Just what is it about a knife that fascinates most outdoors people? Or, should I say, what is it about the average outdoors person that invariably, at an early age, leads him to the obsessive love he has for a keen, hand-held steel blade?

As for me, I received my first knife in 1961. John F. Kennedy was a young, somewhat naive U.S. president and a wild-haired, weird-voiced young folksinger named Bob Dylan was starting to get the attention of rebellious American youth. Khrushchev and the Cold War were raging. It all fits, I guess. The 60s were about to explode and little Bobby Kornegay was armed.

That first knife was a 1960-model Barlow. It was a cheap treasure of youth I shall never forget and I'm forever grateful to the adult from whom I received it. I only wish I could remember who that was. Likely Uncle Ray after a few bottlepulls too many.

I well remember who my benefactor wasn't. My mother, I recall, nearly had a stroke upon learning her not-too-bright offspring was suddenly walking around with a sharp, tooled-steel weapon in his schoolboy jeans.

"Okay," she said eventually and reluctantly, "you can keep it. But don't you cut anything with it."

What? Now tell me, why would an otherwise quite intelligent woman make such an incredibly stupid statement? Not cut anything? Heck, I had rampant visions of whittling everything from hickory twigs to California redwoods and skinning every species of wildlife on the North American continent.

Mere moments after being forbidden to hack and hew, the cutting commenced. My first "victim" was my own index finger. It was a minor nick, but small things loom quite large when one is nine years old. Thus, I screamed like a New York gangfight casualty at the sight of two tiny drops of blood "pouring" from the "gaping" 1/8-inch wound.

I felt better after the bleeding stopped and soon worked up nerve enough to open the Barlow and try again. Cutting has a narcotic effect. Once a kid takes that first dose, he can't stop. I soon became a slashing, slicing automaton. I whittled the handles of every garden implement in the tool shed down to toothpick size, creating a pile of wood chips that would make Paul Bunyan proud. I pruned Mom's prized dogwood tree within three inches of the ground and carved my initials in everything that wasn't made of concrete or steel. I was hooked. I just couldn't help myself.

I'm a "mature" 56 now and my obsession for sharp edges has not in the least abated. The only difference now is that my knives are much more expensive than that first one. Not all that long ago, I spent $150 on a blade capable of no more than that cheap Barlow of years past. That's a common side-effect of knife addiction. It leads to the belief that one actually has enough money to pay $150 for something as frivolous as a dadgum knife. Unfortunately, a $150 knife will slice and maim clumsy adult fingers as readily as a cheap Barlow will nick younger appendages.

To this day, I can't carry a knife on my belt or in my pocket without being hopelessly overcome by the urge to cut something. When hunting, I while away boredom whittling tree limbs and fingernails. I'll probably never again have little hairs on the backs of my hands and fingers reach full maturity. They're all shaved off as short as Sunday dinner graces by the time they're visible. Thank goodness my hands and fingers are the only portions of my anatomy regularly exposed enough to fall victim to my flashing, slashing, close-shaving blades.

There is no respite on fishing trips, either. I believe I subconsciously snag fish hooks in my clothing on purpose just to have an excuse to cut them out. My shirts and pants look like the host facility for a moth convention. It's only a matter of time before I cut something beneath my clothing, probably some part of me I really need.

You know, all this must be genetic. My son, age 23, just this minute nicked his knuckle with a brand new folding Gerber. I take a measure of pride in that. It's especially heartwarming to know his grandmother told him not five minutes ago not to cut anything with it.

How fulfilling when life comes full circle, huh?