. Some parks have become little more than encampments and open air drug dens. We see all of this on the television news, from Seattle, Portland, San Francisco, and Los Angeles. State and local governments flail about, never stopping the growth of the problem as they refuse to consider real solutions.

Given the state of our streets today, do we not do well to carry, or wear as the proper term goes, a cane. A stick which affords us the opportunity to hold distance between ourselves and that which could threaten us?

Should we not consider utilizing such a simple tool that has proven so effective through the centuries?

Not to mention the fact that a properly crafted stick is a beautiful work of art, a statement of self and personality that one carries right in hand.

Let us rejoice in this remnant of an earlier time.

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